A/N: Hey guys! As many of you well know, I'm rather fond of the fluffy oneshot. This time, however, I'm trying something a little different... Fair warning: The angst is heightened and doesn't resolve immediately. If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea, please feel free to wait a few days until the entire story is posted. I'll be alternating between Sam and Andy's POV, so hopefully you'll get a taste of both sides as the story unfolds.
Hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated.
DISCLAIMER: I neither own Rookie Blue nor the lyrics of Ingrid Michaelson. (See chapter title.)
Chapter One: [my bones are shifting in my skin, and you, my love, are gone]
It's a tank top that does him in.
He finds it halfway through week two, mixed in with clothes from his hamper as he's filling the washer. It's thin and black, the kind she wears on hot summer days underneath her uniform. He's seen her slip it on a fair number of occasions; knows the narrow ribbing and fraying hem like he knows his first name.
(He may have helped remove it a time or two.)
He fingers the material lightly, a pithy indulgence to memory, before clenching a hard fist. Balls up the shirt and tosses it into the corner of the room, tries not to notice it slide down the wall with a muffled thump. It lands somewhere between the end table and the wall, on the far side of the couch. The space is narrow and dark, and he hopes his brain buys a goddamn clue. Maybe the rest of his body can follow suit and move forward, the way coppers do.
He doesn't want to look at it. Feel it. Return it.
(There's a laughable premise. Him, slipping into the locker room, folded shirt in tow. Hey, McNally, want your top back? Go on, take my heart with it, no big deal.)
He curses his olfactory senses, struggling to suppress the mental associations.
Her shampoo, the smell of her hair when he threads a hand through it. Peppermint chapstick that burns his lips, tingly aftershocks when she pulls (pulled) his mouth hard against hers. The lavender dryer sheets she uses and the way the scent lingers on her clothes.
(God, he really hates her clothes.)
His nerves are alight, blood pumping as he flexes his fingers, staring at his now-empty hand. He's been careful about restricting emotion, save for a dose of acerbic wit in the cruiser. Misery is the company he's been keeping for eleven days now, empty apartment and an empty, hollow ache in his chest. He catalogues the pain like he would for a physical injury, figures if he ignores it long enough, the sensation will dull.
He gives up on the laundry, resigned to do wash another day. For a seemingly harmless garment, the tank managed to wreak considerable havoc in a matter of minutes.
He's spent nearly two weeks avoiding the Penny and the liquor store, because he refuses to be that guy. Drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a tumbler, wasting away on a faux-wood barstool.
Camel's back? Meet the proverbial straw.
It's soft and faded and smells like her, and it tears something inside of him, fresh and violent.
He pours himself 101-proof that night.
The first morning without her, he wakes, sore all over, feeling every bit his age. Like he's absorbed the hit of the baton without the protective gear.
He makes too much coffee and ends up pouring the whole pot down the sink, annoyed.
His body is on autopilot, which is how he finds himself on her street, half a kilometer away from the toilet factory before he realizes…
(Mornings when she's not with him, he idles by the entrance to the condo complex. Leans against the hood of the truck, two travel mugs in hand. Always shoots her a text when he's five minutes out, Hurry up, copper. Crooks don't catch themselves.)
He slams on the brakes sharply, grateful for the absence of traffic this morning. Three point turn later, he's en route to the barn, shaken but not otherwise affected.
He pretends, anyway.
She avoids him that first week, disappearing from parade in the blink of an eye. He doesn't think Nash knows yet, and he's a little surprised. He imagines she'd be running interference if she knew, filling seats at parade and scheduling trips to the coffee kiosk. The two of them have this girl code that by all accounts is its own TPS division, taking serve and protect to new heights.
The distance isn't obvious, not to the casual observer. After Frank's stern, post-suspension warning, they've kept everything professional at the barn. Sam Swarek: Straight as an arrow, clean as a whistle, rulebook recitations fresh in his mind. He studiously avoids female locker rooms, and aside from a few furtive winks and casual touches, he keeps his hands to himself.
