It's taken Andy four days to reschedule the appointment to finalize her mortgage, and then another two days after that to wait for the weekend to pass. She's spent three of those nights at Traci's, mostly because -- spending the night with Sam at his undercover apartment was like some form of escapism, and being with Sam at his normal place, that's its own kind of surreality. Actual reality sinks in slowly.
Sam's sitting at his crappy kitchen table eating breakfast, which is more of that surreality thing she's gotten used to. I mean, go figure, but apparently Sam does not power up in the morning like some fully charged robot, he actually eats.
"Uh, where?" he asks.
She swats at his toaster, which is currently incinerating her breakfast beyond a point even she's okay with. Two charred pieces of toast pop up, and she crows, "Ha," snagging them out of the thing with some totally called for smugness. To Sam, through a mouthful: "Finalize my mortgage."
"Ohhhh," he says like he's just now remembering, but then he goes right back to his cereal, which is the opposite of what she's trying to make happen here.
"Look, I'm just saying. I would've already had this all set and ready to go if someone didn't let some girl blow their cover again. Seriously, your track record? Sucks."
He leans way back in his chair, eyebrows going high. "Oh, really? That's your tactic? You're going the you-got-tortured-but-it-doesn't-hold-a-candle-to-this-unfinished-mortgage route?"
"Yup. Besides, you know you want to come and see my new place."
He gets up, brings his bowl to the sink. "Already saw it."
"I refuse to believe you've been to a toilet factory--"
"Oh-five. Shots fired across the street, bullet went through one of those first floor windows you like so much."
Andy makes a face. "Nice." And then she makes another face. "Okay, but. There weren't any, you know, injuries? Right?"
"Not counting a few leaky toilets?"
"Ha, ha. Come on! We have to go, seriously, now."
At first he's over at her place just to install this organizing rack for her closet. Andy's a firm believer in women doing what men can do, and better, but no, no way, her and Traci both tried to install the freaking thing themselves and wound up drilling a hole through the wall. Which Sam is also there to patch up. He does, with all that craftsmanship he boasted about too.
(He has a toolbox. Apparently those things are real and not just props on TV shows.)
Afterward, they wind up fooling around on the couch for, seriously, something like two hours straight, TV on mute and the whole room going bright when the commercials roll around, and when they finally stop it's only because her leg's fallen asleep, his neck's gone sore, and maybe they realize that making out is an activity designed for more structured bursts of energy. He goes home that night, only tells her to lock up and that he'll see her later.
He comes over again a couple days after that, because being normal together means they are going to try to do normal relationship stuff, which is weird weird weird. Traci spends thirty minutes on the phone reminding Andy that she got suspended over Sam, remember? Remember how she stupidly risked both of their lives for some of that totally inappropriate nookie? Any of that sound familiar? It's weird, but only because Sam is completely not a dinner-and-a-movie kind of guy. Like, what would they even watch? The latest Ryan Gosling flick? Really? With what, a tub of buttered popcorn perched there between them? Ugh. No. Weird.
But he shows up, gets as far as her doorstep, and whoops -- accidentally they have sex right there in the hallway. Not her fault, though, because she was ready to go -- in actual date clothes, too; suck it, Traci -- Sam was the one who pulled her back inside, then worked his moves on her until she was like: sex in the hallway? Yeah, who cares! Why not? Not gross at all that these walls have witnessed the building of toilets! Let's do it!
He doesn't go home that night. Instead, he drags himself out of bed early in the morning, scours her fridge for something edible (ha, good luck -- bottle of ketchup and a jar of dill pickles, that's what she's working with here) and winds up making a coffee and donut run, which they eat in bed in between having more sex. Because apparently sex is a thing they are doing all the time now, which, hey, no complaints. He pushes the donut box out of the way, crawls on top of her while he's still fully clothed and all she's wearing is a whole lot of nothing. She goes down easy, sinks right into the comforter and stretches out long and lazy with got-some-food-in-my-belly content.
