Thanks again for another wonderful round of reviews, alerts, and favorites on the previous chapter. It truly is a gift to hear from you!
Now, on to the story. Readers with extra-sensitive teeth, beware. We've got some serious fluff on deck.
The following scenes take place February 13th-15th.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Rookie Blue.
First illness.
His shoulders shook as another thunderous cough rattled his frame. Clearing his throat for the eighth time in as many minutes, Sam exhaled harshly and rubbed his temples. It had been a long afternoon.
Leaning back in her chair, Andy winced as the sound echoed throughout the station. She knew she had to pick her battles, but this was ridiculous. "Sam, I really think you need to go home."
He looked up from behind his desk, visibly irritated. "Andy, I really think that I have a job to do," he replied, mimicking her intonation.
His shoulders were tight, his face, drawn, and she could tell that he was struggling to focus. Likely because his body is rundown, she thought, although she knew he would deny it.
She raised her eyebrows before answering carefully, "You can't serve and protect with a crappy immune system."
"My immune system is just fine, thank you," he sputtered, his voice catching as another cough rocked his body.
"Mm-hmm," said Andy, resting her chin on her hand as she took in the scene before her. "Clearly."
He scowled in response. Flipping through a stack of manila folders, he attempted to concentrate on the present task, but he found himself in a losing battle with the inside of his eyelids. Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes and checked his wristwatch for the hundredth time that afternoon.
"Get a grip, Swarek," Andy said teasingly. "Everybody gets sick. It's not the end of the world."
He slumped on top of his pile of paperwork. "I don't wanna argue, Andy; I'm not in the mood."
"Neither am I." She rubbed his back gently as she moved past him, walking to the cooler to refill her water bottle. "And if we continue this argument, you're going to lose."
He was silent, too exhausted to respond with a cutting retort.
Andy returned to his desk and observed him for a moment, taking note of the bags under his eyes and the perspiration at his brow. Placing the water bottle in front of him, she spoke firmly. "Hydrate." As she shuffled back to her own desk, she added lightly, "Don't make me get Frank. I will, you know."
He groaned. "I'll be fine. I'll finish this shift, and then I'll go home and sleep it off."
She fixed him with a stern glare before nodding in assent. "I'm driving you home, and then I'm taking your truck and going to the store."
"But –"
"End of discussion, Sam."
After dropping Sam off with strict instructions to take a shower and put on comfy pajamas, Andy returned to his house an hour later, laden down with bags from the neighborhood drugstore. Tiptoeing inside, she found Sam lying on the couch, dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing when he left the precinct. He was snoring audibly, stretched across the worn material of the couch.
Hearing the congestion in his chest, she cringed and made her way to the kitchen, prepared to fight the battle against invading viruses. She began to unload the groceries, taking care to make them easily accessible. Tissues with aloe, nighttime and daytime cold medicine, vitamins, cough syrup, decongestant rub, lozenges, orange juice, hot tea, honey, and a few pairs of thick, cushy wool socks. She laughed at the small pharmacy on the counter, knowing that Sam would complain as soon as he saw her stockpile.
Heating a stove pan, she resolved to fix him some canned soup for dinner. When she had time, she'd whip out the Crockpot and chop some of the vegetables she had just purchased. There's nothing quite like homemade chicken soup to cure what ails you. Shuffling around in the kitchen, she heard Sam start to stir in the next room.
Poking her head out of the kitchen, she called out to him. "I bought some socks. You can have one of the pairs; the others are for me." Smiling at his sleepy, disheveled appearance, she added, "All these hardwood floors freeze my feet in the morning."
Her smile faded as she noted the grimace on his face. "So how are you doing, champ?"
"Good," he murmured, scrubbing his face with his hand. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing much. Unpacking groceries, making you soup, waiting for you to wake up, Mr. 'I Promise I'll Shower.'" As an afterthought, she added, "And eating conversation hearts, which are surprisingly tasty precursors to dinner. Okay, actually, it isn't that surprising."
"I'm not hungry," he automatically responded. His brain worked to catch up with the rest of his body, and after rubbing his eyes tiredly, he suddenly sat up straight and groaned. "Conversation hearts. Conversation hearts because tomorrow is February 14th."
She grinned. "I see you haven't lost those keen powers of deduction, officer."
