A/N: Just a miniature character study of sorts that popped into my head (which has the interesting distinction of being my first story typed while feeding/rocking a baby – multitasking is key to life!) I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I own neither Rookie Blue nor "The Last Day of our Lives" by Schuyler Fisk, from which the title comes.
Sometimes, when Andy becomes particularly disenchanted with the cover apartment, she momentarily entertains herself by thinking of the real estate ads it would generate if it were in a better neighborhood. 'Charming and cozy living space, surrounded by character' is probably her favorite. The reality to which it translates is a dank, cramped flat in desperate need of gut renovation, its nearby 'character' consisting of the odd rodent scratching around inside the walls and the ubiquitous smell of stale curry from the Indian restaurant two flights below. (The former has most certainly led her and Nick to avoid the latter since they began the op almost four months ago.) As one monotonous day has slowly blurred into the next, her internal speculations on exactly how much an eager yuppie might overpay for this shithole, were it not tucked away on this shoddy block, have progressively become less amusing.
Her previous undercover experiences have been sprints, as intense as they are brief. She's not quite sure what to make of a marathon; even while her awareness of the world outside the op has steadily faded, the world into which she's been thrown is beginning to feel tiresome at best, suffocating at worst. Their days start with bitter coffee and end with light beer (it's the cheapest kind at the corner deli, meaning it's still more or less highway robbery for a six-pack). In between, they halfheartedly work menial jobs – the more apathy they can project, the better – and gather what intel they can. Luke assures them that they're making headway, even though things feel stagnant more often than not.
They usually spend their evenings in silence on the lumpy living room couch, save for canned laughter punctuating the syndicated sitcoms that flash across the TV screen and the distinctive pop of caps twisting off of bottles.
("How is Canadian 67 like having sex in a canoe?" Nick posited the second week. "They're both fucking close to water."
It wasn't all that funny - she's heard the joke more than a few times in recent years, usually from Dov - but now she finds herself mentally repeating it every time she takes a sip.)
Thirteen weeks in, during a repeat of Friends they've seen twice already, Andy asks suddenly, "You miss her?"
Nick looks up with a start, his fingernails temporarily ceasing their work on his beer bottle's label. (Andy finds gluey rolled bits of paper on the coffee table every morning, despite Nick's nightly assurances that he's thrown them all away; it drives her up the wall.) "Do I..." He gazes at the spot on the wall above the television for a solid two minutes. "Yeah, I mean... she's it for me, I think," he eventually responds. "We just can't seem to match up."
"Think you ever will?"
He shrugs. "Me taking this assignment probably didn't help. But we keep coming back to each other. That can't be an accident."
He doesn't ask her about the similar crossroads she abandoned when she accepted Luke's offer. (He broached the topic just once, their first morning in the apartment; before 'Swarek' could completely emerge from his mouth, Andy was fixing him with the fierce glower that regularly helped her subdue perps twice her size. He immediately changed the subject, and his subsequent silence regarding her most recent relationship managed to assure her - and still does - that she's at least in this thing with someone who's quick on the uptake.)
She swirls her nearly empty bottle absently; finally offers, "I got lost downtown once. For, like, five hours."
"Is that possible?" Nick cocks an eyebrow.
She sighs, her bangs blowing up off her face as she expels a dramatic puff of air. "It was before cell phones had Internet access. I was supposed to meet a friend from university for a drink near her place, but I didn't know the area and I got off the bus a stop early by accident, so I just started walking. Figured it had to be the right direction, if that's where the bus was going... but it took me almost an hour to realize I wasn't even close to where I was supposed to have been. So I turned around. Committed myself to going another way."
"And you found the place?"
She shakes her head. "Just kept rebooting. Kept saying to myself, 'If I just stick with this road a little longer, it'll turn up.' But it didn't, and all I had to show for it were huge blisters on my feet. And a crazy cab fare."
Nick, clearly expecting her to continue, looks a bit perplexed when she doesn't. "Okay, good story. Don't know if I'd recommend telling it at parties, but if you're really hard up for conversation, then maybe..."
"It's my life," she interrupts, soft enough that he nearly doesn't hear her. "I don't want to deal with something, so I just... charge forward and hope it'll get fixed in the process. And then when it doesn't, I turn around and do the same thing all over. Luke, Sam, this job..."
"And I'm the blister you're left with?" Nick shoots an ephemeral grin in her direction. "Look, you know… I get it. It sucks feeling unsettled, right? And taking your time with things means you feel like that for longer, but it's okay that everything's not okay all the time."
