Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it.

I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own It Had To Be You.

"Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly."

Mercedes Jones

Sam shook his head at Mercedes.

"I'm not going to ask you to help me paint."

"Then don't ask. I'm offering."

She took a second, longer look around at his nearly empty living room, the completely empty dining room, and the equally sparse kitchen.

And he knew what she saw. She saw what he'd just been thinking himself…it was a house...not a home.

"You need to go before the paint fumes aggravate your asthma," Sam said.

But Mercedes merely moved to open the windows and turn on his two ceiling fans.

"Is that enough?" he asked.

"For now. There's good cross ventilation." She picked the food back up, moved to the middle of the dining room floor and dropped to her knees.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a tad hoarse, causing her to glance at him.

And he couldn't help it, but his mind flashed to her making that same move in his shower.

"Making you a picnic," she replied and leaned over to pull food from the bags. "Come on."

Sam didn't budge.

He was completely riveted by the way her skirt was riding up the backs of her thighs.

"If you don't sit," she said, not looking at him. "I'm going to eat all of this by myself. And trust me, I totally could. I'm starving."

At that, Sam sat and Mercedes handed him a plate loaded with two burgers and double fries. Then, she pulled a bottle of wine from the depths of her huge purse.

"The big guns," he said.

"No, that would've been vodka. I wanted to relax you, not put you out of commission. Though you're so freaking stoic all the time, it's hard to tell if you need relaxing. Nothing seems to faze you."

He let out a mirthless laugh.

"You think nothing fazes me?" he asked.

Mercedes smiled a secret little smile.

"Well, except when I'm naked. You were pretty fazed then."

Sam shook his head.

"No?" she asked.

"Yes." 'Fuck, yes!' "But that's not all that gets to me."

"What else, then?" she asked.

"Seeing you suffocating," he said. "That fazed the hell out of me."

And just like that, her smile faded.

"I know. I've been told, that it's damn hard to watch. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He shook his head. "God. Don't apologize for that." He paused. "You and your sisters make up?"

"Oh. Yes." She shrugged. "Pretty much anyway. It was my fault. I've spent years being wild, and I hate when no one wants to depend on me." She shook her head. "I'm working on that, but the problem is, people tend to assign you the role of the person you are at your worst, you know?"

He nodded.

Yeah. He knew. Exactly.

"Not much I can do about that," she said with a philosophical shrug. "Except, hopefully continue to prove them wrong."

Mercedes set the wine bottle between her thighs to steady it and went to work on it with a corkscrew...also from the mysterious depths of her purse.

When she bent over the bottle, her skirt rose up even more, giving Sam another quick flash of something, that was definitely black and silky beneath.

The corkscrew slipped, and with a low breath of annoyance, she ran her fingers up the neck of the bottle to reset its position.

"Keep doing that," he said, mesmerized. "And the top will pop off on its own."

She smiled and handed everything over to him.

And he removed the cork. Then, she took the bottle back, pouring him a glass.

Sam wasn't much of a drinker, not anymore, and he'd already had two beers, but she was looking at him with a soft smile.

And then there was that sweater, still slipping off her shoulder. Plus, she smelled amazing, and was wearing black silk under her clothes.

Which, all of a sudden, made him more than a little short on brain power.

They ate and drank in comfortable silence. And after a while, Mercedes looked down at Sam's empty plate with a smile.

"Better?" she asked.

He'd inhaled everything. Finally full and definitely better, he nodded.

"Thanks," he said.

"Oh, it's not me." She poured the last of the wine into his glass. "It's the food. And the alcohol."

He was pretty sure it was her, but he kept silent, and shook his head when she pulled a second bottle from her purse.

"What else does that suitcase hold?" he asked her.

"Everything."

"Anything worthwhile? Like, say, a house painter?"

"I'm your new house painter," she replied.

She reached for the corkscrew to open up bottle number two, but he stopped her.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" he asked.

Mercedes tilted her head and studied him.

"Is it possible?" she asked, sounding intrigued.

"No."

But when she leaned forward, her sweater gaped and he discovered that she was wearing a black, slinky bra.

With his mouth suddenly dry, he downed the last of his wine, not surprised that he was feeling a nice little buzz.

"I really can paint, you know," Mercedes said. "If we keep the windows open, and I wear a mask."

"No way," Sam replied.

"No way?" she repeated in disbelief. "You don't get to tell me what I can and cannot do, Sam Evans."

He sighed and swiped a hand over his face. This was his own fault for demanding instead of asking.