Sam lifts up onto his good arm, gets himself a nice, extra long look. The staring thing is not new, and she keeps waiting for it to get awkward, but it hasn't yet. When he kisses her, his whole mouth is warm from the coffee and sticky from the donuts -- hers too, so she presses her hands flat against his chest, pushes until he's moving back and she can sit up. He goes straight for her neck, but she grabs his shoulders, wrestles him to the bed with some kick ass takedown skills that he looks suitably impressed by. And then she moves down, hooks one of her legs over his -- he bends his knee at that, gives her more room, but she unzips his jeans, gets up on her knees and -- boom, coffee-mouth blowjob. Yep.
The night before their suspension comes to an end, he's at her apartment again. Mostly she's thinking about work, with this actual nervous energy that sits low and heavy in her stomach. Stupidly -- seriously, it's so stupid -- she worries that she'll have a hard time adjusting back into the uniform. You know, like it's the first time all over again. Probably no one uses the it's just like riding a bike analogy when it comes to high risk jobs, which is just her luck.
Sam lifts her hair off her neck, holds it in a loose ponytail. "Tomorrow," he says, keeping his voice neutral. "It's a pretty big day." He runs his fingers through the messy strands, massages her scalp. "You ready for it?"
"I mean, obviously. Completely ready. Also, no. No, I'm not, not at all. You?"
"Oh, I'm ready."
"Most important, we've got two familiar faces back with us. Swarek," Best announces, to the soft, mocking applause of the entire room during parade, "--and McNally. Welcome back. Since you two have been gone, we've implemented a new rule. Haven't we, Diaz?"
"Uh, yes! Sir, yes, it's--"
"No fraternization," Best cuts right back in, getting himself some overly dramatic groans from some guys in the back. He holds up a hand. "I know, I know. Terrible, isn't it? Having to check your libidos at the door and be professional on the job. But, it's official. No fraternization. That means--" And he walks over to Andy, gestures for her to stand. "Up, up. Come with me."
She does, clueless and wide-eyed with some amusement. She wasn't stupid enough to sit by Sam, because, hello, talk about inviting gossip, but he's at the table behind her, and when she gets to her feet, his are the first set of eyes she seeks out. He's staring, of course. Smirking, of course, and that only grows when Best actually grabs Andy by the arm and pulls her to the other side of the room.
"Men to your right, women on the left," he says, guiding Andy until she's -- yep, right there on the left.
"Wait." She laughs, but it's stilted. "Seriously?"
"Does this look like a face that's joking? Men," he says in a raised voice, "to your right, women on the left. Everyyyybody up."
After that happens -- and, ugh, it's so awkward, it feels so much like high school -- and they're all resettled, Best stands there at the podium and stares out at them looking 100% pleased with himself, even though they are pretty unevenly divided. There are far more men in uniform than women, and it shows.
"See? This is called preventative measurements, because apparently we are a division that needs to take that kind of action." And then, totally not subtle: "How's that arm healing on you, Swarek?" It gets a low round of laughter, a couple of cat calls; Oliver lays a hand on Sam's shoulder, gives him a good-natured shake while Andy tries not to curl up in embarrassment because, yup, that is everyone casually joking about Andy's sex life, pretty much.
"Ready to go, boss," Sam cheerfully reports back.
"Good. I'm sure you all want to know what the day has in store for you. Check the board. It's full of lots of fun surprises. New riding partners and everything." There is another collective groan that sweeps through while they all start to make noise and exit, but Best stops them one more time. "Remember. Serve, protect, and so help me, keep your business professional."
"Hey, Peck, looks like you're with me," Oliver calls over Andy's shoulder. She's staring at the board, reading her name paired up next to Dov's.
"Seriously?" Dov says, like he's offended. "You and me? We could get up to some pretty intense fraternizing," he insists. His hands go out in front of him, and he gets all diplomatic about it. "Not saying I wanna. Just saying, we could."
