CHAPTER 1: When the Night Comes
Summary: "When the night comes, and you lay your weary head to rest... No more trials, no tests..."
After S2:E13 "God's Good Grace." Angst/Comfort/Romance; rated T.
A. McNally and S. Swarek. Title taken from Dan Auerbach's "When the Night Comes," which is an excellent, gentle song. It make sense that nothing much would happen that first night. The amount of emotional upheaval, physical exertion and abuse, etc., would preclude any especially... happy reunions of our beloved couple. This is what I envision instead.
Disclaimer: I do not own "When the Night Comes" or Rookie Blue.
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The world is muted around her, the uproar of alert and rescue finally done. Now it's simply the whisper of tires through snow, Sam living, quietly breathing beside her, and the thrum of her own overwhelmed heart. The night sky is a gentle, ink-dark dome over them, pricked with flurries and stars, a life-sized snow globe. It is amazing, all of it, a miracle living in silence. Stunned, Andy's mind offers only blind, unspecific thanks to the gods, to fate... To the Universe and its Plan.
Sam's face is mottled with bruises and blood, intermittently visible by street lamp, his posture stiff with unspoken aches and pains. Concerned questions back up in her throat: Should he be at the hospital? How bad is his hand? Is there anything I should watch for? Sneaking glances doesn't suffice; Andy wants to strip him to the skin, look with her own two eyes, trace that lithe body with her own hands - only that will satisfy her of his wholeness. "Sam..."
"I wanna go home." He lets the truck glide to a stop and flicks on the hazards before twisting toward her with a slight grimace. "I want my own bed," he sighs, reaching out with his good hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I want a hot shower, clean shorts, a meal to tide me over til morning..." Sam's hand is warm on her neck, tugging her closer. "And I want to lie down next you and not worry about it," he whispers against her lips.
He's close enough that moistening her lips moistens his; someone shifts then Sam is there, warm and solid against her mouth. It's new all over again, soft. They linger over the details: lip to lip, tongues tentative… Andy nudges in closer, nosing him as he's done her, breaking their connection, and nods. "OK."
Ten minutes later, Andy is kneeling over Sam's boots, unlacing so he can toe his way out of them then standing to kick off her own. His house is dark, a little musty with disuse. The timed lights are off, simulating inhabitants at rest for the evening so Sam makes his way to the second floor by memory. Andy just holds on, walks where he walks, quiet because he is quiet.
Sam lights the first lamp in his bedroom, turning to give Andy a direct view of his face. She doesn't flinch, holds herself brutally in check to catalogue the imprints of knuckles, the slice held together by thin, black stitches on his cheekbone. A contusion identified by encrusted blood at his hairline. And that is just his face. "It hurts like hell to lift my arms," he states, matter-of-factly.
The jacket is simple enough, the silky nylon lining easing the garment's way down Sam's arms. Tossing their jackets blindly into the corner behind her, Andy examines the puzzle of his shirt. "Don't over-think it, McNally," his usual cocky grin dimmed just a little. "Cut it off me."
Locating the scissors with his direction, Andy slices the fitted cotton, making quick work of stripping Sam of the remnants. He leans against her while she tugs away each leg of his jeans, until he stands before her only in his jockey shorts and injuries.
The dominant color is the sickly purple of storm clouds, green around the edges. This time Andy's self-control slips, and tears stand on her lashes. Reaching out, she stops herself just short of touching the worst of them until Sam pulls her gingerly into a hug. "I get the feeling if it hadn't been for you, it'd be a helluva lot worse," he murmurs into her hair.
"It's bad enough," she shoots back, voice muffled in his neck.
"But we're still standin'."
Andy breathes in his scent, eyes closed. "Still standing."
