A/N: This kind of wrote itself while my mind was attempting to process Out of Time (so please don't read this if you haven't yet seen the episode).

I know we won't be seeing a civilian-esque funeral, but I couldn't stop thinking of how non-Fifteen family would/will come into play; thanks in advance for suspending your disbelief where that's concerned. I'd also like to pretend for as long as possible that the promos for 3x10 don't exist, so for the purposes of this story, please do the same.

Disclaimer: I own neither Rookie Blue nor "End Over End" by the Foo Fighters, from which the story/chapter titles originate.

Part 1: maybe i just feel too much

Andy has always found neckties rather pointless. Overpriced scraps of fabric, they've always seemed more like potential hanging devices than purposeful formalwear. Her dad used to alternate between two on a daily basis: one blue-and-gray-striped with an unexplained conspicuous stain that never stopped him from donning it, the other patterned with golf balls and clubs (he'd never even been to a driving range; fifteen years later, Andy's still trying to figure out where it came from). Eventually, it became enough of a challenge to get himself to work in one piece, let alone in conventionally acceptable apparel, and she'd only set eyes on them again last year while helping him clean up after a burst pipe, crumpled and forsaken in a corner of the closet.

Her lack of understanding extends to the application. The clip-on she had to negotiate before being cut loose was obviously straightforward enough, but the sequence of loops and knots a standard tie requires has always eluded her. Luke was the only person she ever watched put them on regularly, and he typically had them in place too quickly for her to process what he was doing. So she's maintained her original view of them as silly and impractical, and carried on with her life.

Until today.

From across the room, she can see Sam's fingers, normally deft with all things fine-motor, falter repeatedly as he attempts to secure the dark tie over his flipped-up shirt collar. His fists clench momentarily after the fourth or fifth failure, and Andy knows it won't take many more before the tie will be balled up in frustration and hurled across the room. His temper hasn't made many appearances as of late – he's pretty unflappable these days, deep breaths and silent counts to ten even when they argue and she knowingly pushes his buttons to try and force open the floodgates – but she's all too familiar with the trajectory. Throwing things is the beginning. Then walls get punched; stuff gets broken. (Never anything all that valuable or rare, since he manages to keep some semblance of composure even when he's losing his shit, but she is on her third alarm clock since moving into the condo.)

The disappearance is the grand finale. Doors slam, the engine revs too hard, the brakes squeal as the truck peels away. He's only gotten to that point a handful of times since the start of their relationship, and she has no idea where he goes. (She can't imagine that there would ever be a good time to ask.) He probably has no particular destination in mind; in fact, Andy doubts he stops driving most of the time. After an hour or two has elapsed, though, he returns with an apology and a willingness to talk – also a new alarm clock, once.

She knows he probably needs the breakdown more today than he ever has. She also knows, crappy an excuse as it may be, they just don't have the time – and maybe she's also the tiniest bit afraid he won't come back. So before he can take another crack at the apparently insurmountable task before him, she quickly keys 'how to tie a tie' into Google and selects 'I'm feeling lucky.' (Because if anything's worth a laugh right now…) She scans the step-by-step guide as she crosses the room in stocking feet, her hands slipping below his to grasp the stiff material. He doesn't resist as she adjusts the length around his neck, wraps and tucks and tightens with frequent glances back to the browser of her phone to confirm she's doing it right – nor does he meet her eyes. His unbroken gaze is directed to the watch sitting on the dresser. He won't go near it or put it away, just keeps staring like it's going to leap forward and attack him at any moment. Like it's haunting him; like maybe he wants it to be.

He touches the completed knot after Andy folds down his crisp collar and steps back, but doesn't say anything. (Hasn't said more than two words all week; lets calls go to voicemail or looks at her expectantly until she picks up the phone.) Jackets and shoes on a few minutes later, she follows him outside.

They're early. Jerry's parents, a couple nearing the end of middle age, stand near the front pew talking to the minister. Several other people who appear to be acquainted with one another are seated in the first couple of rows of the chapel; Andy, recognizing no one, guesses most of them are relatives. She spies Traci on the other side of the aisle, her face resolutely stoic and her hand wrapped around that of an uncharacteristically somber Leo. She crosses the room and takes a seat beside her friend, placing a hand on her arm. Traci stiffens at the touch before allowing her eyes to dart away from the imaginary focal point on which she's been fixated. "Hey."

"I'd ask how you're holding up, but you'll probably have enough people saying stupid things to you today," Andy says, squeezing Traci's shoulder before bringing her hands to her own lap.

Traci's short mirthless laugh conveys both her agreement and the fact that she's really not holding up at all. She glances past Andy to Sam as he settles into the pew. "What she said."