"Wow, what kind of delusions are you entertaining right now?" Gail snarks, slipping past them to follow after Oliver. She gets in one last shot, saying, "You don't even exist in the same breath as fraternization."
"Uh, yeah, I do, 'cause I just existed in that breath, so. Booyah."
Chris leans right over and lectures, "Dude, don't say booyah," while Gail's response is to laugh.
They all hear Oliver shout from down the hall a sarcastic, "Booyah, Epstein!" which makes Chris murmur, "Told you."
"Anyways." Dov shrugs his vest into place. "I'm just saying. I could fraternize. We--" He passes a finger back and forth between himself and Andy, "could totally fraternize."
Sam's standing back, leaning against the wall with one foot behind him, arms crossed over his chest. Just watching, observing, totally throwing Andy off of her usual game, basically, because normally by now she would've shot Dov down on at least three separate occasions, but it's like -- if she's too emphatic about it, they're all going to assume it's a Sam thing, and she wants to stay far away from people assuming there's still any kind of Sam thing, especially after that parade.
Traci, though, heaves out this loud, suffering breath, eyes rolling and everything. "Ugh, we get it. Dov, you are a manly-man with manly-man man-missiles perfect for any kind of manly launching. Move on."
"Man missiles?" Dov repeats, and he's not exactly bothered by this assessment, not at all. He bobs his head, grinning.
"Thanks for that," Chris complains, pulling a face. "Seriously, the imagery. Don't ruin weapons for me."
"Yeah, well, I'm the one who's gotta ride with rocket launcher here," Andy defends, thumb jerked in the direction of Dov, who looks even more pleased by this. He hooks his thumbs through the straps in his vest, passes a look around the group that says: Hear that? Rocket launcher. That's what Dov Epstein's working with, ladies and gents.
"Ugh," Traci says, moving past, "and on that vomit-inducing note."
"See ya," Andy says, a little wistfully. No fair that Traci gets to ride with Noelle and Andy gets boy-launcher over there.
Sam pushes off the wall, eyebrows hooked high. "Ready?" he asks Chris, and Chris grins real big in response, because Chris? He is a guy stoked to be partnered with Sam.
"Yes! One thousand percent ready," he responds with a ton of enthusiasm. It gets him a long, awkward stare from Sam until he clears his throat and amends, "One hundred percent? Sir?"
They move off down the hall, Chris trying to find and voice the perfect percentage of preparation, and you would not know at all that Sam is a guy who spent a good portion of his morning getting soapy and naked in the shower with Andy except for the fact that he throws her a look over his shoulder, gives her a smile.
"So," Dov says, swooping right into her line of vision. "Rocket launcher. I like it. I'm thinking: new nickname. What do you think?"
"No," says Andy. "Come on."
Four hours into the shift -- a missing bike and one pulled over car with an expired tag later -- she's making coffee for herself when Sam comes up.
"Hey," he says, low, right into her ear, definitely using his I'd-like-to-get-you-in-bed-right-now voice.
She swings out an elbow, nails him right in the ribs. "Not here," she tells him -- hisses is probably the more accurate term, like some kind of crazy person -- moving farther down the line and ignoring his exaggerated noises of injury. She rips open four packets of sugar, dumps them all in, and is thinking about upping the count to a solid five packets when Sam's smirking face looms into her peripheral again.
"Seriously, I'm not joking," she warns, and decides -- you know what, what the hell. It's been a five-sugars-in-the-coffee kind of day so far. She's going for it. Andy McNally, people: living wild.
"I hear ya, I hear ya," he tells her, making his own cup of coffee. One sugar. No cream. Gross, basically. "So," he says, all casual, like they're just a couple of colleagues having themselves a friendly conversation where neither has boned the other, "how's Epstein treating you?"
