A/N

Hey guys! So, I thought I'd try something new and write Rookie Blue for a change. I was so thoroughly stunned by the latest episode, and it inspired me to write a few things… I hope you enjoy. It's gonna be a series of a few oneshots, starting with this one, which is both Andy and Luke's POV regarding 2x07. I'll take this moment to say that I am quite thoroughly Team Swarek 98% of the time, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Hope you enjoy!

-Iri

(shoutout to any of my friends from over at the Hunger Games fandom!

Song: Sick of Dreaming- Alexander Cardinale

Cause I've been dreaming, kicking, screaming,

Hopeless and alone

Am I breathing

No more feeling

Weightless and alone

People make mistakes, they fuck up, and every time, it's like a white-hot knife to the heart. And it hurts, oh, God, how it hurts. And little pieces of the heart fracture and fragment and the fault lines remain firmly etched, a forever kind of memory, permanent. Changing everything. But even with the scars, even with the pain and the broken trust and the hurt, in the end, it's the bonds that matter, the bonds between people, between lovers and friends. Human closeness, the knowledge that someone else out there knows, understands, feels, and cares. The feeling of another set of arms, holding tightly on. Another pair of eyes, also streaming tears. There is no substitute for it, no stopping it. No matter the mistake, human closeness remains.

This, she knew.

His ragged breath, the way his normally steady hands shook, violently, his wild eyes roving over her face, the way his whispers of "you're okay," and "look at me," seemed intended to reassure himself just as much as her. The scent of Liam's trademark bourbon still faint on his breath as he cradled her head in his hands, mixing with the mint of his toothpaste, alternately chilling and warming her as it blew across her face. In that moment, she neither remembered nor cared what he'd done. He'd saved her. Luke had saved her. In the back of her brain, a tiny voice whispered that she'd regret this later, when she was alone and reason returned, but in that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. All that mattered were his hands, still clinging to her like he'd never let go.

He stayed by her side as backup arrived, lights on and sirens squealing. He ripped her free, helped her to her feet, rubbed the circulation back into her wrists. Constantly touching her, stroking her hair, squeezing her hands so tightly in his that she was sure she'd never feel them again. He stayed with her, until he knew for sure that she was going to be okay.

The EMTs gave her the go-ahead to shower and head home, and he let her go without another word, without a protest. She needed the space, he knew. She'd said she wasn't going to be "that girl," and he knew he owed her that much. The biggest mistake he'd ever made, and look what it had almost cost him. Look what he'd so very nearly lost.

So he walked away, got in his car, drove back to the barn. There was one more thing to do. As he sat through the interrogation, he barely listened, let Jo take the lead. Let her figure out what to do with the sick, fucked-up bastard. He was here for the names, and then he was done. It was over, the long night was over, and the victory had been won. It wasn't the euphoric moment he'd so long imagined, and it wasn't the heady thrill of vengeance, as he'd also dared to dream of. Zoe's killer was caught. The quiet victory settled in his chest, solid and comforting. It was finally over, and he was done. So he stared back at Nixon the entire time, calm. Clinical. Detached. He could move on now. It was over. It was over.

"I've made a lot of mistakes, but this is by far the worst. I want her back, and I want you gone."

Nothing is the same now…

Nothing is the same now.