He and his best friend's – sorry, late best friend's fiancée exchange a look of silent mutual understanding, that this sucks well beyond comprehension and talking about it is the only thing that could possibly make it suck more. Neither the look nor its meaning is lost on Andy, who's spent the last six days in a perpetual state of guilt for not being there fully for either of them. She wishes she could split herself down the middle, give a half to each one; it probably wouldn't be any worse than half the attention from one of her.

The room gradually fills (at least halfway with dress blues, from those who could stomach donning the uniform today), and the minister approaches the lectern. His sermon sounds to Andy like it's being delivered by an adult character from Peanuts, all unintelligible wah-wah-wuh. Jerry wasn't much of a church-goer; she highly doubts the guy ever even met him. It's a little better when Frank gets up to speak, talks about the great detective and even better friend they've lost. Oliver's shakily delivered anecdotes about academy pranks and poker games actually get Traci to crack a tiny smile; Andy doesn't turn to look at Sam, but feels his hand come to rest along her knee after the tale of Jerry losing a bet and winding up dressed in a powder-blue tuxedo and top hat one New Year's Eve at the Penny. It's a much-needed lighter moment, one she knows won't endure beyond Oliver's last word.

After the image of the casket being lowered into the ground has tattooed itself onto Andy's retinas, they drive to the Barbers' house just outside the city. Platters of food cover nearly every horizontal surface, and Andy recognizes the muffin basket she'd ordered after a surreptitious phone call to Claire. (It's not like she has much experience with this kind of thing; really not like she has a lot of people to ask. Might as well take advantage of the whole 'having a mother' thing for as long as it lasts.) As she and Sam make their way over to the older couple, her feet suddenly grow heavy, like somebody's embedded her sensible black pumps in blocks of cement, and she has to force herself to continue. (She wonders momentarily if his feet are doing the same thing.)

They express their condolences, and it's the most she's heard Sam speak since that night at the hospital. She watches as Jerry's father grasps his hand in a firm shake and the mother presses a papery kiss against Sam's cheek; the curve of his jaw flattens just a little, a subtle warning sign that all hell very well might break loose if this goes on much longer. After she assures the Barbers that yes, they'll get something to eat, she gives the open floor plan a quick once-over. Spots Traci sitting at the kitchen counter with Jerry's younger brother Peter and a photo album, grinning genuinely as Peter points to images and animatedly tells stories. (She saw Dex pick up Leo in the funeral home parking lot; probably just as well, because if she's feeling like this, she can't imagine how an eight-year-old could reasonably be expected to cope.) The rest of their friends are on the far end of the living room, disposable cocktail plates in hand. Sam hands her a plate from the stack and takes one for himself; Andy holds back a relieved sigh as he fills the laminated paper surface with finger foods. (Eating – that's another thing he hasn't been doing much as of late.) They cross the room and stand with the group, all awkward conversation and tight smiles. Andy wonders if screaming at the top of her lungs would shatter the stilted formality in which they all seem to be trapped. She has at least one idea of what might, but Jerry's parents are long-time teetotalers; at the moment, it's hard to tell if that's a fortunate thing or not.

She collects empty plates, heads back to the kitchen to toss them in the trash. Spying a large coffee urn in the corner, she fills two paper cups, stirring creamer into one, before returning. Sam accepts the black coffee she holds out to him, his fingers brushing over hers and their eyes meeting in a wordless audit. He's not too bad right now, she determines; they should probably head out in another twenty minutes or so to ensure it stays that way. They nurse the hot drinks until both cups have been drained, then begin their goodbyes. Andy slips away to check on Traci, who assures her that she's fine here; Peter and his wife will drive her home later on. Sam's hand comes to rest on the small of her back as they move across the driveway toward the truck, and for a moment she gets to pretend things are as copacetic as she can ever hope they'll be.

The drive back to Sam's place (hers is no longer a crime scene, but no way in hell is she sleeping there until the super installs a couple more deadbolts) is nearly half an hour. She's grown accustomed to silence this week – who knows, maybe her allergy is seasonal – but she's pretty much always had to read between the lines with him. The slight hunch of his shoulders is a dead giveaway that something is trying to find its way out; the rapidly bouncing left knee tells her that whatever it is, it's winning the fight. She suspects that when he surrenders, he'll try to maintain control in any minute way he can, and tries to prepare herself for a supernova that doesn't manifest itself in words.