Forget discretion -- she goes boneless at that, nearly melts right into him, groaning and complaining, "God, it's like riding with the Energizer battery bunny."
He steps closer, reaching across her to grab one of those plastic sticks for mixing. There is definitely some lingering going on, too, and maybe Andy's completely okay with that, especially because Sam's suddenly wearing his bedroom eyes, staring at her like they're at her place, alone and naked and doing unspeakable acts of --
"Officer Swarek," comes Frank's voice, snapping right through the moment, "and Officer McNally. I'm not intruding, am I?" He sounds so patronizing, too, settling himself right there between them like, nope, nothing to interrupt here.
"Boss," hails Sam, and he doesn't even budge. He's so freaking cocky all the time. Seriously, he stays right where he is, and with Best nestled there in the small, like, minuscule space between them, Andy's already imagining this swirling cloud of gossip taking shape in a big, noisy, arrow-shaped plume above them.
Yeah, not happening. She hoists her coffee for a sarcastic farewell salute and bails on out of there.
"Have fun," she hears Sam call.
Two hours after that, after they book some guy on a domestic abuse charge, Andy's coming out of the locker room when Sam comes from the opposite direction and pushes her right back in there.
"Sam, what--" is all she gets out; he flaps his hand in front of her face until she shuts up, sticks his head inside the room. It's empty, though, and when he realizes this, a suggestive grin spreads across his face.
"No way," she tells him, moving past, but he grabs her by the arm, gets her circled around and then tugs her with him back into the empty room. "Sam!" she pushes out in this sharp whisper, but it's half-hearted because, yeah, okay, that would be the tingling of thrill crawling up her spine right now.
Far back as they can go, way back near the showers, he pushes her up against a wall and kisses her. Hard and messy and like they've got a lot of wasted time to make up for. He pulls back, once, looks her right in the eyes for a good, solid minute, and then they're kissing again. She gets dragged by her holster until she's close enough to feel that he really, really would like to be doing more than that right now.
They stop, though, because: obviously. Frank's on the prowl -- he's probably lurking outside the locker room, probably waiting to walk in and bust them, and, god, what if Noelle or Traci or Gail saw? She'd never hear the end of it.
"Sam, you gotta go," she tells him, hurried, and he's a smart enough man that he realizes she's an equally smart woman who knows what the hell she's talking about, because it's seriously thirty seconds after he slips out of the locker room first and she follows a couple of counts later that Frank rounds the corner and almost walks right into her.
"McNally," he says, bracing her by the shoulders to prevent the collision. "Everything okay?"
Andy nods, big, the ends of her ponytail swiping against the back of her neck. Which might actually be sporting some kind of telltale mark, because Sam, he always has to get in some throat-sucking. "Yep. Great, sir. Everything's great." Except that she's out of breath and even sounds guilty.
Frank stares for a while, like he's trying to weed out the lie. "Great," he finally decides and moves on, towards his office.
Once he's gone, Andy mutters, "Great," in this sarcastic breath, only to turn around and almost run right into Dov.
"Woah. There you are," he says. "Seriously, I've been looking everywhere for you."
She brushes past, lets him follow. She feels jumpy and itchy and -- worked up, too, which: thanks, Sam. Thanks for that. "Yeah, well, I've definitely been here the whole time, so."
"For ten minutes, you've just been standing in the middle of the hallway?"
"Hey, no judgment here. Stand away. Personally, I like the hall with all those old pictures of cops. It's like they exude their wisdom onto me. Know what I mean?"
"Not a freaking clue," she murmurs, and Dov just nods, grins real big.
Four hours and zero Sam incidents later, her shift ends.
