If you're anything like me, you're anxiously awaiting the season finale and dreading the rumored 'cliffhanger'. To alleviate some of the McSwarek angst, I decided to write a fic! This is basically how I want the season to end (and possibly beyond), but knowing the writers I'm sure it will end up with less butterflies and rainbows. I'm planning to write in what happens in the next two episodes, and then maybe more post-finale. Set immediately after 3x10.

Disclaimer: I do not own Rookie Blue.

Chapter 1

Tick.

He thrashed side to side, trying to find a comfortable position. He took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. One deep breath. Another. He could hear himself breathing. He tried to slow down his breaths, but he couldn't block out the sound of each one. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Again and again. Staring at the ceiling, he counted sheep. He tried to envision them jumping over a fence. He let out a groan, feeling exhausted and stupid. Exhausted, yet sleep would not come. It was like trying to sleep with the lights on. He rolled over. Flipped his pillow over. Took his socks off. He tried to completely clear his mind, to allow his thoughts to melt away from the bustling canvas in his brain. The canvas was blank for a split-second, until dark, wavy brown hair appeared. A red plaid shirt. Jeans. That watch she never took off. His keys flying towards him. The stoic look on her face. The drive and purpose in her stride, skillfully masking the hurt and the sadness. The soft glow of his alarm clock stared up at him. 3:14 a.m.

Tock.

He flipped his pillow over for the third time, staring at the ceiling. He blinked hard, rubbing his hand along his jaw. He turned towards the window, his back to the door of the bathroom. He heard the shower water turn off. He shut his eyes hard, willing his brain to turn off. To give him a break.

"Show me your hands." Nothing.

"Drop your weapon, now!" Still nothing. He could hear Andy's nervous breathing beside him, her weapon drawn parallel to his.

"Raise your weapon another inch…' he started…

BANG, BANG! He fired. The man dropped to the ground. Andy knelt beside him, fingers pressed deep into his carotid artery. Sam stood above her, motionless, staring as the blood engulfed the pale concrete behind the suspect's chest. It would never be cleaned. He'd walked past former crime scenes on his day off before. In front of the grocery store, on 166th street, next to the bank downtown. The faded brown spots on the sidewalk had always haunted him. People walked over them, pushed strollers past them, stood waiting for busses on them; completely oblivious to the lives that had been lost, the lives that had been ruined and wrought by guilt in that very spot. He couldn't look at them.

"Sam" she questioned, staring up at him. She shook her head, he put his weapon away. He was gone.

"Sam…"

"Sam!"

"Wh-!" he rolled over, startled.

"Sorry." he gulped, snapping out of his flashback of that morning. He shook his head vigorously, blinking to shake the drowsiness from his eyes. He noticed that she was wrapped in one of his towels, having just gotten out of the shower. He wondered how long she'd been calling him.

"Glad you found… everything." He gestured awkwardly to the towel.

"Sam, I've… been over before." She stated blankly, waiting for him to snap out of his trance.

"Right. I mean, I don't know." He paused, rolling to his back and staring at the ceiling. "What a day" he yawned, shutting his eyes. She turned away from him and dropped her towel, pulling one of his Academy shirts from his dresser and over her head. Most nights she slept over, her changing into his clothes was a sight he shamelessly feasted his eyes on. She turned around to see him wide-awake, still staring at the ceiling.

"He was going to shoot." She consoled him futilely.

"Yeah… I know." He responded, unconvinced at his own words.

"He had nothing to lose. No family, no friends, nothing. He knew it was him, we knew it was him; it was only a matter of time. Suicide by cop, Sam."

"Doesn't make it any easier," he snapped.

"I know," she sighed, understanding what he was feeling. "I know."

She turned his bedside lamp off, the room now illuminated only by his alarm clock. Crawling under the sheets next to him, she noticed his fists, clenched tightly together on his chest. She nestled in next to him, uncurling his fist and gently tugging at his arm. He rolled onto his side, chest flush against her back. He entwined their legs, wanting to take in every inch of her soft, warm skin. She took his newly unclenched hand and held it tightly against her chest, entwining his hand with both of hers. His arms served as a protective cage around her. Her barrier from the rest of the world. Inside them, she was safe. Inside them, she was beautiful. Inside them, she could do anything.

He felt her heart beating against his chest. His rough, muscular body enveloped her soft, small figure. He smelled the shampoo in her hair. He could feel the goosebumps on his arm every time she gently exhaled against his skin. With her in his arms, the whole world was clear. He knew what was important. He'd taken a life that day, to protect this one. He felt her warmth and he knew that she was still there. That she'd always be there. With her in his arms, anything was possible. Even sleep.

So sleep he did.

Tick.