He located one of the paper masks that the paint store had given him with his purchase, and handed it to her.

She placed it on and it covered her mouth and nose. And when she got it into position, she looked at him and softened, just a smidgen.

"I know you're just concerned and not trying to be a domineering asshole," she said benignly through the paper.

"Do you?" Sam asked, amused in spite of himself, because she looked adorable.

And sexy.

"Yes. But I'm a big girl...literally and figuratively."

And wasn't that just the problem.

Mercedes' eyes crinkled as they began painting, so Sam knew she was smiling, probably from the 'big girl' comment she made.

Because, no one told this 'big girl' what she could or could not do.

"How's your dad?" she asked.

He watched, as she stretched up high as she could with her roller.

"Ornery as hell," he said, eyes locked on her bare legs.

"I hear they get that way with age."

He chuckled.

"If that's true, then, he's always been old."

"You have your moments, too, you know."

That gave him pause and he stared at her.

"Are you saying I'm like him?" he asked.

"I'm saying, that sometimes genetics are annoying."

Mercedes continued painting and paying Sam no special attention, which allowed him to look his fill.

His mind wondered a bit, curious to know, if she was referring to her mother and the wanderlust lifestyle that had been forced on her, or if she blamed the father she'd never known, for not sticking around.

His heart tightened a bit for her, as he watched her dipped her roller into the paint tray, very carefully.

"Sometimes I wonder what I got from my dad. If he was...difficult. You know, like me," she said.

Sam had liked Mercedes' mother, Patricia, he really had, but sometimes he wanted her to come back to life, just so he could strangle her.

How could she never have told Mercedes a thing about her father, or given her nothing of half of her own heritage...no knowledge, no memories, nothing?

To be honest, he had never asked his father much about his own mother. It had hurt that she'd left him, and for a hell of a long time, he'd been positive, that he'd been the reason she'd gone.

But that was different. Mercedes' dad hadn't been there from the get-go.

"You're not difficult," Sam said, meaning it. But when Mercedes snorted, he had to smile. "Okay, maybe you're a little difficult...but I like it."

"You do not. No one likes difficult. Which is why I'm so hard to put up with."

It took him a moment to answer, because suddenly, his throat burned like fire.

"If I don't get to tell you what to do, you don't get to tell me how I feel," he said, and watched her eyes crinkle at the corners, as she smiled at her own words being tossed back in her face.

Then, she scratched the bridge of her nose and left a smudge of paint there, and another just beneath her left eye.

Uncharacteristically silent, she turned back to her wall and they painted in silence for five full minutes.

"You think he'd like the way I turned out?" she asked her wall casually. Too casually. "You know, my father."

God, she was killing him.

"I think he'd be proud of you, of your giving nature and spirit, and how you live your life. Everything," Sam honestly answered.

Mercedes glanced at him.

"Including the way I jump in without thinking things through?"

"He'd be proud," he repeated firmly.

She stared at him, then nodded.

"Thanks." She nudged him with her hip, when they both bent for the paint tray at the same time. "And I bet your dad's proud of you too."

Now, it was Sam's turn to snort.

"Deep down," Mercedes said, sounding sure.

Maybe deep, deep, deep down, but Sam kind of doubted it.

"At least he's around," Mercedes said softly. "And you visit with him." She shrugged. "So he's a grumpy old fart. Life's short, Sam. Sometimes you have to take what you can get and make it okay."

With this deeply profound statement, she bent over to load more paint onto her roller, and flashed him those black panties again, distracting him.

At some point, Mercedes put down her roller and went for that second bottle of wine. And Sam doubted the alcohol was good for her asthma, but he'd be damned if he told her that.

He'd drink the whole bottle himself first before pointing it out.

"Before you open that, there's beer in the fridge. I'm going to have one of those instead," he said.

She eyed him, a small mischievous smile tugging at her mouth.

Had she seen through him?

No telling with her.

But she put down the bottle, leaving it unopened.

"I'm a little bit of a lightweight anyway. Maybe I'll share a beer with you."

"Great!"

Sam got one out of the fridge and offered her the first sip, which she took and passed it back. And he took a big gulp, watching her as she checked out his empty kitchen.

She hadn't been kidding about being a light drinker, because suddenly, she didn't seem all that steady on her feet, after two and a half glasses of wine and a sip of beer.

But then again, he wasn't all that steady himself, after the two beers he'd had before she got here, then the lion's share of the wine.

Eventually, they moved back to the dining room to eye their handiwork.

