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There were days Annie never thought she'd figure Sam out. He was one of the most stable and down-to-earth people she'd ever met, but he also claimed to be from the future and spun mad stories about it with an intensity that was almost scary. He got mortally offended over comments everyone else found innocuous, but when he was relaxed could pop out with some of the crudest jokes and language Annie had ever heard. He knew Manchester like the back of his hand but he could get lost walking down the street and afterward claim it was because things weren't the way he remembered them. She knew he fancied her, but he treated her with a careful respect that was as disconcerting as it was sweet.
In short, he was such a bundle of contradictions, some days he really did seem like a man from Mars – though if you asked, him, he claimed it was everyone else living on another planet.
One afternoon, Annie got an entirely unexpected demonstration of Sam's differences in the Records room.
She'd been digging, looking for a particular series of files, and found that a whole section had been completely misfiled. Frustrated, she finally gave up and pulled everything, with the aim of sorting and shelving it properly. It took a long time, but she finally got through it all and celebrated by straightening up for a luxurious spine-crack, then settling onto a stool to rest her sore feet while paging through the files she'd pulled out to read through. It was far quieter (and not much mustier) here than out in the station offices, and her concentration was apt to be better.
She heard the Records door opening and closing in a subliminal way without being fully aware of it; there were several tightly-packed shelves between her and the entrance, it was a familiar enough sound, and she was focused very tightly on deciphering some appalling handwriting in an old report. She registered Sam's and Chris's voices in the same distracted, half-aware way, not really paying attention to what was being said at first.
Eventually, though, she finished going through the report in her hand and that was when she realized that her colleagues' conversation had long ago left professional topics and was instead focusing on Chris's love life (or lack thereof). She froze in place. There was no possible way to make a graceful exit; her only hope was to sit tight and pray they wouldn't head her way. Now that she was aware of what was being said, she could hear every word.
Chris was trying to wheedle advice and suggestions out of Sam, including details of how to entertain a young lady one was lucky enough to invite home. Annie knew Chris was in awe of what he considered Sam's almost uncanny gift for dealing with the fair sex. If anyone had asked her (not that they would) Annie would have been able to tell them quickly enough that Sam's real secret was treating women like people and equals, but Chris wanted more than that and pressed until Sam finally relented with a sigh.
Annie'd heard blokes discussing birds before, and thought (with an inward cringe) she knew what she was about to hear. Not that there was any reason for Sam to be different, seeing as how he was a bloke – but she wasn't sure she wanted proof of it. She liked the illusion that he wasn't the same as all the rest when it came to some things. Still, curiosity was a powerful force, and she found herself listening closely.
After a short pause (Annie pictured Sam looking around, making sure he and Chris were alone), Sam took a deep breath and then launched into a detailed, almost clinical, lecture on all the things a man could do to – or with – a woman. It was nothing at all like what Annie had expected. She listened with widening eyes and increasingly flushed cheeks as her imagination supplied vivid, often completely novel images to go with what Sam's low, mild, careful voice was describing. Most of it was as new to her as it surely was to Chris, and Sam held his audience's rapt attention the entire way through.
He finally concluded with, "But that's just generalization; every woman is different. What's really important is that you talk to her, find out what she likes, what works for her and what doesn't. If you do that, you're golden." A pause, then, with a hint of amusement, "Chris? Did you get all that?"
There was a moment's absolute silence, in which Annie didn't even dare breathe, before Chris, sounding more than a little shell-shocked, replied faintly, "Yeah, Boss. Got it."
"Good," Sam said, going brisk and professional again. There was a light fabric-slapping sound Annie interpreted as him giving Chris a friendly clap on the arm. "Then let's find that Olsen file and get back to work."
Annie experienced a moment of panic, picturing everyone's mortal embarrassment if she were discovered now, but there was a rustle of paper, safely out of sight, and then two sets of retreating footsteps ending in the opening and closing of a door.
When she was certain she was alone again, she blew out a relieved breath, puffing her cheeks and raised her eyebrows. She never, ever would have imagined quiet, uptight, maiden-aunt Sam would have known such things, or been able to speak about them with the voice of experience. Another contradiction to add to the bundle.
It was three days before she was able to look Sam in the eye again. He was, as always, unfailingly polite, and the more obvious she got about avoiding him the more he developed a sad, worried, kicked-puppy expression. It made her feel guilty, but she couldn't hear his voice without thinking about . . . other things, and she was even more sorry now that she'd seen him handcuffed naked to his bed that one time; it gave her imagination far too much information to work with.
It didn't help that the morning after the Records room, she saw Chris thanking Sam profusely – all but dropping to the ground in front of him and kissing his feet, actually – and even though she was too far away to hear what they were saying, she had a pretty fair idea what it was all about. She blushed and looked away, with an uncharitable thought of, Lucky cow sent in the direction of Chris's unknown bird.
Sam finally cornered her, in his careful way, in the canteen, setting his tray down across from hers. "Hello," he said with a half-smile. "If it was something I said, I wish you'd tell me what it was, because I honestly have no clue."
Annie bought a second's time to think by taking a bite of gluey potatoes, chewing them far more than their overcooked texture deserved. By the time she swallowed, she'd decided on a story.
"Sorry," she said, smiling in apology and making herself meet his expectant gaze. "S' not you, I've got a friend who's been going through a really hard time and I've been worried about her. I haven't been in much of a mood to talk to anyone."
Sam, to his credit, looked genuinely concerned. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "About your friend, I mean." He took a bite of limp, low-grade beef, chewed it, and asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Bless him, he really seemed to mean it. "Nah," Annie said, shaking her head and starting to relax. Once she was actually around him, talking to him, she found she was able to concentrate on the everyday-ness of the moment and relax. "She's better now. Just had a spot of man trouble."
Sam arched his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Nothing another man needs to hear about, is that it? Fair enough."
They spent the rest of their lunch catching up, trading information about the cases they were working on, bits of light-weight gossip, and so forth. Annie was feeling almost giddy with relief, right until the moment Sam stood up.
"I think I'll get some dessert; the apple crumble looked hopeful. What d'you fancy?" he asked, and his innocent question threw her mind right back to him telling Chris about asking what a woman liked.
Annie choked on a sip of coffee and started coughing. Sam, alarmed, started to move forward but stopped, apparently trying to figure out if it was appropriate to pat her on the back or not. Annie shook her head and flapped her hand to indicate she was all right.
"Sorry," she said when she managed to gasp for air. "I just swallowed something the wrong way," which was true enough – but the minute the words were out of her mouth, her mind gave her a second, entirely inappropriate interpretation, and she broke out into helpless giggles, punctuated by a few recurring coughs. Bad girl, Annie, stop it, Sam's staring at you!
Sam's confused expression didn't help; in her current state of mind, Annie found it hilarious. I wonder if that's how I look when he's going off on one of his man-from-Mars stories about the future . . .
Finally she managed to get her voice back. "Sorry," she said again. "Just remembered something funny. It's nothing."
"If you say so," Sam said, looking relieved and letting his tone go dry.
"Apple crumble," Annie said decisively.
"What?
"I'd like some apple crumble. You're right, it didn't look half bad."
Sam's smile lit up his whole face. "Apple crumble it is," he said.
Annie was proud of herself: she managed to stay focused on dessert after that. Well, except for the bit where she checked out Sam's arse the entire time he was walking away from their table, hiding her smirk by sipping more coffee.
I think I could get used to Martians, I really do.