Author's Note: So... When did these two hooligans become brothers who heckle, eat Dim Sum, and crash on each other's couches? This is the story of two cops, one friendship, and where it all began. It's possible that Ollie has more hair, Sam has more swagger, and both are in desperate need of a reality check. They didn't start off as the veterans they are today :)

Okay, confession: I really just love Oliver a lot, and I'd like to update during the regular season without rerouting canon. Besides, it's fun to paint Fifteen's finest with considerably less finesse.

Rated T for language. And very quickly, because it needs to be said: Hot DAMN. How about that new Global promo?

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.

PROLOGUE

[October 1995.]

The mirrored glass of the bathroom was filthy, a veritable graveyard of dirt and grime. It was one of many hallmarks of disrepair in this dive, dented bartops and peeling red paint like property stamps. The bathroom was as low-lit as the adjacent bar, its dark wood paneling casting shadows on the floor and ceiling.

He inhaled, and the cloying, sickly-sweet odor of Lysol filled his nostrils. The work of an apathetic employee, no doubt, looking to finish the job quickly, but the smell proved a welcome distraction. It kept the greater stench at bay, subdued the traces of stale sweat and body odor. Acknowledging the small victory, he leaned against the sink and stared at his reflection.

The face was familiar, having greeted him every morning for twenty-one years.

The hair? That was a different story.

His hand moved of its own volition, touching the crown and sides of his shorn head. With a quiet exhale, he bared his teeth, rubbing the little hair that remained forlornly. The texture felt foreign beneath his fingertips. She had left a little on top, but not much.

[flashback]

Pushing him into a kitchen chair, she draped a towel around his shoulders and manhandled his jaw until he yelped. She was unsympathetic, explaining that his head needed to be in the right position – She didn't want to 'accidentally' nick a nerve. The scissors, once retrieved, were summarily thrust in his hands. Comb caught between her teeth, she examined him with all the seriousness her twenty-four years could afford.

After a long moment she smirked, ordering him to "hold still." He heard the dull buzzing of the razor, and as she tilted his head toward the sink, he closed his eyes.

"Gotta be clean-cut for the Academy, Sammy," she said as her hand ruffled the hair at his nape. "They're not gonna take you if you look like some punk version of a Tiger Beat cover, curtained hair and shitty rock t-shirts. You're already wet behind the ears, alright? Don't be a baby about this."

With a loud snap of her gum, she brought the blade to his head.

[end]

Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he released a breath. He could practically hear Sarah, proud and mocking in the same moment, that falsely cheerful tone she used because she knew it got under his skin.

Serve, protect, and don't be a baby, little brother.

He wasn't being a baby. He'd never cared about his hair – much. It was new, that's all. Different. Possibly he would need some time to grow into it.

With a grimace at the mirror, he turned the tap on. The faucet groaned in protest, blending with the soft strains of Tom Cochrane that filtered in from the bar. If he could be bothered to believe in signs, he might actually think someone was 'wishing him well.' As it stood, he was on his own, drinking to his last night of...something.

The paper towel dispenser was empty, and when he noticed, a quiet curse slipped from his lips. Wiping wet hands on his jeans, he kicked the bathroom door open. A brief glance at his watch confirmed that it was still early, time enough for one more, so his decision was made.

Running a hand through hair that wasn't there, he started for the bar.

He was halfway through his Molson when a ruckus in the corner stole his attention.

He would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed her earlier, long brown hair and dark bangs swept behind a thick headband. Straight from the college district, he surmised, as his eyes roamed her form. She was tall and slim, but she had legs for days, wrapped in tight white jeans and pristine Keds. She and her friend were hanging out by the jukebox, laughing and tossing the occasional dart as they split a pitcher of beer.

He acknowledged the challenge but reasoned that now wasn't the time to be looking for female companionship – however good-looking that companionship might be. He had to report to Scarborough the day after tomorrow, primed and prepped for nearly 20 weeks of training.

There would be other nights. Other girls.

Besides, he noted briefly, Little too preppy for my taste.