He looked in the mirror. He looked like hell. He rubbed his hands through his hair, trying to flatten it against his head. Nothing. He bent over, splashing cold water over his face. Nothing. He blinked hard. Maybe it was the bags under his eyes? Or maybe it was the bags under the bags under his eyes. Or maybe… Whatever. He slammed the bathroom door and stumbled towards his dresser, pulling on a black shirt and his darkest jeans. It was just that kind of day. He slammed the door to his bedroom, but his hand lingered in the doorway for just too long.

"Fuck!" He didn't usually resort to swearing, especially alone in his own house, but… It was just that kind of day. He looked down at his hand, praying the force of his anger against the door hadn't broken the skin. Grabbing a bag of frozen peas that had been in his freezer since Sarah brought her kids over, he gingerly iced his throbbing hand. Picking up the coffee pot with his good hand, he poured a full mug to go. He dropped the bag of peas while trying to focus on the mug, and the evidently insufficient clip holding the bag shut broke free.

"Shit!" He growled, noticing the coffee spilling over the top of the mug. He tossed the coffee pot in the sink, bending down to clean up the peas. Ignoring the dull ache in his palm, his phone diligently reminded him that he was late for work. He remembered when she had set that alarm on his phone, a daily warning that they were under no circumstances going to show up to parade late, together. He didn't know how to work his phone's alarm, so now it served as a daily reminder that there was no chance in hell they'd be showing up late together. He grabbed the mug, opting for black coffee this morning. It was definitely that kind of morning. He locked his door, pulling it shut behind him and climbing ungracefully into his truck. Realizing his jacket was still inside; he looked out at the unforgiving Toronto winter and rolled his eyes, disgusted at his own ineptitude. For a decade he'd lived on his own, and now after just three weeks without her he was a complete disaster.

Tock.

He awoke not to a sight, not to a sound, but to a smell. A familiar smell. A good smell. A smell that meant he was going to have a good morning. He slowly pried his eyes open, noticing the mug on his bedside table. He inhaled deeply, taking in the aroma that vaporized from the top. He slowly sat up in bed, swinging his legs over the side. Taking a deep, throat-singeing gulp from the mug, he smiled. Cream, no sugar. Perfect. Just like his barista. Hearing a familiar Hall and Oates song coming from the kitchen, he quietly opened the door, sneaking in unnoticed. He placed his mug down on the counter. She was in a sports bra and his pajama pants, dancing through the kitchen while she searched for his cereal. When she stood on her tiptoes to reach for a bowl, he placed both hand on her hips and pressed his body against hers.

"You-ooh, you make my dreams come true!" He sang shamelessly to the song in the background, dimples digging into his cheeks. She rotated in his grasp, facing him.

"Good morning…" she smiled playfully, steadying his face with her hands before pecking a kiss to his lips. He smiled back at her.

"It is." He nodded sincerely. His hands still firmly planted on her hips, she rotated again to finish making her cereal. Reaching down to grab the box from the cabinet, she playfully grinded to the music against him, a taunting look in her eye when she glanced back to see his reaction. He groaned.

"I need to take a shower," he stated, trying to ignore her temptation. One of her eyebrows shot up suggestively.

"We have half an hour…" she remarked matter-of-factly, shrugging when she looked at the clock on the wall. He gave in, wrapping an arm around her waist and smothering kisses down her neck. They stumbled clumsily towards the bathroom, his mouth never leaving her skin. Until recently, he'd hated getting up to go to work. He'd never smiled. He'd been serious, angry, bitter Sam Swarek, growling and grumbling until he'd had at least a cup of coffee. This morning, he was smiling ear to ear.

It was just that kind of morning.

Tick.

Tossing his bag into the backseat, he grumbled at the pain surging through his hand. He slammed the door to the cruiser, ignoring his previous experience with slamming doors. He glared at Epstein and Diaz who were getting into the car next to him, making a bit too much noise for his early-morning tolerance. He opened the driver's side door and sat down heavily, rolling his head around, his neck stiff after a horrible night's sleep. Putting the car in reverse, he pulled out of the station parking lot violently, taking out his anger on his break pads. As he sped away from 15, it hit him. It usually did around this time every day. He was just really, really sad. There was something missing. Someone missing. He looked at the empty passenger seat next to him, swallowing hard. Sam Swarek wasn't a super emotional guy, but something about this void made him sadder than he'd ever been in his life. Certainly not enough to cry, but the look in her eyes when they passed each other made his throat tighten. He didn't know why he did it, why he simply got in his truck that night. Why he broke his promise. Why he gave up the one thing he'd wanted more than anything. Why he was the one to do it. That was the kicker- he was the one who let her go. He made her go. The knot in his chest tightened just thinking about it.

The truth was- and he'd never admit this to anyone- he needed her. He needed to get her back.

Well, give me a shout if you have any suggestions, want me to keep going, or hate it! I have some ideas post-finale, so maybe I'll keep going with this for a while in the meantime.