He groaned again as the timing of his illness sunk in. "We're supposed to be going out for Valentine's Day tomorrow. Damn it."
She would have laughed openly if he didn't seem so distraught. "Sam Swarek, suddenly concerned about a notoriously girly holiday? You are sick."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm not a total Neanderthal, McNally. But thanks for the vote of confidence. I wasn't saying I love the holiday – if you can even call it that – but, you know, I did have plans for us."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. You don't need to sound so shocked." He started to mutter under his breath, and Andy only caught snippets of what sounded like, "Stupid fake holiday. Stupid plans."
She smiled, secretly touched that he had made an effort to make the day special for her. Walking over to the couch, she attempted to put him at ease. "I am quite aware that Valentine's Day is propagated by the consumer-driven market, intent on stealing millions of dollars from poor saps and demanding girls. That being said, I'm not going to deny that I like being spoiled on Valentine' Day."
He harrumphed noncommittally, slumping further into the couch.
"But," she continued, "Your health is more important to me than keeping Hallmark and Ghirardelli in business. I'm not going to abandon you because I'm distraught that our potential dinner plans are ruined."
Sam was silent, but she could read the conflicting emotion in his eyes.
"Hey." Leaning across the sofa, she waited until he gave her his full attention. "It was really sweet of you to make plans for us. Thank you. But I want you to focus on getting better, ok?"
She grabbed his hand, dragging him to a standing position. "And listen up. If you're not going to eat dinner, you need to sleep, and I'm not going to let you fall asleep on the couch." She graced him with a familiar smile and wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him toward the stairs. "I can be pretty bossy when I want to be. You're going to bed. No arguments."
He leaned into her begrudgingly, sighing quietly.
"No slightly off-color comment about me taking you to bed?" she wondered aloud. "Geez, you really are sick."
He gave a weak chuckle that promptly turned into a cough. Stumbling on the steps, he leaned against her heavily. "You know, I've always had this thing for nurses…"
"There it is," she noted, before adding in a firm voice, "Cool your jets, Romeo." She ushered him into his room, pulling the bedspread back and indicating that he should sit. Rummaging through his drawers, she pulled out a clean pair of sweatpants and an Academy t-shirt. After adjusting the room temperature, she tossed the clothes toward him and moved inside the adjacent bathroom.
He raised his arms hopefully. "Aren't you gonna help me?"
Pausing amidst her ransack of the bathroom cabinets, she walked back inside of the bedroom. She stifled a laugh at his expression, two parts helpless and one part expectant. "No funny business," she said sternly, picking up the t-shirt.
"No funny business," he echoed innocently. His pale face all but undermined his attempts at a roguish smirk.
After helping him change, she moved the contents of the medicine cabinet onto his nightstand. "So the tissues, Nyquil, and water are all within arm's reach. The kitchen in also fully stocked with tried-and-true cold remedies." She ran a hand across his cheek. "I'll be in the spare room if you need me, okay?"
At her words, his face sobered. "You should go home. Seriously, the last thing I want to do is get you sick."
"I'm staying," she said firmly. "And lucky for me, if it comes down to a physical confrontation, I will win, no contest. You've lost your edge, Rocky."
He settled into the pillows and Andy leaned forward to brush his forehead with a quick kiss. "Feel better, please."
His eyelids grew heavy, no doubt from the exertion of the day. He smiled weakly before he pulled the top sheet around his shoulders. "You got it, Adrian."
"Good." She started to walk out, pausing abruptly at the door. "And don't worry about setting an alarm. I already talked to Frank, and you're not going in tomorrow."
"What?"
"You need time to recover." She leaned across the doorframe to turn off the light switch. "Goodnight."
At half-past ten the following morning, Sam stumbled into his kitchen to find Andy sitting at the breakfast table, a cup of coffee in hand and a half-eaten piece of toast within reach. She was dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, humming quietly to herself as she rifled through the day's newspaper.
He blinked furiously, sensing something didn't quite add up. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work?"
"I cashed in a personal day." She took a quick inventory of his appearance: His nose was red, nearly raw, and his face was paler than she had ever seen. Standing up, she placed a cool hand to his forehead and noted his clammy skin. "Not so much better, huh?" she asked.
"Andy," he huffed. "I'm fine. Go to work."
