A/N: So it seems that every time I sit down to write a chapter for "Firsts," Sam clamors into my brain and demands gratification in the form of some retrospective fic. This story will house such reflections, which currently crowd my RB notebook. Different POVs, 500-2000 words each.
He knows.
He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, the bang of the gun that jolted him into action, springing from the block to run a race he hadn't, in good conscience, signed up for. Soles slapping the pavement, calves burning. He's squinting against the glare, but for a singular moment, he has the baton and he pushes forward.
[the beginning.]
A warm summer day, he thinks, when this began. Her grin, bright like white laundry on a clothesline, and his mind, clear like the air around it.
He knows he has to pace himself. Run too fast, burn out too soon, lose her. Run too slow, and she disappears from his line of vision. Lose her again.
He regulates his breathing, adopts a comfortable stride, and eases into the route.
Somewhere along the way, the course becomes a steeplechase. Hurdles, obstacles. He has no training, no experience in this area.
His body is better-prepared than his brain, but all the same… He hesitates.
A part of him thinks he's not cut out for this, and he stalls out.
Muscle atrophy.
Annoyed, he considers throwing in the towel entirely.
[the middle.]
He wants to stop.
He can't.
He can't resist the heady rush of adrenaline, its inexplicable pull. Endorphins burst into spontaneous applause like spectators; keep going, keep going, don't give up yet.
He gets his second wind.
Inevitably, paths cross. Her course was like a hidden trail on a leafy, shaded road, intersecting when he least expected, and for a moment, throwing his game entirely.
Constancy wins. There's something to that "slow and steady" idea.
This time, they're running side by side.
He thought he knew what the finish line would look like – Heart, like a jackhammer in his chest, beating fast. Breathless. Every part of him aching.
Something he didn't anticipate? A runner's high he can't shake and happiness beyond his wildest dreams.
The finish line looks better and better with each passing moment.
They're crossing it together.
[the end.]
Here's the thing, though: What happens when the race is over?
A part of him never thought he'd finish this race. He didn't plan ahead, never plans ahead, his mind corrects. But now…
But now.
He knows.
He can't identify the start, sure, but he knows where he wants this to end. There are few certainties in life, probably even fewer for a cop, but glancing to the passenger side of his cab...
He knows that she is one of them.
Humming quietly, she reaches for the dial in his truck. Fiddles with the knobs and buttons, searching for a music station, fingers tapping impatiently.
He sees her hand, and his body freezes, the images flooding his brain.
Her hand.
He imagines what it would look like with a diamond on it. Delicate and understated; nothing too gaudy or overwrought. Nothing that would compete with her natural beauty, just enhance it.
Imagines a gold counterpart on his own hand, a promise to her that the whole world can see.
Imagines a life where finish lines aren't the focus, but milestones are.
A house. Kids. His-and-Her towels and coffee mugs and sides of the bed and rocking chairs on the porch and a whole lot of other things that sound ridiculous in his head, but strangely, make a lot of sense where she is concerned.
"Sam," she says, in a tone that makes him think it's not the first time. She shakes him from his daydream, and he hurriedly swallows, his mouth dry.
"Timmies?" she prompts hopefully, a hidden smile on the corner of her lips. "Please?"
It hits him, suddenly. Fleeting thoughts, actualized.
And he hears it: You, me, richer, poorer, sickness and health, 'til death do us part.
"Yeah," he says, a slow exhale working its way from deep inside his chest. "Yeah, ok."
"Great," she answers, squeezing his leg. "I'm dying for a cup of coffee."
It's her left hand resting on his thigh.
He glances down briefly and smiles.
[the beginning.]