A/N: Oof. Anyone else feeling worn out from the season three blame game? I could do with some holiday fluff... And possibly a cup of cocoa.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.
"Dropped the Christmas cards at the post office!"
Kicking the door closed with the flat of her boot, Andy juggles three oversized shopping bags and a small, white bakery box. Her voice echoes and rebounds, bright and cheerful in the entryway.
"And I picked up some goodies for the Shaws' party tonight, so we can check that off our list," she continues, jostling the bags so she can deposit her keys on the table. Breathing a sigh of relief, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and gazes up the staircase. "Muriel was behind the counter today; her new 'do looks fabulous. And yes, to answer your question, she asked specifically for you. Almost wouldn't sell me the pecan rolls; guess my dimples no longer cut it."
She waits for a response, a small grin on her lips. Hearing none, she drops the shopping bags on the floor, brow furrowing in confusion. Her pitch increases as she pokes her head around the corner. "Sam? You home?"
"In here."
His voice is muffled, the sound carrying across several rooms. Pursing her lips, she takes off down the hallway, hunting for the origin.
"Hey," she greets warmly, leaning against the split-level banister. Her voice drops sympathetically as she takes in the visual: Sam, lying on his back, neck craned toward the trunk of the seven-foot conifer. "Still at it?"
He waves a hand in silent acknowledgment, shifting purposefully toward the nearest electrical socket. With an inelegant yank, he drags the coil of lights free and wriggles from underneath the tree's branches.
"Piece of garbage," he mutters, moving from a crouch to stand before the tree. Shaking his head, he turns toward her and shrugs, an unmistakable What can you do? air to his posturing. "Sorry about that," he echoes as an afterthought, circling her wrist and pressing his mouth to hers. "Hi."
"Hi."
She hums her approval against his lips, adopting a sympathetic smile when he pulls back.
"So," she begins, tentatively eyeing the radius of debris. "How much more of the Clark Griswold routine?"
He nods toward the nearest pile: chunky, bright bulbs that populate the colorful strands of light. They're antiquated, almost, an uncommon size and bulbous shape, connected to unnaturally green wire.
"Half of them are blinking. Half of them are stationery," he drawls. Swiveling on his heel, he rubs his jaw and fixes her with a familiar, serious eyebrow. "It's one strand. You wanna explain to me how that happens?"
"Hmm," she intones with mock-seriousness, eyes narrowing critically. With a quick, guiding motion, she gently turns him toward the tree, ducking underneath his arm in the process. "That is the question of the hour, huh?"
They stand briefly in silence, eyeing the tree. She burrows into the waffle-weave of his charcoal thermal; slips a warm arm around his waist. When she inhales, it's cedar and balsam that greet her, this heady mix of evergreen and Sam.
"Yeah, I got nothing."
He squeezes her left shoulder as he says it, this casual gesture that consistently sends her heart into overdrive. Dropping his arm, he moves toward the staircase, to a pile of garland that has been looped sloppily around the wooden railing.
"Tree looks good," Andy murmurs quietly, smiling a secret smile as she watches him. "Lights aside, I mean. Did pretty well for a city boy."
"It's a little crooked," he calls over his shoulder, unsnapping the lid from a large box of decorations. Squatting, he scoops up a tray of Christmas balls, silver and gold patterns etched onto fragile glass. With a teasing smirk, he pushes the tray into her hands. "Breathe easy around it, okay?"
"Cute," she replies, bumping his hip as she accepts the ornaments. "You were the one that said it had personality..."
"I was trying to be accommodating," he maintains, folding his arms. "I know you have a soft spot for rescued puppies and Charlie Brown trees."
"Don't forget grumpy, would-be bachelors," she parries immediately, eyes dancing in the muted light. Her gaze softens as she bites back a grin. "Have a thing for them, too."
"Hate tinsel," she pronounces emphatically, tossing an unopened package back in the decorations pile. An hour later, and Andy has produced a successful burst of Christmas magic, all the tree lights shining brightly in a row. The decorating has gone swimmingly, save for this temporary roadblock: thin and silver and conniving in nature. "Tinsel is where I draw a hard line."
"You?" he questions. He shakes his head in vague amusement, catching her ponytail in his palm. With a light tug, he draws her closer. "Thought you loved everything about Christmas. Toronto's very own Cindy Lou Who."
She evades his grasp, shaking her head in disagreement. "Not tinsel. It's Easter grass's showy cousin. Gets everywhere; sticks to your clothes, and then I'm picking it out of my laundry and my hair for weeks, I swear. If poinsettias are Christmas flowers, tinsel is the Christmas weed."
"So, not tinsel?" he manages with a straight face. His voice is a teasing murmur, undercut by his sober posture. "Shoot. Should probably return that bouquet, then."
He anticipates the pillow before it's thrown. Ducks accordingly.
"I'm letting you slide with the Seuss crack," she reminds him breezily. "It won't happen twice."
His fingers tap a steady beat on the hardwood floor before he breaks character, winking. "Noted."
"I got some good stuff today," Andy continues in an innocuous tone, tossing her head and ignoring his ribbing.
"Yeah?" he prompts. He nods toward the desk, to a single sheet of computer paper resting on top of the printer. "Did you check Sarah's annual 'Do Not Buy' list for the girls? It's a doozy this year."
"Um, hi. I've been in the game long enough, thank you. I can pick something out for your nieces without incurring parental wrath."
He ambles toward the computer, grinning. "She rated them this year. Top honors go to toys that sing with the aid of AA or D batteries; the Furbie and terrifying, related knockoffs; and anything that glorifies the tube top in its varying forms."