She peels off her uniform with that familiar feeling of exhaustion and pride. For as relentless as Dov always is, his persistence did get them a lot more action than she would've normally seen with Oliver, who mostly likes to handle traffic violations, or Noelle, who she somehow always winds up on desk duty with. They had two guys run on them in that last hour, a fifteen minute hike through this insane maze of apartments. Andy's legs are noodley, she's got some serious flat-hair going on, and she smells like Dov sweated on her, so -- not a picture of feminine beauty, but when she filters out into the parking lot and finds Sam waiting next to his truck, his whole face softens with -- well, it's a whole lot of something that gives her feelings, let's just say. Lots and lots of feelings.
"Hey," he says, keys jingling in his hand.
It's been a really long day, a really long and amazing day, but all she wants now is to be at her place with maybe a glass of wine and definitely some relaxing.
She says back, voice going warm, "Hey."
Which is when Oliver drives up. He stops his car right there beside them and honks his horn, really obnoxiously. "Hey, you two," he says, leaning over so he can properly eye them out the rolled down passenger side window. "Not fraternizing, are you? Hm? 'Cause I heard it from a little birdie who's, oh, right, our BOSS, that fraternizing's been--" He throws his hands open and imitates the sound of an explosion going off. "That was a bomb blowing up all that sexual energy you two knock around. It's gone now." He points a finger at them, stern and unwavering. "Keep it clean."
Sam stares back at him, smiling this unnerving smile, before turning his whole body towards Andy. His smile grows even bigger -- dirtier, too. "Your place?"
Oliver jerks his hands up. "Am I talking to air? I'm talking to air. Seriously, it's like talking to -- hey, you two with the hormones! Implemented rule," he says, stressing every freaking syllable. "That mean anything to either of you? No? What about you, McNally? Huh? Still a rookie, y'know. Still got rules to follow."
Andy looks at Sam. She shrugs, like this requires a lot of thinking over. "I mean, I do need a ride. And you've got this truck."
"I do have this truck, don't I?" Sam agrees.
Oliver stares and stares, and then he marvels, "Talking to air," driving off with another loud honk and a gesture out the car window that probably doesn't mean I APPROVE OF THIS RELATIONSHIP, KEEP IT UP!
Sam yanks open the passenger side door, gives her another smile. "Let's go."
So, Best finds out.
Dov goes home with a stomach thing one shift, and Chris has to drive him, and then there's this 911 call that comes in that requires immediate response, so, just like old times, Sam and Andy are sent out with only some quickly given instructions to Remember The Rules. And the call goes great, it's fine, they do everything they're supposed to, it's just that afterward, Chris is feeling kind of sick because maybe he might have what Dov has, so is it okay if he sticks to desk duty? And Frank gets distracted by a phone call from superintendent Peck that gives Sam enough time to decide, what the hell, they'll just go on a quick ride around some hot spots, see if anything's cooking, except somehow that leads to them breaking up a bar brawl and dragging back to the barn this nasty guy with a pocket full of drugs and a serious bad attitude.
So, interview room: Andy's got her head against the glass, worn out from having to intercept an eight person shoving match, when Sam comes up behind her. Like, all the way, so that he actually bumps into her, literally pushes her hips forward with his -- and then stays.
She lets out this slightly shocked laugh, low like it stays in her throat the whole time, because, uh, okay, this is work and that is Jerry she's staring at through the two-way mirror, not to mention the 7-foot tall tattooed giant she had to handcuff. It's the opposite of sexy, is what she's getting at here.
He tilts his mouth toward her ear, puts his hands beside hers on the wall in front of them. She can feel his holster against the back of her leg, that hard, heavy weight. "Fun, wasn't it? You and me, together again." As a point, he rolls his hips, pushing hers forward again, except, like, ten times more indecently than before, which is, of course, when the door swings open and -- yeah, that is Best.
Sam backs off, but slowly, and Andy -- she spins around, throws her hands over her chest so that she's giving off a totally casual pose, but Best is not stupid, nor is he blind. Ten long seconds crawl by while Frank just stands there looking, first at Andy, then at Sam, while Sam offers back a no-problems-here-boss smile that does not get reciprocated, amazingly.