The guy across the bar had other ideas, apparently. He'd been leering for the better part of a half-hour, finally moving to stand behind the brunette. Without invitation, his hands moved around the high pub table, bracketing her body as he bent to whisper something in her ear.

From his vantage point, Sam could see the girl's shoulders stiffen. If there were any doubt as to her reply, the ambiguity was quashed when her voice carried across the bar. She didn't mince words.

"I'm not interested."

It was delivered with a forceful tone and a chilly, tight-lipped smile.

The man (in a blazer, really?) was not deterred; Sam could hear his faint, persistent murmuring. When she pushed out of his grasp and began to move away, his right hand yanked her waist, pulling her back. She collided with his chest, eyes flashing angrily.

"Hey," she said sharply, "Get your hands off me, asshole."

His brain processed several things at once, and his response was instinctual. His fingers fisted at his side, and for a brief second, he entertained the idea of breaking the guy's jaw.

Live and let live – that had always been his policy – as long as both parties were willing. He'd be an idiot to think he could police every bar, every club, picking off thugs and vultures, but this… This was blatant provocation. Everyone in a kilometer's radius heard her "No," and the guy was still pushing. It didn't sit well with him.

At all.

Eyes narrowed, he set down his drink and pushed up the sleeves, half-rising from his stool. So much for a leisurely night, he thought with a mirthless chuckle, prepared to interrupt their exchange.

Turned out, the scene ended as quickly as it had begun.

The girl pivoted, and her next move was so quick that Sam almost missed it. Circling the guy's wrist, she threw her weight and caught him off balance, twisting his arm viciously behind his back.

"Hands off, bucko. Got it?" she hissed through clenched teeth. As the man cried out in pain, she shoved him away.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered under his breath, slinking off. "Crazy bitch."

Sam gaped for several moments, eyes trained steadily on the girl. Making an abrupt decision, he reached for his beer and slid off his stool. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, only that he felt compelled to say something.

The girl was talking furiously with her friend as he approached. She had raised the hem of her shirt several inches, examining her skin for bruises and murmuring about the 'pigs' that inhabited bars. Her face, which moments before had been flushed with rage, was slowly returning to its normal color. He thought he heard a name - Melissa, maybe? - as the brunette urged her friend to finish her drink. It was clear she wanted to leave.

"Hey," he greeted, voice low and cautious, as he paused in front of them.

The girl's head snapped up, hand moving to straighten her shirt. Her delicate nose lifted in the air, lined eyes sliding over his form. She took in the cuff on his wrist with a frown, eyes lingering on the hole in his ear. Observant, Sam noted silently. Opinion, quickly formed.

"That was, uh, a nice move back there," he began conversationally.

"As smooth as this move, I'm sure," she replied dryly, turning back to her friend and not sparing him a second glance. "If you're thinking with the same head that dickweed was, you can take your business elsewhere."

Torn between annoyance and amusement, he raised his hands in deference, backing away. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay, lady."

Her friend elbowed her in the side, making silent, exaggerated commentary with her eyebrows. "Rude," she whispered. "He was just being nice."

Sam smiled, flashing white teeth at the petite, blonde friend. The brunette seemed unharmed – if her sharp tongue could be considered confirmation – but he knew a dead end when he saw one, so he simply nodded at the two girls. As he turned on his heel, intent on returning to his vacated stool, he witnessed the blonde gesturing wildly, urging her friend to say something.

"I'm fine." The brunette's voice carried after him, forced politeness in her tone. She smiled tightly, exhaling with a bored sigh. "Thanks."

The blonde flipped her hair behind her shoulder, shooting the brunette an incredulous, disapproving look. "Yeah, thanks for checking on us," she interrupted eagerly, keen to recover the reins from her friend. She played with an earring, watching Sam out of the corner of her eye. "What's, um... What's your story?"

It was her flirtatious tone that caused the gear-shift in his head. The blonde was interested, and if he was being honest, his interest was marginally piqued. She was cute, all bright lips and a wide smile. Maybe tonight...

Well, maybe nothing yet.