"Huh," Mercedes said, and rubbed at the streak of paint on her jaw.

"What?" Sam asked.

He watched her shake her head, as if having a private conversation with herself.

Then, she laughed.

So did he.

Because two walls looked neat, smooth, and orderly...his.

The other two walls...hers...had been painted in haphazard, uneven strokes, utterly without pattern.

"Your wall looks…off," he said diplomatically.

"It's your house. Your house is crooked," she said, gesturing to it, as she blew a strand of hair from her face.

She was paint-spattered, sweaty, and sexy as hell.

He smiled at her.

"You're crooked," he said, and she burst out laughing, sliding to the floor in a puddle of mirth.

"We probably shouldn't be painting in your condition," she finally managed, swiping her eyes.

"Your condition is worse than mine," Sam countered.

"Says who?"

"I'm a cop. I know these things. And I know something else, too. We're stopping painting now."

"Yeah?" He heard her breath catch, and when she ran her gaze down his body, she wasn't the only one.

"You have something else in mind, Sheriff?"

"Yeah."

Mercedes stared up at him for a long moment, then reached for his beer. But he pulled it out of reach, brought it to his lips, and tilted his head back to finish it off in two long swallows.

"Are you drunk?" she whispered.

"More tipsy than I'd like," he whispered back. "You?" Sam asked.

"I don't know." Very carefully, she spread her arms. "Give me a sobriety test, Officer Hottie."

He grinned.

"Hottie?"

"Yes, but shh, don't tell yourself that I think so. It'll go to your head. What do I have to do to pass?"

"Walk a straight line," he stated.

Affecting a model-on-the-catwalk strut, Mercedes headed straight towards him and tripped over her own feet.

"Whoops!" she said when he caught her up against him.

Her eyes were glassy, and her lips were parted. And Sam thought, 'Damp with exertion and warm to the touch, you're both heaven and hell.'

Mercedes' hands went immediately to his ass, and damn if she didn't cop a feel.

"Sorry," she murmured and gave him a squeeze. "I think I failed the test. You should handcuff me now."

And oh, how Sam would like that. He'd like to handcuff her to his bed and bury himself deep...

"Mercedes..."

"Uh-oh. Did I scare you off, Sheriff Hottie? Because I can stop talking now. Actually, I..."

He set a finger on her lips, as she leaned against him and she smiled.

"I talk a lot when I'm wasted," she admitted, her lips brushing against the pad of his finger as she spoke.

"Only when you're wasted?" he asked, playfully.

"Hey, I'm just trying to figure you out, is all."

"What's to figure?" he asked.

"Well, sometimes you're like...the big bad wolf."

"The big bad wolf?"

"Yeah. But then you go to Home Depot to save an old lady from her smoke alarm, rescue a silly fair maiden from the mud springs, and catch a convenience store robber single-handedly."

"I also paint houses," Sam added.

"See? You're multi-talented." It took her three times to say the word.

And Sam laughed and set her back on her own feet.

"Okay, it's time to get you some coffee. I have a coffeemaker somewhere…"

It'd been a housewarming present from Tessa, actually, but he'd never used it, preferring to stop by the inn for his coffee instead.

Come to think of it, he'd never really examined the reasoning for that too closely and didn't stop to do so now either.

"No, not yet," Mercedes said, resisting. "I like being just a little buzzed. I don't have bad dreams that way."

Turning away, she gathered the empty wine and beer bottles.

"What do you have bad dreams about?" Sam asked.

"Hmm?"

He stopped her, taking the bottles from her arms, carrying them to the recycling bin. Then he took her hands in his.

"The dreams..."

"Oh," she said, peering at the walls they'd painted. "They're silly, really. Not nightmares or terrifying or anything like that. They're mostly annoying."

She pulled free and squatted before a bucket of paint and stared into the remains.

Sam crouched at her side.

"Tell me."

"Well, they start out differently." She shrugged, and her sweater slipped off her shoulder again. "Sometimes I'm running and getting really tired. Or I'm in a car and almost out of gas. Or I'm on a plane that can't take off...stuff like that. And I know I need to be somewhere, but something always gets in the way.

The stupid thing is, in the dreams, I never really know where exactly I need to be, just that I'm late or I'm missing something or..." She shook her head. "I can't explain it, but I wake up frustrated and angry. And feeling helpless."

She fell quiet and ran a finger through the paint.

"See? Silly," she whispered again.

"Doesn't seem silly to me."