It's the end of a shift. Andy glances at her watch while she slips into her regular clothes, catches the hands ticking towards 3:45 a.m., when she hears the sounds of someone getting sick. Noelle comes out of the bathroom holding a paper towel to her mouth.
Yeah, so, Andy's never really been good at the comforting thing. I mean, her dad, you know, he kind of got sick a lot of mornings, kind of did the whole hangover thing really, really well, but -- she's just never really been good at it.
She shuts her locker, swings her duffel bag onto her shoulder. Stares straight ahead. "So, hey. You're okay, right?"
Noelle sinks onto the bench. "Must've got that thing that's going around."
Oh, that thing's been fun. After knocking out Dov and Chris, it hit Oliver and Sam. Sam, FYI, was a drama queen when it came to being sick. Stuck in bed for a day and you'd think he was getting a life sentence.
When Andy finally turns around, Noelle's giving her a small smile, like she's the one trying out that whole consoling thing. "Don't worry about it, McNally. I'm fine. Just, you might wanna move the garbage can a little closer..."
"--it's weird, though," Andy says to Sam four days later, in the truck, on the way to her place. The sun's rising on her side, the sky slowly going gray and blue. The heater blasts noisy air out the vents.
"It's a virus. Stuff like that's always weird. Why do you think they make movies about it?"
"Yeah, but five days in a row? You had it for, what? One incredibly long, incredibly whiny day?" He shoots her a dark look, which makes her shrug, all: Just telling it like it is, and you? Definitely turned into a baby. Suck it up, buddy. "Just saying. Besides, it's a clockwork thing. Four a.m., every day? On the dot? Sam, that's weird."
He throws her a smirk. "Oh, yeah? Maybe she's got a bun in the oven. You never know."
Andy laughs. For a split second, she entertains the idea, but then: nope, more laughing. "Okay, okay. I get it. I'm making a big deal out of what's, you know, probably just a really mean case of the flu."
"Swine flu," Sam tosses in.
"That's still around?"
"No idea. Bird flu," he offers instead.
"Funny. You're funny."
"Shut up," she says, but she's smiling.
Turns out, Noelle's actually pregnant.
(Sam doesn't say "I told you so," but it's there all over his stupid face, so. Whatever.)
Almost two weeks of getting sick; yeah, that's no flu. She breaks it to them on the twelfth day, tells them after she comes out of the bathroom like she up and decided right then and there that it was time to let the cat out of the bag. And, okay, that is one really big cat in one really big bag.
"Soooo. Pregnant," Traci repeats, wide-eyed. It's her, Noelle, Gail, and Andy, huddled around a locker room bench. Totally high school, straight down to the pregnancy scandal. (Not that Andy -- nooo, thank god. But, friends.) "As in pregnant-pregnant, like--"
"Some tiny, already pissed off person growing inside of me?" Noelle cuts in. "Yeah. That kind of pregnant."
"Wow," says Traci. They're all staring at Noelle like she's some kind of zoo animal, because holy crap, she's got a baby inside of her. It's nuts, but also -- a baby. Maybe that spikes some sort of internal interest meter.
Leaning back against the row of lockers, Gail taps her fingers on the metal ridges. "You know what, Noelle, good for you. Doing it all by yourself. Who needs a man anyway? Men are such losers."
In a move that's the complete opposite of subtle, Noelle turns, starts rifling through her duffel bag.
"Wait." Gail pushes off the lockers. "There's a guy. Isn't there? An actual it takes two to tango baby-daddy."
Noelle laughs a little, blowing it off. "There's definitely not a stork, I can tell you that."
So: a mystery guy. Noelle leaves them with that.
"It's Frank," Andy hisses at Traci during a very dead hour in a ten-hour shift. She hurries from behind when she sees Traci rounding the corner towards the holding cells, practically steps all over her heels when she catches up, she's that eager.
Traci glances back at Andy, over her shoulder. "Okay, you do realize that means nothing to me, right? Just so we're clear."
