A/N: I was originally going to post the rest of the story as one chapter, but split it up when I realized how long it was getting. Warning: this part is pretty much pure fluff, because at this point in the story, Sam and Andy deserve it and so do I. Also, one of the people they encounter in this chapter might seem over the top, but I ask you to consider that Sam is a self-described city boy, and as such he's probably not accustomed to strangers being, well, nice. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
After ten minutes, Andy breaks the silence in the truck. "You're serious?"
"Yup," Sam answers with calm certainty. "Just like I was the last seventeen times you asked." A quick glance at the clock reveals that they've now been having this broken-record conversation for exactly one hour.
(It's more or less what he expected would happen; for someone whose typical MO is 'act first, apologize later,' when McNally decides she's going to overanalyze something, she damn well commits.
Like innumerable other traits of hers, he loves and is driven insane by it in equal measure.)
"I just want to make sure," she says, a note of defense creeping into her voice. "Things are a little crazy, I don't think making a huge decision all spur-of-the-moment is the best idea."
"Not spur-of-the-moment," Sam says, turning off the main road into a public lot. He slows down to pull into a space; kills the ignition. "So that's a no."
"No," she replies quickly, her eyes widening in panic almost immediately. "I mean, no, that's not a no, not no as in…"
"Got it," he interrupts. He turns on the light in the cab, nudges her chin toward him with one hand. "Take your time with it," he says gently. "All right?"
He can practically see the wheels turning in her head – rather, spinning furiously to catch up with her rapid-fire thought process. "It's just… before we left, you said something about my maybe getting a subpoena. If they reopen Jay's case."
Nothing gets past this one. How he wishes some things would. "I did, yeah."
"You know…" She hesitates. "You know that spousal privilege only covers communications made during the marriage. Right?"
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
"So if we did, and then they called me…"
"You'd still have to testify," he finishes her sentence. "I know, McNally. But we don't know what else is going to happen with all of this. How long it's going to go on. And I already dragged you into enough as it – "
"Bullshit," she retorts. "Sam, we're in this together and you know it. This job, what we're trying to prove right now, us – it's never been easy, or neat, and I don't care. Whatever happens, there's no going back." She glares at him.
"And let me guess," he says carefully. "You don't want to go back."
"Nope," she confirms, still glaring. "Not gonna happen. You're stuck with me, Swarek."
"Okay. Good." He cocks an eyebrow. "One more question."
She mirrors his expression with a raised brow of her own. "Mm-hmm?"
"Can you stop saying nice things with that look on your face? It's a little confusing."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're gonna kill me in my sleep."
At that, she cracks a smile. "Let's just wait on this, okay? We don't even know where we're staying." She opens the passenger side door.
Climbing out of the cab himself, Sam jerks a thumb behind him toward the main road. "There's an inn over there. Figured we could try that. There's a couple other places we passed a few blocks up if that doesn't work."
(Wherever they end up staying, he wouldn't mind figuring it out sooner rather than later. He's got one more thing up his sleeve.)
The place still smells like fresh-baked cookies at 8pm, and the front desk clerk, the aptly named Ernest, informs them cheerily that he's got a suite left for tonight. "It's really nice," he assures them with a sincerity Sam's never before seen or believed. "Lake view will give you gorgeous sunsets."
"Oh, I'm… I'm sure," Andy agrees politely.
"Can't go wrong with it, I promise. Plus, it has a fireplace…"
"A fireplace, great," Andy says, the enthusiasm in her voice tinged with impatience.
Oblivious, Ernest continues his spiel. "… A king-size bed, and a double shower."
At that, Sam feels his head snap up of its own volition. "You guys take Visa?" he asks, brandishing a card between his fingers. Ernest is thrilled to oblige; as he's processing the bill with his back to them, Sam feels Andy's elbow in his ribs.
"What?" he hisses. "He would've kept going till he got to the flavor of the pillow mints."
"Well, you picked an interesting moment to intervene," she mutters back. "You're gonna traumatize the poor guy with those mental images."
"Who, Ernest?" Sam tosses his head in the clerk's direction. "He doesn't care. Probably lives to sell a room to a couple in need of a romantic getaway. Listen, he's humming."