So when he shuts the front door of the house behind them and almost immediately backs her into the wall, mouth covering hers with a desperate ferocity, she isn't surprised. (Wryly thinks déjà vu all over again as she strives to keep up with him, the darkness and stifling heat of a long-ago night flooding her memories; maybe wonders a little how two people as different as they are can seek comfort in the same circumspect way.) She just follows his lead, keeps one arm around his neck as she reaches down with the other hand to pull off her shoes. They somehow manage to stumble upstairs without losing their frantic connection.

He's always been pretty attentive, after. Likes to play with her hair, rub her back, that sort of thing. But this – he's never done this before. Never anchored her to his chest this tightly with rigid arms; never trapped her legs underneath one of his to feel as much of her skin as possible; never tipped her forehead back with his own to maintain eye contact. (She imagines the angle can't be all that attractive.) It's like he doesn't know how to begin an apology, one that she knows isn't warranted – or that he fears she'll bolt if he gives her a couple of inches to breathe.

She wants to tell him that it was fine, that she's fine; it's not like they go for slow and gentle most of the time anyway (even without counting that thing they tried a couple weeks ago, which… point is, they can't claim to have ever been lights-off, under-the-covers vanilla people). It was just kind of a lot, is all, and if he doesn't know by now that she can handle a lot…

She's not saying a word, though, until she knows he's ready to hear it. Her eyes burn into his, willing him to make the first move.

He clears his throat, to her relief. "You all right?"

She gazes at him steadily. "Are you?"

"I asked you first." He's trying to smirk, so clearly longing to just fall into their usual pattern of effortless banter and neat sidestepping of complications that it makes her want to cry and shake him simultaneously.

She nods, wrangling a hand out from where it's sandwiched between their bodies to cup his face. "Yes."

"You'd…" He pauses. "You'd tell me if you weren't." It's not a question.

"You know I would." Your turn, she adds silently.

He rolls onto his back, eyes on the ceiling; takes her with him so that she's lying on his chest, but loosens his grip enough for her lungs to express gratitude. It takes a few minutes before the vibrations of his voice rumble through her skin.

"First day of academy, I asked to borrow a pen. He opened his briefcase – still can't believe he had that thing – and there were maybe twenty or thirty pens all lined up by color. Pretty much figured it out then that he wouldn't be working a beat a second longer than he had to."

She shuffles up, perches her chin on his shoulder. "Was that true, what Oliver said today about him being chased by a perp his first week on the job?"

"Yep." Sam lets out a quick breath through pursed lips. "It was a seventeen-year-old purse snatcher – skinny little girl he probably could've picked up and held over his head with one hand. At least that's what his training officer said later. Apparently, she let out some kind of yell and started coming at him at full speed. And he just…"

"Ran away?" Andy supplies, unable to suppress a grin.

Sam nods. "Thing is, we all knew from the beginning that his instincts were better than any of ours. If he was the first one on a scene, he'd look around and pick up on stuff faster than a lot of the senior officers. It's why they fast-tracked him to detective. Well, that and the fact that he made Epstein as a rookie look intimidating." He smiles.

Andy doesn't. "His instincts were always that good?"

Sam cranes his neck to look at her. "I mean, he had an off day every once in a while, but… yeah, they were."

"Did you think he was right?" she asks quietly. "About the driver."

His forehead wrinkles. "I went with you."

"I know you did. I'm asking if you thought he had the right idea, if…" She really doesn't want to continue, but she can't not know. "If you went with me because you believed what I was saying, or because you didn't want to leave me alone after what happened."

He doesn't respond for a minute. "Look, it could've been either one of those guys. I should've made him take someone else with him…"

"That's not an answer, Sam." Andy extricates her limbs from his, hoists herself up to sit against the headboard.

Resting his hands in his hair, he shakes his head slightly. "I don't know, Andy. I really don't know."

Chills race down her spine. Is Jerry dead because I guessed wrong? She nods into her pulled-up knees. "Yeah." She swings her legs around and gets out of bed, padding to the dresser and opening the top left drawer. (Sam got sick of all her stuff being strewn around a couple months back; when she came over one day and none of it was visible, her mind started reeling with irrational notions that this was seriously how he wanted to end things? until he told her to cool it with the overthinking and check the drawer, where she found her things neatly folded and stored.) She grabs jeans and a tank top, completing the simple outfit with the black zip-up hoodie that's technically but no longer really Sam's. "Traci should be home by now. I'm going to make sure she's okay," she says as evenly as she can manage while reaching for her sneakers.

He sits up, nods. She sees a million questions fly across the tip of his tongue before one eventually emerges. "Will you be back tonight?"

Yes, of course I will, part of her wants to reassure him. I got your best friend killed; why would you even want me here? its rival taunts. "I don't know, Sam," she finally says, the future plunging into uncertainty as she echoes his words. "I really don't know."