Tough days have a way of altering the status quo. He's not always the old hand. She's not always the chatty novice.
A/N: This oneshot popped into my head this afternoon. It's short, sparing, and set in the future. Interpret as you see fit!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.
"I thought I'd find you here."
Her voice carries across the mat room, steady and sure.
His hands still, even as his shoulders stiffen imperceptibly. Body taut with tension, he swallows hard, wiping his brow with his forearm. The blood pounds in his ears, and he draws a short breath.
"Thought you were gonna go home. Told you to take the truck."
His reply is curt, and for a moment, he thinks the tone is enough of a warning, enough to dissuade her.
Instead, she drops to the floor, legs folded carefully beneath her and back propped up against the wall. She stares at him silently, waiting for him to say something more.
A minute passes, then two, but he doesn't turn around to face her.
"I thought about it," she says finally, carefully. "I still have the keys."
She raises her arm, and from his peripheral, he catches a glint of silver in her palm.
Her voice is measured and deliberate when she speaks again.
"I wanted to wait."
He snorts audibly, fists clenching and unfurling inside his gloves. He feels the sweat on his temples, his brow, his lower back. The anger is deep, cutting.
"Yeah, well. It might be a while."
She tilts her chin as if to nod, but quickly realizes the action will go unnoticed. She gazes at his back appraisingly before softly murmuring, "That's okay."
He doesn't reply. Merely attacks the punching bag with renewed vigor. Relishes the solid contact against leather and vinyl; raining painful blows on an unknown enemy. The exertion, the shortness of breath and dull ache in his lungs: It's a welcome release.
His punches aren't as crisp as normal, but the realization doesn't slow him down.
When he finally unstraps the gloves forty minutes later, she's still there, seated in the same position. Watching. Waiting.
He flexes his fingers experimentally. They're raw and red, colored by the rush of blood and the chafing of skin against synthetic fiber. He takes a heavy seat on the bench press, avoiding her eyes. Rubs his knuckles gingerly, cracking them. Closes his eyes and breathes deeply.
He feels the padded bench shift a moment later, and he knows she's there.
Her touch is light. Gentle.
She grasps his hand, sweeping her thumb across his knuckles in a soft, soothing stroke.
Minutes pass, and a voice echoes in the room, breaking the silence. It's ragged and unsteady, and he doesn't immediately recognize it as his own.
"Do all you can, and it's still not enough. Could barely look the mother in the eye when I told her; I…"
His voice cracks, and he closes his mouth.
She remains silent, brushing his hand with her thumb. The motion is slow, unhurried.
"You leave your heart on the streets, Sam," she says after a long moment. "And that's something noble."
He sets his jaw, ire simmering beneath his skin's surface. Wasn't enough today. Not for that little girl.
They sit in the empty mat room, letting the stillness, the silence, envelop them. She rests her head on his shoulder but doesn't release his hand.
When they exit the barn, the sun is slowly beginning its descent. Muted, pastel colors trail across the sky, warm and inviting, but memories of the day mar the picture.
She moves to the driver's seat, and he doesn't protest. The ride home is silent, save for the hum of the engine. She keeps one hand on the wheel, the other twined securely with his.
When they fall into bed, he buries his face in her hair, tightens his grip on her waist.
"You did all you could today," she whispers in the darkness. She pauses, pressing a soft kiss to his bare shoulder. "And if you can't trust yourself, you trust me."
He pulls her closer. Listens to the soft, rhythmic beat of her heart.
For better, for worse, he thinks, and is thankful.