He pulled her back up to her feet, surprised when they both wobbled.

She leaned against him with a dreamy little sigh, and he wasn't sure if that was because he'd managed to catch them both, or if she liked the grip she once again had on his ass.

"Coffee," Sam repeated, and they let go of each other.

Then, he realized that he didn't actually have any coffee to go in his coffeemaker.

"I'll call for another delivery."

Mercedes bit her lower lip.

"That's not a good idea."

"Why?"

"You can't be seen by anyone." She winced. "I sort of...maybe...just put paint on your ass. On purpose."

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry, you're going to pay for it."

"Uh-oh." She looked both worried and intrigued. "What's the punishment Officer Hottie?"

His lips twitched.

Pretending to consider that, he stepped towards her and she stepped back, reaching the kitchen wall. And her hands slid behind her, trying to cover her own ass.

"I'm not into kinky stuff," she said, then hesitated. "At least I don't think I am. What did you have in mind?"

Sam smiled at her, and she let out a shaky breath.

"Get your inhaler, Mercedes."

She did and took a hit. Then, she settled back against the wall again, looking up at him hopefully.

"Ready," she said,

God, she was sweet. So sweet and so hot, Sam thought.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked breathlessly.

"Keep breathing. That's your only job, got it?"

Mercedes nodded solemnly.

"Got it."

"Good."

With that, he cupped her breasts in his hands, and she gasped.

When his thumbs rubbed over her nipples, she let out a shaky moan, and her head thunked back against the wall.

Slowly her legs gave out, and she slithered down to the floor. And somehow, they both ended up on their knees facing each other.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah." She smiled sheepishly. "I guess, I just really liked that."

He smiled.

"You won't in the morning."

Mercedes broke the eye contact and looked down at herself, finding the two large painted hand-prints...one on each boob.

"Hey, I borrowed this shirt from Tessa! And when I say borrowed, I mean stole."

Reaching passed him, she once again dipped her hand in the paint.

"Don't even think about it," he warned.

"Take your medicine like a man, Sheriff."

"Depends on where you're going to put that hand."

A cheeky smile blossomed on her pretty face, as she palmed his erection and squeezed. He let out a soft groan as her fingers did the walking.

"Defacing personal property," he managed.

They both looked down at the hand-print she'd left on him.

"What's the punishment for that?" she whispered.

"What's with you and getting punished?"

Mercedes grinned.

"I don't know. I think it's your handcuffs. I can't stop thinking about them. Can I deface you some more?" she asked.

"Only if I get to return the favor."

Again she grinned.

"We are so drunk."

"That is a true statement," Sam said and she snorted, falling to her back right there on his floor.

Staring up at the ceiling fan slowly swirling above them, she said,

"We should keep painting."

"That's a really bad idea."

"Why?" she asked. "Haven't you ever pulled a drunken all-nighter?"

"Sure, when I was a teenager."

"Was this before or after the flaming bags of poop?"

"After."

She grinned.

"Hard to believe. You seem so..."

"If you say sweet," he warned, "I will get out the cuffs."

She snorted again, and he pulled her into his lap.

He gripped her ass, feeling the drying paint on the soft material of her skirt.

"I hope you didn't steal this, too," he said.

Mercedes wriggled a little, and the hem slipped up her thighs to her hips, giving him a nice view of her black panties.

He slid a finger over the silk, stopping short when he heard her wheeze.

"Mercedes?"

"I'm okay."

Suddenly very sober, Sam slid out from beneath her.

"No, you're not."

"Dammit! One little asthma attack and now you're scared of me."

She pushed up to her feet and staggered to the refrigerator, then came back with two more beers and offered him one.

He looked into her eyes and beyond the fresh bravado, saw unease.

Whatever she said, however she acted, she was no more ready than him to push their luck.

Sam took both bottles from Mercedes and put one back. He had no intention of opening any.

"I thought we were sharing," she said and snatched the other one from him.

She opened it and took a sip. And he reclaimed the bottle, downing half the beer in one gulp so she wouldn't.

Things got hazy after that.

At some point, she reasoned, that since there were no overnight guests at the inn tonight, she was free and clear. So she texted her sisters that she'd gone camping and wouldn't be back until morning.

And though she and Sam kept painting, nothing seemed to get accomplished.

This was probably because, she kept stopping to touch him.

Or maybe, it was him touching her.

Sounds about right.

He couldn't seem to control himself...he, of the famed self-control, couldn't stop...and he didn't want to.

Stay safe!