She looked at him dubiously. "Too late for that. And apparently, your finesse at lying is compromised when you're sick. You look like hell."
A lesser man would have stuck his tongue out at her. Sam settled for rolling his eyes.
"I went to the store again earlier this morning," she continued, ignoring his reaction. "Do you think you can stomach anything? You really should eat something if you're going to be taking ibuprofen."
"I'll eat something if you promise to be on your merry way."
"Nice try."
"I'm f…"
"You're fine, I get it," she interjected. Rubbing his arm, she added, "You know, sometimes I think we're more similar than you realize. As in, I don't buy for a second that you are actually 'fine.'"
"Sit," she instructed, pointing to a chair. "I'll fix you breakfast."
As Sam settled into the chair, Andy bustled around the kitchen, pouring him a glass of orange juice and sliding a bag of cough drops in his direction. "How's your congestion? Does your chest feel tight?"
He gazed into the distance before sighing, nodding sharply.
"How about your nose?"
"Leaking like a faucet."
"Do you have an afghan lying around?"
Even in illness, he managed to look at Andy as if she were delusional. "Do I look like the kind of guy that owns an afghan?"
She shrugged unrepentantly. "You are a man of many secrets, Sam Swarek. I've only just begun to uncover them."
Placing eggs and a piece of toast in front of him, she ordered, "Eat up."
He sighed, picking up the fork with an injured look on his face. "Aren't you supposed to be a little nicer to me?"
She raised her chin in the air, her words laced with indignation. "I'll be a little nicer when you start listening."
Twenty minutes later, Sam was wrapped in a fleece blanket and lying languidly across the couch. Frustrated with the selection of daytime television and annoyed that he couldn't convince Andy to leave, he tossed the remote sullenly and watched her move about the room with practiced ease. If you asked him, she had an altogether too enthusiastic bedside manner.
She felt, rather than saw, his eyes on her. "No pity parties, Swarek," she commented lightly.
Looking properly chagrined, he muttered, "I'm not trying to be a grump. And I am sorry we're missing our first Valentine's Day together."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," she replied cheerily, spinning to face him.
He gestured toward the coffee table, littered with drugstore remedies. "Really, Andy? We have a bottle of cold medicine instead of a bottle of wine, chewable Vitamin C tablets instead of chocolate, and you brought me flowers, which I still don't understand."
Andy took a glance at the gerbera daisies that currently occupied the end table. She smiled before turning back to Sam.
"They make a room feel brighter, Sam. Sometimes you have to coach your body back to health. It's as much in your mind as it is in your body."
He scoffed. "Yeah, okay."
"Besides, we're together. Isn't that what matters most?"
If Sam Swarek were capable of pouting, he would have. Instead, he crossed his arms across his chest and said in an exasperated voice, "I'd rather not share my germs with you."
"Poor baby," Andy teased, gently stroking his forehead. "The good news is you're just as pig-headed when you're sick as you are when you're healthy. You haven't lost your touch."
He grumbled in response.
"Do you want to watch a movie, sicky?" she asked lightly.
"I want my head to stop pounding. I want to be able to breathe normally. I want to spend time with my girlfriend, unhindered by mucus and fever and coughing fits."
"Ugh, you lost me at mucus," Andy said, shuddering.
"This wasn't what today was supposed to be like," he countered.
"Oh, yeah?" she replied, humoring him.
He closed his eyes as Andy lifted his legs and slipped under them, settling next to him on the couch.
"Today was supposed to be about you."
"Hmm, and what did you have planned?"
"I got tickets."
"Tickets?" she said, nonplussed, before realization dawned. "Ohmigod you didn't."
He was silent, but she could see the light in his eyes.
"Sam, tell me you didn't."
A tiny grin threatened to escape his lips. "I know how much you love Mary Poppins. Well, I know how much you love Julie Andrews, and by extension, anything related to the world of Mary Poppins."
"Saaammm," she said, drawing out the word. "Why didn't you say something before?"
"That would ruin the very nature of surprise, McNally." He murmured something unintelligible before sweeping his arm across the back of the couch. "But now you know. 7:30pm, Princess of Wales Theatre, Dress Circle A," he finished.
"You are too sweet," she whispered, pulling him to her. He flipped over on his side, settling his head on her lap as she began to run her fingers through his hair. "Seriously, if you make me cry, I'll punch you."
