A/N: This is intended as a transition between the end of 3x12 and the promos for 3x13. Hopefully we'll see a bit more interaction take place between the two of them prior to what we know is going to happen, so it's not such an abrupt straight shot from "that's not your job anymore" to "I love you" – but if not, maybe this can serve that purpose. Let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue.
Increment [in-kruh-muhnt]: small step toward gain
Sam swirls his glass, downs the rest of the whiskey in one harsh shot. Not too long ago, he cared about quality; he sprang for the good single malts more often than not, could differentiate attributes like body and smoke from one to the next. (Probably still can, but that would require him to care.) For the last six or so weeks, it's been a cheap brand, more turpentine than liquor, that belongs in a fruity mixed drink or a Dumpster. First time he ordered it, Liam looked at him blankly, forcing him to repeat the request three times before finally pouring it.
(Now it's waiting for him every night by the time he approaches the bar. Sam can't tell if not having to ask is better or worse.)
As the unpleasant burn courses through his throat, he tucks a few bills beneath the empty glass and walks toward the door. He doesn't have to glance back to know she's trying not to look at him. (She's making a point of it. Like when he was a kid and Sarah – before, well… before – used to wave her fingers millimeters from his face, I'm not touching yooou, only with Andy it's less to drive him crazy and more for her own self-preservation, probably. He gets it, but he still sort of really wishes she'd just turn around.)
The drive home is short, rote, mechanical. He pulls up next to a flashy sports car at a red light, and it occurs to him that Jerry would smack him upside the head for all of this. For choking down Rocky Brooks night after night when he knows better. For blaming himself. For letting things with Andy begin to coast downhill practically before they started. Jerry would tell him to fix it, start over and do things right this time – and Sam wants to. He does. It's just that Jerry was the cheesy romantic, the one who could pull off a grand gesture: dozens of roses, hot-air balloon rides, skywriters. (He never actually went for the last one, but he talked about it enough that if things had gone differently that day, Sam would've figured it inevitable.) Sam knows Andy finds roses cliché and uninspired (probably couldn't hurt to find out what she does like, he thinks vaguely as he turns the corner onto his street), he's not a fan of heights, and he wouldn't have the slightest idea what to do with a skywriter if he even knew where to hire one. What he's doing now, though, the I just wanted to make sure you're okay and the protracted glances from across the bar – not like that's doing the trick either. It's not outreach so much as regression, to a pre-Alpine time when their relationship was ambiguous, its direction uncertain. It was almost better back then; at least there was potential. Now? Well, now he isn't sure how to repair what's broken, or if she'll even let him try.
He shrugs off his jacket and slings it across the coffee table. (Why hanging it up is such an insurmountable obstacle these days, he couldn't verbalize – but it is.) Brushes his teeth to get the lingering caustic taste out of his mouth, which only partially works, and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge before plunking down on the couch. He's contemplating whether it's worth it to try and find something decent on TV – generally not a lot of great options after midnight – when his cell rings.
Startled by the jarring tone (it really needs to be changed to something calmer, he reminds himself for the millionth time), he flips it open without looking at the caller ID on the front, his voice emerging more gruff than surprised. "Yeah."
Silence. He's about to prompt the caller with a repeated salutation or check to see if he recognizes the number when he hears her voice. "You were sleeping." She's matter-of-fact about it, not at all apologetic or timid.
He clears his throat. "No, just wasn't expecting anyone to call." Least of all you. Not that I mind – I think.
"Gail got suspended," she continues, as if they have this sort of conversation all the time. As if they haven't been limited to perfunctory exchanges for weeks. "Everyone screwed up today and she took the fall. I guess even being a Peck doesn't make you invincible."
"Nothing does," he agrees.
She sighs. "SIU is going after her badge. It's crazy; she doesn't even know if she wants to be a cop, but now that they're threatening to take it away from her…"
"Right," he says. "Don't know what you've got until it's gone."
She doesn't respond for a minute, and doesn't acknowledge the comment when she does – but Sam knows it landed where he wanted it to. "I left the guy I arrested in booking with Chris because I had to… to help out a friend with something."
After witnessing their interaction at the Penny, he assumes she's talking about Collins. "Oh?"
"Yeah." He hears a deep breath and a creak; she's probably slouching in one of her kitchen chairs. "That's the thing about friends, you know? You look out for each other. But… I have plenty already. Not really in the market for any more."
He's surprised at how much it stings: the echo of his own voice telling her that someday we'll be able to be friends. He cringed at the platitude even then, as it surfaced through his choking haze of grief and desperation; despises it a whole lot more now, no question. He's considering asking her what she is in the market for, then, when a couple of motorcycles rumble by outside. He rolls his eyes – it's a couple guys on the next block, who ride around after their kids go to bed in an attempt to indulge their perpetual midlife crises – when he hears it again. This time, the thunderous sound comes in on split-second delay from the background of the phone call.