(Well. Except for one late night in booking, desk quiet like all of Toronto was hibernating. Andy had protested for show more than anything, but the way she had smiled when he got his arms around her…)
He tries not to think about that night. Takes a sip from his hours-old cup of coffee and nearly chokes.
(He would be lying if he said he didn't miss their work partnership after it was disbanded. He would also be lying if he said the after-hours trade-off wasn't worth it.)
His hand crumples around the paper cup before he pitches it into the garbage, head aching like he's crashed into something solid and on a slow mend.
Surprisingly, it's Noelle, not Oliver, who notices first.
Her interest is… Unexpected.
She's always had a finely-tuned bullshit detector, but baby on board has heightened her senses like a superpower. He figures all mothers unlock the code eventually, the uncanny ability to weed out lies in truth and anticipate omission. Noelle's ahead of the class, like every Academy lesson ever.
The first day (post-tank top incident), she does a song and dance about how she's been cooped up at the desk, desperate for some air and decent company, eager green rookies working her last nerve. She invites him to lunch, cool and casual. He declines.
The second day she claims she has a craving for rice noodles; knows that he'll eat Pad Thai 'til kingdom come. She asks if he wants to go. He declines again.
The third day there's no beating around the bush. A furious whisper across the desk is enough, So help me, Swarek, I haven't said a word to anyone – a pointed look at Best's office – but you better believe I'll flip your ass if you turn me down again."
So.
That's that.
"How long?" she asks, squashed into a corner booth of a Jewish delicatessen, fingers wrapped firmly around a cup of decaf coffee.
"Leave it, Williams."
"How long?"
"What do you wanna hear?" he snaps, irritated. "I'm fine, alright?"
"Fine, really?" she replies with an arch of an eyebrow, all traces of courtesy gone. "'Cuz you look like shit, and pretty soon, I'm not gonna be the only one to sniff you out."
"Yeah, well..." He says dully, staring at the pastrami and rye on his plate, appetite gone like…
(Like she's gone, for god's sake.)
"Sam," she says softly, moved by the pain in his eyes. "Look, we've known each other for years…"
"Noelle," he warns, much more roughly than he intends. "I can't, alright? I can't."
She studies him for a long moment, her gaze lingering on his eyes before noting the tense set of his shoulders.
"Alright," she says, exhaling. "I'm not going to tell you that you have to talk to me, but Sam... You gotta talk to somebody. Oliver would be all over this shit if Zoe didn't have mono, you know that."
Sam nods infinitesimally, relieved at the redirection of the conversation.
"You're not undercover anymore," she finishes, her words inexplicably gentle despite her firm tone. Reaching for the check, she meets his gaze steadily. "You don't have to hide every honest feeling you have."
The second week is worse than the first.
The first week he wakes up, and he has a moment of hope. Disoriented, he scrubs a hand across his jaw while his eyes sweep the room. Searches the bed, and when she's not there, wonders.
Gone for a run? Making coffee in the kitchen? Filching his razor, again?
Those brief seconds of sleepiness or ignorance or forgetfulness…
They're almost worth the pain of realization.
The second week, hope abandons him. He wakes up and knows immediately. Knows she's gone, knows she isn't coming back. Reality knocks him around like a prizefighter in the ring, and he can't find it in himself to fight back.
Here's the thing: He's been through break-ups before. Break-ups where the flame extinguished quietly in the night, and they parted with well-wishes for one another. Break-ups where the burn was explosive, but the company wasn't meant to last.
In his heart, he's always been tethered to the streets. For better and worse, richer and – usually – poorer, in sickness and in health. Most women can't handle his breed of commitment, don't want to play second fiddle to the badge, and he gets that, he does. He's been the dumper and the dumpee, but never like this. Never like...
Her eyes haunt him at night.
He remembers, and it breaks him. The shadow of her smile. The ghost of a warm arm, draped across his chest. The void of her laugh and her skin and the bossy toss of her head.
(He feels too damn much.)
It was dumb. He was dumb. Categorically, catastrophically dumb. Left-the-gun, split-from-the-group, went-into-the-decrepit-basement-alone kind of dumb.