"I am sweet," he teased weakly. "And you can't punch an invalid; that would be heartless."
She giggled before latching on to his previous comment, her eyebrows raising in surprise. "So you are willing to admit that you're sick?"
"Yes," he replied emphatically. "I fold." He opened his eyes to look at her, and then adopted a serious tone. "You should still go. Call your dad, see if he's free. I'm sure as hell not going in this condition, and it would be a shame to waste two good seats."
She looked at him with a sad smile on her lips. "Sam, I can't."
He interrupted her protests. "Yes, you can. And you will. Because it would make me happy." He poked her side before sitting up and grabbing a tissue.
"I'm hopping in the shower. Call Tommy." He fixed her with a stern look. "I'll be fine for a couple hours on my own. I've managed to survive many illnesses before without a round-the-clock attendant. Imagine that."
She hesitated. "I don't know, Sam…" He still looked worse for wear, and it didn't look like his condition was going to change anytime soon.
"Please?" he added, flashing his trademark grin.
Andy inhaled sharply. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she looked at him disapprovingly. "That is a direct manipulation of your God-given features. You should be ashamed of yourself. You're not fighting fair."
"All's fair in…" he cut himself off, eyes widening. "In this situation," he finished.
Oblivious to his abrupt change of tone, Andy relaxed her shoulders, fixed the impromptu couch-bed, and pushed Sam in the direction of the bathroom.
"Fine," she conceded. "I'll call my dad. But I get to baby you for the next six hours."
Tossing him a clean towel from the fresh pile of clothes she had laundered, she persisted, "Now get in the shower. I'm going to make you a cup of tea."
He sighed, relieved that she had agreed. "Deal."
Hours later and whistling a pretty tune in her head, Andy crept into Sam's bedroom to find him sleeping soundly. Slipping off her heels and tossing them in the spare bedroom, she returned downstairs to find a bouquet of roses and a red envelope sitting on the coffee table. The envelope had "Andy" written across the front in Sam's signature scrawl.
She opened the card to find a picture of a cartoonish-looking police officer, twirling a pair of handcuffs on his index finger.
Inside, was written: "You've arrested my heart. Happy Valentine's Day." Laughing at the overt cheesiness of the card, she quickly sobered when she saw what Sam had written underneath.
I'm glad you were a little overeager. Thanks for being such a wonderful part of my life.
-Sam
Tears pooled in her eyes as she pictured Sam selecting the card. It was alarming, really, how easily he could get under her skin. Silent for a moment, she traced the outline of his penmanship and leaned in to smell the flowers. Fragrant and lovely, as expected. Even when Mother Nature had him winded and wheezing, he really knew how to treat a girl...
She wiped her eyes furiously as she heard a floorboard creak above her head. A moment later, Sam appeared at the top of the steps.
"Hey," he mumbled sleepily. "I was just coming to get another dose. How was the show?"
As he shuffled down the stairs, Andy observed him closely. His hair was sticking up comically, his t-shirt was wrinkled, and he was squinting in the dim light of the hallway.
She had never seen him look so good.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, she pulled him into a fierce hug, overlooking the possible spread of germs. Gingerly he wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back lightly as she burrowed into his shoulder. He smelled of menthol and laundry detergent, and even though he was sick, she couldn't help but linger in his embrace.
After a long moment, she raised her head to look at him. Gesturing to the coffee table, she asked, "Did you go out to get these? I swear, Sam…"
That statement elicited a chuckle from him. "No, I didn't disobey your orders, Doctor. They have this nifty little thing called 'delivery' these days. And I picked out the card a week ago. I do plan for some things, you know."
She shook her head before scolding him, "Delivery is probably ridiculously expensive on Valentine's Day. You shouldn't have." Faux-annoyance aside, she was working overtime to prevent a blinding smile from claiming permanent residence on her face.
Leading him over to the couch, she walked to the kitchen to retrieve the cold medicine. After scrubbing her hands at the sink, she grabbed a tablespoon from the silverware drawer and returned to the couch, handing Sam the bottle and the spoon.
She waited until he had swallowed the dark red syrup before speaking again. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For everything. I –"
Her voice wavered, and she struggled to catch her breath. "I really am grateful for you, Sam. You mean so much to me, and all of this…" She waved her hands around the room, to the flowers, and the card, and the Mary Poppins program sitting on the table. "All of this is extraordinary, really."