(It's not an exaggeration.)
"Whatever. That's not your credit card," Andy whispers.
"It's prepaid," he replies in a low voice. "Picked it up last week, I had a feeling there might be a situation where I didn't want someone tracking me by my credit use. No idea why."
"Okay! We're all set," Ernest says, turning back around with their room keys and an enormous smile. "Have a wonderful stay."
Their room is on the second floor, and Sam has no sooner crossed the threshold than Andy is dropping her bag on the ground and diving into the bathroom. "Thank God, I've had to pee since the border," comes her muffled voice from behind the closed door.
"You had two hours to say something," Sam can't help remarking, placing his own bag down and reaching for his wallet. If he remembers correctly, what he's looking for should be right… there. He pulls out the small cream-colored envelope, tucked safely in front of his cash, and places it atop the pillow on the left side of the bed.
"Well, I didn't know how much longer it was going to be, and if it was only another few minutes, it would've been stupid to stop…" Andy's voice trails off, having noted the stationery. She walks over and picks it up. "What's this? Were they out of pillow mints?"
He shrugs, absently flipping through a nature-photography book on the side table. "Looks like it."
Here it comes. He's fairly sure he knows how this, too, is going to go; can't say he's not amused at the likely prospect.
First, the nervous laugh. "Brookbell Family Jewelers. A hand-written receipt? What, do they have a full-time calligrapher on staff to fill people in on the 14-day return policy?"
"No return policy, McNally," he says with a grin, keeping his eyes focused on an image of a sunlit forest. "Start at the top and work your way down."
"Well…" A little less wisecracking now. "You know, maybe we should've gone to a campground tonight. It would've made sense to save something for your legal fund, if you need one."
"Are you looking at the…" Sam rolls his eyes and slams the book shut. "That's not what I meant when I said to work your way down, McNally. The date. Look at the date."
She looks – and then keeps looking. She stares at it for what seems like so long that Sam gets up and walks over to her, waving a hand in front of her eyes.
"That was two days after we went to Millburn," she says softly, her gaze shifting to him. "You've been planning this since then?"
He smiles wryly. "Whatever plans I may or may not have had didn't involve being on the run from a corrupt police commissioner who's out to ruin my life."
"Hey, now," she interrupts. "Our lives."
"Touché. Actually, that's, uh… that's kind of the point," he says with a shrug. "Nothing quite kills a honeymoon phase like Santana, and we're both still here."
"So, the spousal privilege thing…"
"Came to mind," he admits. "But face it, McNally. You and me? This was inevitable from day one."
"Day one? Really?" She tilts her head, shooting him a skeptical squint.
"All right, day two," he amends. "Somewhere between picking all the gravel out of my elbows and getting Emily on a bus…"
"Okay," she interrupts. He's expecting more, but she just looks at him, biting her lip to stifle her grin.
"So I'm clear, that's a yes?"
"Sure," she says nonchalantly. "Let's do it."
"Oh yeah? Let's do it, huh?" he rejoins, reaching into the envelope for the tiny velvet drawstring pouch he knows is in there. "What are you thinking, two years? Reserve some really swanky venue with a giant wait list and ice sculptures? Wear a designer gown and I can finally see whatever you were going to wear to the commissioner's gala underneath your dress?"
"Please, like I'd make you wait two years for that," she snorts, her left hand in his. "That would be cruel. Maybe six months. I've always liked autumn. You know, the foliage."
"Foliage is nice," he agrees, mock-serious as he seamlessly slides diamond and white gold onto her third finger. "But it's kind of cliché for weddings at this point. Isn't it? We go with three months, we get summer, do something on the beach…"
"Speaking of clichés. And summer's too hot." She's keeping up with him every step of the way, even if her eyes are now transfixed on the ring. "Spring actually sounds perfect. New beginnings and all that."
"Yeah, sure," he nods. "You got plans tomorrow? It'll still be spring then."
"I actually do have plans tomorrow, sorry," she retorts jokingly.
"Like what?" he teases, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. "Lake views? Fireplace?"
"Hell, no," she smirks, her mouth just shy of his. "Double shower."