They've fought before. Arguments prompted by stupid things like wet grounds in the coffee filter and the insistent rrrring of the alarm clock. Exacerbated by not-so-stupid things like job safety and split-second protocol in the field.
If they're good at fighting, they're even better at making up. He's not sure why it's different this time.
(He knows why it's different, actually.)
More on the line. Everything on the line, for the love of–
He knows what the breaking point was.
Her stance widens, and she folds her arms across her chest defensively. "What do you mean, consider my options? You want me to pursue this training?"
"I'm just saying, don't blow if off like a damn fool. Peck pulling you aside is a big deal. That's it, alright? That's it."
"Don't lie to me; don't you fu-" She breaks off, her voice wavering. Her fists clench angrily at her sides. "You've been distant all week, withdrawing and retreating, and you don't have the decency to tell me why."
"Christ, Andy, not everything's about –"
"I'm not stupid, okay?" she interrupts, her finger jabbing at the air by his chest. "Don't think I haven't seen it in your eyes. The expectancy."
He throws his hands up in the air, flummoxed. "How are you turning this on me? I'm asking you to think about your long-term goals, what you want to accomplish. Most people would say that's what a supportive boyfriend does, for god's sake."
She shakes her head minutely, pressing her lips together in a tight line. "You think I'm going to run, right? You've been waiting for it. After all this time, you don't trust me. You don't believe me when I say I chose you. I want you."
She stares at him, her eyes hard. "And now you're giving me an out as some sort of skewed self-defense mechanism."
"That's not fair," he interjects, his voice dangerously low. "You're young, and you have all the opportunities in the world, and you can't limit yourself…"
"Because I'm young and the world is my oyster?" she says angrily. "So, let me see if I have this straight: You want what's best for me, and you think you know what's best for me? And that's why you're pulling away?"
She sucks in a breath of air violently. "Newsflash, Sam: You're not a martyr, and this isn't some valiant display of nobility. To say I can't limit myself, as if you're this hindrance…"
"I know how you advance on this career path," he answers roughly. "I know what the white shirts look for, Andy. I know what task forces want, and if you're serious about going somewhere..."
"It's selfish. It's selfish and a damn cop-out. Couples make decisions together. One party doesn't decide what's best, and if you can't understand that…"
She cuts off, looking at him almost pityingly. "Maybe we shouldn't be together."
He stares at her for a long moment, shocked. He wonders, briefly, how a discussion about long-term plans escalated into this. He knows he's been a little reticent, but...
"So where does this leave us?" he hears himself ask, his voice careful and clipped.
"I don't know," she replies distantly, a humorless chuckle escaping her mouth. "I have no idea."
Her tone is flat, and he sees the dejection in her eyes. She's read him better than he thought she would, and it's turned everything familiar on an axis, an irreversible tilt. He doesn't want her to let opportunity float by, doesn't want to be in the way of her advancement, but this kind of reaction...
"I need to go for a drive," he says finally, pushing past her. "Clear my head."
"Fine," she mutters. Then, in a louder voice, "That's fine. You're not the first person to walk out on me when the going gets tough."
He stills by the doorway, hand clenching around his car keys. He catches a glimpse of her in the shadow of the hallway light. Her eyes are flashing, and her stance is aggressive.
For a moment, he thinks about turning around, asking if they can cut the bullshit. They know each other too well; can lodge the hatchet where it hurts. If he were smarter, he would have stopped it then and there, pulled her close and talked to her, made her realize just how important she is to him...
He should have known better than to leave her alone in his house. By the time he got back, she had cleared out.
Cleared out and didn't look back.
Shaw clocks in early, Monday of week three. Squeezes his shoulder while he's crouched on the locker room bench, tying his boots. There's a double-double in his hand, the usual peace offering after a particularly brutal sweep at the poker table. He pops open a Tupperware full of Zoe's blondie bars, Sam's go-to request after a long UC absence. Takes a bite before dropping the container next to Sam.
So.
Oliver knows.
No regrets, that's how he's always lived. He met her, and something changed.
The footnote on his biography reads a little differently.
Sam Swarek.
Knows regret.