A/N: Easing back into things with a two or three-parter... Let me know how I do!
(It's like that first practice of the season, when your body isn't quite up to speed... What's the written equivalent of running a suicide, guys? I should probably do that.)
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue. (Unrelated, what I wouldn't DO for a calendar timeline on this show... I never have any idea what month it is.)
Forehead pressed against cool glass, she taps a steady beat on the peeling rubber of the window sealant. The wind whistles quietly through a depression in the pane, a low whoosh of air when the bus decelerates. From her perch, she watches the road, eyes sweeping over the rolling stretch of pavement.
She feels Nick next to her, the hot press of his thigh against her leg. They're squished on a bench seat that fits one comfortably; warmth bleeding through denim jeans and his fingers laced through hers. He squeezes her hand once, the barest pressure of his thumb. It's a simple, silent reassurance.
(I'll never let go, Jack, he had said this morning, cracking a smile in their rundown cover apartment. They had locked the door for the last time, slipped into the dark hallway a half-hour before the sun rose.)
His grip is familiar, white-knuckled and tight.
She squeezes back.
The bus rumbles to a stop and she raises her hand in gratitude, acknowledging the driver. Her breath billows before her, white fog in the cold air. The bus is her last lifeline to Olivia Lord, and as she steps off the step, realization hits her. This feeling that time has begun again, a quiet tick-tock that heralds something deeper…
A shiver courses through her body, and she adjusts the buttons of her frayed, wool coat.
Nick keeps his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. His voice is light when he breaks the silence, a teasing murmur undercut by his sober posture.
"Home again, home again, jiggity jig."
They linger outside the bus bay, stamping their feet against the bitter wind. A driver picks them up outside Fifteen's radius; brings them to the Barn in an unmarked car.
She and Nick are separated at the door. He releases her with a faint elbow squeeze; instructs her to get a good night's sleep. Promises donuts and whisky (in that order) on Thursday, then waltzes off doing his best Gary Portnoy.
"Sometimes you wanna go, where everybody knows your name..."
(He's spent the last week making every attempt to coax a smile from her. It's a valiant effort, a final stand before they both come face-to-face with TPS and all they left behind.)
She braces her shoulders and heads to Interview Two.
Three hours of debrief later, her eyes follow Luke as he closes his notebook. Without conscious thought, she stretches her fingertips toward the cover, tracing the black lettering of his name. His penmanship is rigid, an upright scrawl that is equal parts haunting and familiar, and she feels a minute pang in the corner of her heart.
(Notes on the fridge and a tacky birthday card that sang; say what you will, but they were happy, once upon a time.)
She watches him grip the pen and release it; her gaze drawn to his bare left hand. She thinks about them, a million years ago and then some. Wonders, briefly, how it would have worked in an alternate universe.
He sees something in her eyes, probably, and nods toward the door. "Come in Tuesday, and we'll have your statement ready, Officer McNally."
He hesitates at the door, a nearly imperceptible stutter to his stride. His voice is softer when he speaks again.
"You did well, Andy. You should be proud."
She nods once in acknowledgment, not trusting her voice.
Luke turns on his heel and exits.
It's Dov who meets her outside Fifteen, civilian clothes and a hug that, with its ferocity and warmth, threatens to burst her carefully-constructed dam.
She holds on an extra moment, tucking her face into his corduroy jacket and exhaling slowly.
(Everything the same, and yet so different...)
She's tired, that's all.
The hallway is dark when she lets herself in; key groaning in the lock from the winter swell and disuse. She sweeps a hand across the familiar planes of the kitchen counter, through the light accumulation of dust, before she shuffles to her bedroom.
It's over, she thinks silently, sliding under the cool sheets. The 180-thread, microfiber count is a premium compared to her bedding in recent weeks.
Her phone beeps and she flips it open, stifling a laugh. Her fingers tap a quick response to Nick's text about her long day's journey into night.
(He read a lot in Afghanistan, she was surprised to learn. Dramas, mostly, settings he could assign that extended beyond arid terrain. He likes O'Neill and Wilson; family dynamics and cultural divides. Hopelessness and the plight of the Irish, he had jokingly explained one afternoon. Sound about right, McNally?)
She wants to ask if the icewoman cometh, but if his day has been anything like hers, he could use a reprieve from teasing. She settles for a warm good night; urges him to come over for beers and bad reality TV on the weekend.
Reunion special, he responds, adding two exclamation points; then, Also, you'd totally be my partner for Road Rules.
She feels the corner of her mouth twitch, oddly relieved that despite this transition, the break-up buddy system lives on.
(Burrowing under her fleece throw, she tries not to think about the one face that's been glaringly absent today.)
Her leave is mandated, a full week from work and a psychological evaluation, progressive steps to prove she has moved on from her UC life.
(She's moved on from a lot more than that.)
Traci barrels through her door on day two; a late-afternoon shift and Leo over the hump of third-grade influenza. She greets Andy with flailing arms, a tight hug, and water cooler gossip, and it's almost as if no time has passed.
(Almost. Andy catches a brief, sad spark in her eye, an ever-present reminder of Fifteen's tragedy. A reminder that when Andy fled, she left more than just one person behind.)
Traci studies her with a calculated, maternal eye, deems her overtired and underfed, and insists on ordering food before she leaves. Greens, Andy. For god's sake, would it kill you to work some K-vitamins into your diet?
(It's well-intentioned and the slightest bit nagging, and Andy welcomes it with a sort of wistfulness from her teenage years.)
"Missed you," she says quietly, squeezing Traci's shoulders. "God, I missed you so much, Trace."
"Don't ever do that again," Traci replies with a laugh, mouth wide and affectionate. Her command is punctuated by a less forceful addendum: "You know what you need to do now, right?"
Andy plays cool like Frank at the Sands. Traci, to her credit, doesn't buy it.
"And wear those jeans when you do it," Traci calls over her shoulder as she exits, stern glare softening to an impish smirk. She flashes her teeth in Andy's direction. "Your ass looks killer. Seriously."
She eases slowly back into a schedule, mornings that begin with fitness workouts and nights capped with a glass of red wine. She relishes the little things: sorting her mail, shooting hoops with Leo, making egg-white omelets on a whim.
(Sacrifice navigates both superficial and deep waters, at least where UC is concerned.)
It's why she is less than prepared for day six; why her guard slips and her game face disappears. She spends the afternoon in the park of all places - Eats a hot dog because she can, not because she's waiting on a handler and attempting to blend.
(It's a no-strings, no-op hot dog, and for the record, it tastes pretty damn good.)
It only takes a moment, a second when her attention is duly focused on ketchup application.
Four words.
(Four words from a time capsule, a corner of her heart that has been studiously and blatantly ignored. A thousand late nights and a hundred early mornings, squabbles over the radio and bad jokes in the cruiser, his mouth by her ear and her hands on his chest. Cheap shots in the locker room and make-ups in the parking lot, his window rolled down at the drive-thru and her giggling from the passenger side. Black coffee and brown-sugar glaze, sparring gloves and a bucket seat, the low drawl on the phone line and an imprint on a pillow...)
"Always loved the autumn."