He gets up off the couch and walks toward the front hall. "You at home?"
"Nope," she says nonchalantly as he opens the door. Sure enough, she's sitting across the top step of his porch, back leaning against the railing and legs stretched out in front of her.
They both hang up as he stands in the doorway. "It's freezing out here."
"Not really." She tugs at the lapels of her coat. "Hundred-percent wool. Got it from a vintage store, they don't make them like this anymore."
"Hope you got it cleaned before you wore it," he can't help saying with a smirk.
She shoots him an incredulous look. "Yeah. I did, thanks. Your concern is, as always, appreciated." With an exaggerated flourish of her hands, she returns her gaze to her feet.
It's fairly clear that while she has all her faculties intact, she's just this side of tipsy. "So, uh… did you walk here?" The Penny's not far, but he's never really liked the idea of her late-night strolls.
She shakes her head. "Traci dropped me off. Told her there was something I had to take care of."
Which is? "Okay. Would coming inside help?"
She pulls her legs to the side, bends her knees and hauls herself to her feet. "Thought you'd never ask."
After he shuts the door behind her, she slides her arms out of her coat sleeves and drops it on top of his. "I have a problem."
He nods. "Want to sit down?"
"No." She crosses her arms over her chest. "I can't sleep."
"Right," he says, confused. "Have you been home to try, even, or…?"
"Not just tonight," she continues. "It's ridiculous, but I used to have trouble sleeping in the same bed as anyone else and now I can't sleep alone. Couple of hours at a time if I'm lucky. You… you screwed me up, okay?"
Screwed us both up. He's silent, hand on the wall as he waits for her to continue.
(Really, he'd like to tell her that he's sleeping like crap, too.)
"Well…" she says with a shrug. "You screw something up, you fix it, right?"
He nods, still not certain where she's going with this.
"Upstairs. After today, if I don't get a decent night's rest, I'm probably going to start hallucinating."
In the bedroom, she helps herself to a T-shirt and a pair of his boxers, goes into the bathroom to change. He's still too bewildered to say much of anything, just pulls off his jeans and climbs into bed after turning off the light.
He feels her settle in on the other side. "Nick showed up drunk today," she announces quietly.
He shifts so that he's facing her. "Collins? Really?"
Enough light drifts in from the street that he can see her nodding. "Anniversary of his platoon buddy's death. The guy took patrol for him and ended up getting killed."
Sam sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Pretty rough to carry that around."
Andy sighs. "That's why he lets everything go to hell once a year. So he doesn't have to."
"Not a bad idea," he admits.
"Maybe you should try it sometime," she retorts.
He flips over onto his back. "Maybe I should."
It's quiet for a few minutes, then he opens his eyes. "Andy."
"Mmm."
"You, uh… you like flowers, right?"
She snorts. "Why? Know someone who wants to woo me?"
"It's possible." He hopes it someone sounds more neutral than he can reasonably expect.
She yawns. "Yeah. Hydrangeas."
"Hydrangeas," he repeats. "Huh."
"They're pretty, and they mean 'perseverance'," she says, somnolence beginning to find its way into her voice. "It's a quality I happen to value."
Okay, then, he thinks as sleep begins to overtake him as well. I can work with that.
She's gone when he wakes up, which he expected. What he didn't expect was the smell of coffee and a note atop his neatly folded clothes, resting on the opposite pillow.
Thanks.
-A.
PS: Why did you stop buying that good French roast? You're better than the crap in a can from the grocery store.
He scrubs his face with his hand and chuckles. For the first time in nearly two months, it doesn't feel coerced.
Two days later, she's in the rotation for desk duty. He stops just out of sight of the reception area on his way to the cruiser after parade. She approaches the desk, stops in her tracks, and, almost in disbelief, picks up the travel mug she bought for him after she accidentally broke the handle off his ancient one.
(He'd commented on the color, of course. "Do I seem like a bronze kind of guy to you?"
"It's not bronze," she'd responded gleefully. "It's copper. Get it? 'Cause…")
She peels off the Post-it note marked 'McNally' and cautiously sniffs at the contents before taking a sip. She visibly relaxes, satisfied with the taste of the good French roast with a dash of cream (like he could forget), before placing it down and reaching for the item behind it.
(When the lady at the florist asked him what color hydrangeas he was looking for, he responded, "What color says 'sorry for screwing up' the best?" After a bit more back-and-forth, they decided on blue.)
As she lifts the small bouquet, he watches her face contort itself into that expression she gets when she's pretending to be exasperated before she finally gives in, bursting into a smile. Sure, she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but it still counts. It's still a step.
He can't stop grinning for the rest of the day.