So... my first Rookie Blue fic. Yippee? Anyhoo, I've been working on this for quite a while, but it wasn't turning out right. Buuuuuut I think I got it to work now. Feedback would be great.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
When your mother left, you made 3 rules you swore you'd never break. One—You neverlet your guard down (you keep your secrets locked away where no one can take advantage of them). Two—Nobody sees you cry (you're one woman show with no room for weakness). And rule number three—your cardinal rule—You'll never, ever, ever fall in love (you'd seen first-hand what it did to your father, and frankly the pain isn't worth it).
And after 14 years of following these rules, you've managed to break them all in the course of a day. A trying day, sure, but that's no excuse. You know that what happened will come back and bite you in the ass someday. And it's all his fault.
Sam bloody Swarek's fault.
You first rule starts crumbling in the locker room after the shooting. Not by much, but you can tell your façade's slipping the moment you see his eyes (you're not sure whether you should call him Sir, Swarek, or Sam). Dark eyes are clearly not as mysterious as everyone makes them out to be, because you can see every emotion clear as day. There's concern, which doesn't really bother you. There's compassion, which makes you fidget more than you should have. And there's sadness, and mixed in with the sadness is a trace of pity, and there lies the problem. You hate pity, and the moment you see it you try to shut yourself down again.
But it's too late.
You barely speak in the locker room, but your walls are gone long enough for him to catch a glimpse of the soul you're hiding.
Later that night, you leave your apartment to get some air. You start off walking, but when the memories fail to fall behind you break into a jog, gaining speed as you try to leave the gunshots, blood, and empty eyes behind. When you finally stop, your lungs aching for air and your legs burning, you realize where you've gone. For now, at least, you've managed to outpace your emotions, and you're blissfully numb. Despite the voice in your head (the one you're used to trusting) listing off countless reasons why this (whatever this is) is a mistake, you climb the staircase and knock on his door. You decide to try and take his advice and you try not to overthink it.
That's when you shatter your first rule into a million tiny pieces.
When he first opens his door, you're one hundred (well, maybe 99) percent commited to talking. But the numb feeling finally takes its toll on you. You shake your head "no" to his question, and in a desperate attempt to feel anything again, you back him against the wall and crush your lips against his with the force of a storm.
An internal battle rages within you from the moment he takes control. Part of you, the numb part, wants these sparks, these sensations never to end. Part of you, the ethical part, tells you that you're not this girl. Part of you, the most dominant part, screams at you for your lack of control.
Your guard has dropped for the first time in 14 years. It's just you letting yourself be swept away by the passion.
When the lights come back on, you feel like you've awoken from a dream. You throw your shirt back on and the dominant part of your mind does its best to take control once again, but you aren't able to throw up all your wall like you usually do. You're still riding out that high.
He comes back in, slumping against the wall with a sad sort of smirk on his face. He turns away from you (you're not sure if it's in disgust, but you wouldn't blame him if it was) and walks back into his kitchen.
You know you should leave now, before you do anything else you'll regret. But your legs aren't working; you can't make yourself stand up and walk out that door.
He's gone for all of 3 minutes when you burst back into hysterical tears. Next thing you know, strong arms and pulling you upright and wrapping around you while your face is pressed against a firm chest. The part of you that's still capable of sarcasm points out snidely, "Two in one day, Andy McNally. Aren't you on a roll."
Your dominant part just keeps yelling.
You're not sure how long you stand there, his arms around you, but the concept of time has ceased all meaning. You're not sure whether this is from your state of utter exhaustion or from the onslaught of memories that have finally caught up to you. Honestly, right now you couldn't care less. You're crying (hysterically, to add insult to injury) in front of another human being, and you really should get a grip and walk away with some measure of dignity.
For the seemingly millionth time that day, you can't bring yourself to do it.
You wake with a start the next morning, and it takes you several minutes to get your bearings. The bed you're in isn't yours. You're simply sitting there, trying to get your muddled brain in gear when it dawns on you. You're still in his apartment, but there's no sign of him.
You check the clock on the bedside table, and you find more there than just flashing lights that reads 11:37 AM. There's a cup of coffee sitting atop a small note and a twenty dollar bill. You take a sip of the coffee and grimace. It's doctored just the way you like it, but it's stone cold. You set it aside and reach for the note instead, your curiosity already aroused. The first word looks like it has been erased and rewritten multiple times, as though the writer couldn't decide between McNally and Andy.
Andy,
I hope you slept well. The coffee and twenty are for you. Get yourself a cab so you don't have to walk back to your place.
The offer to talk still stands, whenever you're ready.
Take care of yourself,
Sam.
Some of the humiliation from last night starts to dissipate, warmth starts flowing through your veins, and you feel a smile start to form on your lips.
"Gotta love that guy," you say out loud.
You freeze as soon as the words leave your mouth, but deep down you know that what you said wasn't meant to be a throwaway phrase. Deep down you know you meant it.
What the hell did you just say?
If you didn't know any better (and you wish you could say you did), you'd swear you were breaking rule number 3.
Fin.