He wasn't looking for someone tonight, but if the opportunity arose, who was he to shoot it down? Especially if that someone was blonde. It's not like he was leaving for Academy tomorrow morning.

Swallowing, he redirected his attention, smile curling his lips.

"No story. Headed to the Academy in a few days," he said easily. Setting his drink on the high pub table, he leaned in and lowered his voice conspicuously. "Serve. Protect. Keep pretty ladies in Toronto's bars safe, you know."

The blonde giggled, sliding half a meter closer. "So, like. You're almost a cop? You remind me of...Wait, what was that one show with Johnny Depp?"

The brunette snorted into her drink, raising her eyes as she stared at him dubiously. His words were making an impression, just not the kind he had intended. "By my watch, you were about thirty seconds too late, copper. And no offense, but you seem a little young to be policing the streets."

He ignored the obvious jab. "I'm, uh, more experienced than you might think." His eyes flickered back to the blonde, who was smiling coyly.

A scornful laugh from the brunette disrupted his gameplay.

"Does that line actually work on girls?" she asked, her nose wrinkling in disdain. "It's pretty bad. Like. Bad."

He shrugged, spinning on his heel to address the girl, more amused than perturbed. "Usually works. Not tonight, I guess."

"No, not tonight," the brunette agreed, clearly suppressing another laugh. "We've already hit our quota of hotshot males with something to prove."

"Too bad," Sam replied, eyes swiveling toward the blonde. He offered another smile, locking his gaze with hers. "I was, uh. Hoping I could buy you a drink. Make amends for my gender's poor behavior."

"Yeah, I don't think so," the brunette said, grabbing her friend's arm. Shaking her head infinitesimally, she looked pointedly at the exit. "Riveting as the conversation has been, we need to take off."

"Good night," she continued, pushing past him. "Marissa, c'mon."

"Okay," Sam said, drumming his knuckles on the bar and raising his beer in silent salute. "Maybe some other time. Good night, Marissa. And Marissa's friend. Good luck at the hospital."

Smile on his lips, he watched the brunette freeze at his words. She spun on her heel slowly, face guarded, and took a careful step forward.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, grey eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"You're a nurse, right?" he surmised, holding her gaze. Raising his hand, he ticked off bullet points with his fingers. "We're just around the corner from General, you're wearing tennis shoes instead of heels for a night at the bar, and uh, the ink on your fingers? Probably finished your shift with a lot of paperwork, huh?"

He smiled lazily, pointing in the direction of the door, where moments before the 'pig' had disappeared. "And, uh. You have good sense about how to cause pain, if your earlier display was any indication. Seemed like a sensible guess."

"That doesn't prove anything," she maintained, tossing her head. Resting a hand on her hip, she raised one eyebrow challengingly. "Except your nosiness. And the fact that you put stock in stereotypes."

"No," he said slowly, conceding. "I guess it doesn't prove anything..."

He nodded toward the discarded glasses on the table. "But your toast to "Being done with clinicals"– Oh, 'bout an hour ago? That was a solid clue."

She was silent for a long moment, eyes assessing as she tapped her foot. He gazed back steadily as she performed her nonverbal inquest.

"Huh. Maybe you will make halfway decent police," she said finally, pursing her lips. "You're not as dumb as you look."

"Funny," he deadpanned, taking a long pull of his beer and letting his eyes linger on her headband. "You're exactly as prissy as you look."

He was baiting her, expecting anger or indignation, some reflexive reaction of young, entitled female. Instead she smiled, vague amusement written on her face.

"Exactly," she confirmed, lips curling upward. "Deters most of the losers, and the other ones I take care of…" She let the sentence hang, miming a sharp jerk of the wrist.

His swiped his tongue across the back of his teeth. Her response was unexpected, and if he was being honest...

"Swarek," he said at long last, sticking out his hand. "Sam Swarek. And you are?"

The corners of her mouth twitched, lips pressing together as she took the proffered hand. "I'm fresh out of 007 routines, that's what I am. Let's stick with Zoe. Just Zoe. Good night."

Worth continuing through the summer season? It's different, I know. Let me know what you think!