He hazards a glance over the top of the list, catching Andy's eye. "There's an asterisk after that one: 'Including but not limited to body glitter, disproportionately busty tween dolls, and Young Money albums.'"
Clearing his throat, he drops the list back on the desk. "Whatever that means."
"Spirit and letter of the law," Andy counters with a brilliant grin, nodding along with Sam's recitation. "I like where her head's at."
"Soooo," she continues, dragging out the syllable. "Since we're on the topic... Have you figured out what you want for Christmas?"
"Besides you?" he answers, unrepentant. His eyes rake over her form, and he grins wolfishly. "Maybe a red bow, strategically placed."
"Oh is that all?" She tilts her head invitingly, quietly tsking. "And you were so close. That was almost sweet."
He steps back, pretending to appraise her. After a moment, he shrugs. "Nah, guess you could do without the bow after all."
"Gee, thanks," she teases, arms sliding around his waist. "That's big of you, really."
He runs a hand across her jaw, fingers tangling in her hair. "Let me ask you something, McNally. You get all you wanted this year?"
"Hmm," she drawls, eyes narrowing in concentration. She muses silently, considering. "That depends. Did you get me a pony? No, wait— a season pass to Disneyland?"
Her eyebrows skyrocket and she thumps him across the chest, palm coming to rest on his shoulder. "Oh my gosh, Sam. Is Ryan Gosling whisking me away tonight? I'll send you a postcard from Splash Mountain; I swear."
A low, throaty laugh escapes her mouth as Sam's grip tightens on her waist.
"Watch it," he instructs casually. "I'll trade you in for a newer model. Get a tin of assorted holiday popcorn thrown in for good measure."
"Kidding, kidding." She touches her lips to his ear, dropping her voice to a murmur. "I have a strict no-Mouseketeer policy. I like my men like I like my coffee: Hot. Dark. Within reach."
"I'm listening."
She smiles conspiratorially. "Maybe a sweet touch that cancels out the bitter edge?"
She tilts her head to catch his eye, waiting for a reaction. When she's met with an arched brow, visibly unimpressed, she pokes him gingerly. "Seriously, I can keep dragging out this metaphor. I have a million of 'em, and they're all equally tacky: Full-bodied... Needs to make my heart race a little..."
"Ahh, too little, too late," he argues, shaking his head. He feints to the left, then rolls to the right, releasing her. "But good try."
"Mm, you can't turn me away this time now," she insists playfully. Following him into the kitchen, she bounces over to the pantry, opening cabinets and tossing a container of cocoa powder on the counter. "It's the holidays. For all your bluster and grumbling, your heart's not two sizes too small."
"Plus," she adds brazenly, spinning on her heel. "It's the season of giving. And I think you know I give as good as I get."
"Is that a thing I know?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. At her stern, reciprocal gaze, he makes a grab for the hem of her sweater, dragging her forward gently.
"Know you're something," he corrects quietly, with a fondness built on familiarity. "Know I picked the right one."
The corners of her mouth twitch, unbidden, before she presses a bag of marshmallows into his hand.
"Yeah, you made out okay," she teases, pushing past him to light the gas stove. "Now c'mon, we're on a strict timeline. You know how Zoe is: We're party people, not tardy people tonight."
"Oliver's gonna be disappointed," Andy maintains, fussing with an ostentatious plaid ribbon on her sweater. She slips in front of the mirror in their bedroom; points to the gaudy red mittens stitched neatly onto her sweater pockets.
"I found an extra sweater at the thrift store. It's not too late to change your mind." She blinks innocently; tries a smile on for size. "This one has kittens, Sam."
He holds up a hand, stopping that thread of conversation.
"Ollie's used to disappointment," Sam maintains, shaking his head at her appearance. "I think yours is enough of a show-stopper, anyway."
"You think?" she asks, twirling on her heel to showcase the ugly Christmas sweater in its full glory. She preens momentarily in front of the mirror before dancing out of the room. "I'm up against some stiff competition this year: Dov's breaking out the Hanukkah sweater vest."
Sam chokes back a laugh, doing up his belt as he walks out of their closet. "Well, prize or not, you've made a valiant, if blinding, effort."
"True," she concedes from the adjacent hallway. "And if we're talking real prizes..."
"You get to come home with me...?"
"Allegedly," she corrects, deadpan. Poking her head back in the room, she points at finger squarely at his chest. "Depends on how much seasonal punch you consume. Top prize for ugly sweater might not be the only thing I'm fighting Dov for."
With a silly grin, she waggles her eyebrows, then disappears from sight.
Only as they're bundling up near the front door does she fix him with dark, serious eyes.
"Top prize already," she confirms, looping a scarf around her neck. Her grin is fond, stretching across and lighting her whole face: a burst of sunshine against packed, white snow. "You don't have to worry."
"Yeah?" Sam prods, feigning ignorance. He slides a hand up the lapels of her jacket; tugs carefully. "And what's that?"
She plucks the glove from his hand, lacing their fingers together.
"Think you know," she says quietly. "But, you know. Sentiment bears repeating during the holidays."
He sweeps his thumb across her knuckles; gently traces the warm metal on her ring finger. "That right?"
She nods wordlessly, smile fixed in place.
"But just so you know," she continues a moment later, squeezing his hand as they pass through the door. "I'm looking forward to a few more golden rings. Pretty sure that's in the Christmas contract somewhere."
"Yeah?"
Her palm is warm in his, and he smiles slowly. Carefully.
"I'll see what I can do."
(It sounds a lot like a promise.)