Andy mimes with her hands a huge pregnant belly, then shoots her a really emphatic look.
"Nuh-uh, no way," Traci says, shaking her head. "Don't believe it. That's insane."
"He's our boss."
"Yes, thank you, which covers the insane part."
Honestly, Andy would've figured no way, no how, but she's seen things with her own two eyes, okay. Things, people.
Witness the evidence:
+ She saw Frank giving Noelle a quick neck massage once, which: who does that? Creeps aside, it's always ever guys who like girls. Guys with feelings. That's who.
+ They avoid each other, like, a lot. A lot, a lot -- like the kind of a lot Andy used to avoid Sam right after their suspension ended. You know, the kind where there's a huge secret that maybe you don't want people talking about in between meal breaks and arrests, so you think I just won't ever see that person's face, that'll keep it quiet, except it winds up being a hundred times more obvious there's something going on that way? That.
+ Once, she catches them giggling at each other. No, okay, you don't understand: giggling. Not laughing. Not sharing a joke. Not cracking up. GIGGLING. It was gross.
"Okay, yeah. Wow," says Traci.
"Yeah. Tell me about it."
The Noelle-and-Frank news spreads fast, like all good gossip, though it fans out through the precinct like a rippling murmur, nothing more. That first day it goes public, men are still sitting on one side at parade, women on the other -- outside of a few pointed stares from Frank that says this will not be a thing they crack jokes about, no one will directly or indirectly mention anything, and it sure as hell isn't any of their damn business much as they'd like it to be, all is pretty normal.
Except for the board, which has Chris and Gail riding together, Oliver and Dov, and Sam and Andy.
(That's right, the whole No Fraternization thing goes out the window. Turns out, it's pretty hard to enforce something like that after, you know, getting a lady pregnant.)
"Partner," is the first thing Sam says to Andy after he sees it, all big with the double-meanings and smiling the most ridiculous smile. "Let's go."
Dov waves Andy off with a finger-pointing hand gesture, all, "No, it's cool. We bonded, but, hey. Whatever. No need to mourn our demolished partnership or anything."
"Dov. Shut up," says Gail.
Everyone starts giving them looks. Seriously, since no one can talk about Noelle growing a baby-Best inside of her without stirring up the flames of Hell from Frank, it's the new thing. The yeahhhhh, those guys are totally doing it whenever they go out look, just because more often than not it's Andy's name next to Sam's on the board and their undercover screw-up is still fresh on everyone's mind.
Oliver clips Sam on the back, this congratulatory pat. "Sammy, my brother," he says after three days of this, and it's what he doesn't say that has Andy rolling her eyes. You know: good job, looks like you nailed yourself a rookie, enjoy the ride, wink-wink.
"You and Epstein, huh?" Sam throws back, flaring his eyes to make his own point. It being, what the hell is Oliver ripping on Sam for when he's got himself a handful with Dov?
Oliver's eyes get this haunted, faraway look. "Oh. Yeah. Me and Epstein."
Which has Sam clipping Oliver on the back, twice as hard; he leans in, gives a sarcastic, "Hey, way to go, brother."
"Yeah, screw you, buddy," Oliver tells him, getting feisty. "I hope you know the uniform's not your personal aphrodisiac. Don't go steaming up the cruiser like it's some Leo DiCaprio love scene."
Later, in the car, Andy shoots Sam a look.
"Personal aphrodisiac," she recalls, making a face. "Oh-kay. What a weirdo."
Sam clicks on his seat belt, gives Andy his own quick look before he puts the keys in the ignition. He shifts, takes his time. "Yeah, well, Oliver's a weird guy."
"Yeah, but. Come on. Like we even would. That's just -- please," she laughs, awkward little hitch and all.
Sam's looking a little longer this time, mouth falling open just so. "Andy."
(The windows get pretty foggy, people. Pret-ty foggy.)