Andy smirks. "Tell that to Gail."
"Don't have to." He puts his bottle down on the coffee table with a resonant thud. "Things being unsettled means they're not done. It means we're not done."
"That doesn't mean it'll all be fine," Andy points out.
He seems unconcerned, though his demeanor isn't quite as confident as his Andy would expect, given his words. "Well, you can cut things off and run like hell in the other direction. Or you can take a chance, and maybe it'll work out, maybe it won't. Personally, I'd like to at least have the opportunity."
Later, as Andy struggles to quell her racing mind long enough to drift off, she reflects on the idea of it – slowing down, taking her time. Clearly, going full stop hasn't prevented her from getting hurt; hasn't repaired what's been broken within her for so long that she finds it hard to identify. Maybe instead of bolting straight into the fire, she should check the door first to determine if it's hot; should dip a toe in the water before she flings herself off the high dive.
As she finally succumbs to sleep, his face flashes through her mind, and it occurs to her that she'd rather move toward him slowly than not at all.
Running has never really done it for Sam. When it comes to exercise, he's always preferred lifting weights or working a heavy bag; any activity that's relatively contained. He runs because the ability to chase suspects on foot is a job requirement, and he'll admit that it's good cardio. (Driving, on the other hand, is not, something Oliver seems to forget as he tails Sam on a near-daily basis, one of Zoe's revolting kale smoothies in hand. It seems they're her way of expressing gratitude for Sam encouraging Oliver to reconcile their marriage – although one more chlorophyll-flavored sip and Sam's about to revise his position.) But for reasons he can't explain, he's always felt uneasy while running. Whether uniform or undercover, he's just fine so long as he's immersed in one world at a time – but he finds it impossible to attain a comfort zone, let alone stay in one, when he's constantly in motion.
It's considerably worse now than it used to be, before he and Andy were and then weren't. She loves running; on the fairly rare mornings that he'd stick around past sunrise, she dragged him outside, bouncing from side to side and teasing him over her shoulder. (Oliver's presence notwithstanding, he still hears her call, "C'mon, can't keep up?" with every step he takes.)
The day after she didn't show up at the Penny, he woke up with a hangover the size of Jupiter. All logic and reason urged him to pull a pillow over his head and sleep for another fourteen hours, but his body seemed to carry him out of bed of its own volition, running shoes tied and his soles slapping the pavement before he knew it. Somehow, despite the rising sun in his eyes and the cold air burning through his ragged breaths, his head seemed to throb less with every step. By the time he arrived home and drank enough water to drain the city's reservoirs, he actually felt semi-human again. In the weeks and months since, he's found himself up with the sun and running every morning without fail. It doesn't have a thing to do with Andy, he tells himself; flirts with the skinny blonde barista at his usual coffee haunt and slips her his number, scribbled on a cardboard cup sleeve, as if to prove it. But he inexplicably screens his calls that week and starts buying coffee at the place across the street… so maybe it does.
He's always been reluctant to make huge strides, to throw himself into something from which he can't easily escape. Even undercover assignments, no matter how deep, have had an out, be it clever talking on his part or a handler's intervention. Not that he usually reneges all that easily, but knowing that he can – that's what he's come to rely on. In recent history, he can think of two instances when he's neither given himself nor wanted that option: the night of the blackout, and immediately after receiving word of their suspensions. In both cases, her departure left him reeling, so he threw up his old guard when she got back from Temagami; kept her at arm's length, so it was simple enough to back away. Obviously, he thinks as he stretches on the porch one morning, third time wasn't the charm.
It doesn't seem to be serving him all that well, this routine in which he clears the room from the doorway before he'll consider crossing the threshold. But if inertia isn't the answer, then he has some serious moves to make, comfort zone be damned.
She's heading out after her first shift back in uniform, a shock to the system despite Luke's comprehensive debrief and earnest attempt at preparing her for what to expect. After promising Traci a much-needed glass of wine the following evening, she walks down the hall, mind still reeling, and out into the parking lot, where her gaze almost immediately falls upon a familiar silver truck.
He's apparently polishing a spot off the gleaming fender with his jacket sleeve; looks up as the heavy station door slams shut behind her. Both stock-still, their eyes lock for what may as well be an eternity, until the corner of her mouth turns up in a nearly imperceptible smile.
He sees hope, and regret, and the same question he himself has been asking for months now. After a minute, an identical smile crosses his face, and they both begin walking toward one another. She's struggling to restrain herself from racing toward him; he's mentally urging one foot to continue appearing in front of the other.
Until finally – finally – they come together at the same pace.