Leaning in, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Her muffled voice met his ears as she softly repeated, "Thank you," against his neck.
He cleared his throat and simply said, "Anytime, McNally." His voice was gravelly from sleep and his sore throat – or so he would have argued – but the hard swallow that accompanied his admission seemed to suggest something else. "Maybe next time we can legitimately spend a holiday together? We don't have the best track record so far."
She laughed lowly. "Agreed. Now how 'bout I tuck you in and we can talk more in the morning?"
Slipping his arm around her, he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good."
When Sam woke up the next morning, he was feeling remarkably better. His head was significantly less fuzzy, his chest pain had eased, and he could breathe through his nostrils again. Reaching for the glass of water on his bedside table, he was perplexed when his hand found a cupcake instead.
Decorated in light pink frosting, the cupcake was covered with four conversation hearts. Reading from left to right, he made out the following message:
Dear One
I Miss U
And
Only You
On his nightstand was a red arrow, pointing in the direction of the door.
Sliding out of bed, he padded over to the door, silently shaking his head. Andy. She must have stayed up half the night to make it; she certainly hadn't been baking before he went to bed. Swinging the door open, he found another cupcake at the top of the stairs. This one was covered in white frosting, with the following message:
U R a 10
So Fine
I'm Sure
A sparkly pink arrow, clearly cut from construction paper and covered in glitter, pointed down the steps to the first floor. He bit his lip, amazed at her dedication to such a ridiculous holiday. Per the arrow's instructions, he headed down the stairs.
The next cupcake was covered in familiar pink frosting and was resting on top of the windowsill next to the front door. The liner – appropriately Valentine's Day themed, featuring cherubic little angels with bows and hearts – was both eye-catching and cringe-inducing. He studied it for a moment, before reading the succession of conversation hearts on the top of the cake.
Be True
Be Kind
Be Mine
The arrow next to this cupcake directed him toward the kitchen, and Sam began to wonder just how long Andy had spent designing the treasure hunt. A brief smile lit his features as he pictured her gleefully placing the treats along this path. He was almost positive she had added the glitter to the arrows just to spite him. Man oh man, if Ollie could see him now...
Well, if Oliver could see him, he would never hear the end of it.
Crossing the foyer into the kitchen, he spied another carefully adorned cupcake. Sitting on the kitchen counter, it made its home next to the vase of roses from the night before. He laughed outright at the message before him.
Let's Kiss
My Man
The final arrow directed him to the dining room table, where a cupcake with chocolate frosting sat. From his vantage point in the dining room, he could see Andy's form, stretched out across the couch in the adjacent room and snuggled under a blanket.
The last cupcake held three hearts with words that had been rubbed off, leaving a "10," a "4" and a question mark.
10-4?
He stifled a bark of laughter and moved closer to the couch, sneaking a glimpse of Andy. She was breathing heavily, regularly, but that wasn't what gave him cause to smile – Even from a distance, he could tell that she had frosting smudged across her cheek. She really was something else.
Retreating briefly to the kitchen, he grabbed the open bag of conversation hearts and sorted through potential responses. Settling on a tiny purple heart, he made his way back to the living room.
Slinking over to the couch, quiet as a mouse, he leaned over her frame and brought his mouth to hers.
It worked for those Disney princes, right?
Hovering above her, he shook his head, only slightly ashamed of the reference his own mind had just made. Whoever said it's impossible for men to change… They were appallingly wrong. The things you do for a girl…
Gently, lightly, he grazed her lips.
She blinked, once, twice, and her eyes focused on him. Raising her arms to slide around his neck, she sleepily murmured "Good morning," intent on returning his early-morning present.
Anticipating her movement, Sam caught her arm as it moved toward his neck. Gripping her wrist lightly, he forced her palm to open and placed the tiny purple heart inside. Fisting his own hand around hers, he nuzzled her nose sweetly before leaning in to kiss her again.
When they finally paused for some much-needed air, Andy opened her hand and laughed at the message inside.
One word was printed on the tiny, purple piece of candy.
Awesome.
Two for one - First Valentine's Day and first illness! Hope you enjoyed a peek into Sam's sweeter side.
Thank you, as always, for reading. I'm off to brush my teeth...
