Author's Note: I've been kicking around the idea of an extended oneshot, a series of Sam/Andy exchanges in Season Four. Realizing that we're down to the wire, I've decided to post a few staccato moments, with the intention of adding several more. If this is a style that works for you, great! If not, my apologies. The idea began differently in my head, but this was the way the cookie crumbled.
Forewarning: I do not expect these scenarios to play out in canon, at least not as I have written them. My outline was written weeks before the new featurette popped up, so my ideas are both speculative and largely uninformed. Proceed with caution, as I have in my ignorance :)
The POV switches as indicated in boldface.
DISCLAIMER: If I owned Rookie Blue, there would be more Penny karaoke and raucous high-fiving. And more buddy!Nick.
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part i: the extraction
[ANDY]
The reunion special, as it happens, is not one for the books.
She can't spend too much time thinking about the build-up: how a freight truck is little more than a storage locker on wheels; how her cop life has become a series of déjà vu moments— the latest scene unfolding in an eerie, sterile prison, haunted by nightmare and the ominous rumble of an engine.
(If she closes her eyes, she can practically feel the harsh, ragged panting of Ray Nixon in her ear.)
This time, the duct tape covers her mouth instead of her eyes, but the claustrophobia is no less acute: Four walls and the clock ticking against her, the hopelessness and frustration brought on by a cage of aluminum and commercial-grade steel. She works steadily at the ropes that bind her wrists, all the while scanning the vehicle for any point of structural weakness. There's no taillight to kick out, but if she can free her hands, maybe she can catch them by surprise...
(And it's a pipe dream, sure. They're armed, and she's injured. Even if she had a weapon, she's not sure how much her shot would count for.)
Still, she didn't make it six months to lose now. Nick sure as hell isn't going to add another piss-drunk in memoriam to his calendar, not if she can help it.
The truck swerves, and her body is thrown sideways. She has the presence of mind to make a silent Raggedy Andy quip before her head cracks against the wall, and the room spins. For a full fifteen seconds, she doesn't realize the truck has lurched to a stop.
She processes sound first, then light: straining metal and the heavy drag of the door; the fading sun filtering through the opening.
He's there, barking orders, and their eyes meet briefly.
(His gaze, inscrutable as ever, recalls it all: Grenades and graveyards; Brennan's homestead and the parking lot of the Penny; every distance that can't be bridged.)
She doesn't waste her time trying to decipher his expression. The universe, she concedes dryly, can't cut her a break.
He looks away first.
(She should probably alert the next ex-boyfriend to the likelihood of post-break up search-and-rescues.)
part ii: the evaluation
[SAM]
The steady drip-drip of the break room's coffeemaker is a distraction he welcomes. Closing his eyes, he runs his index finger across the thin, wax lip of his disposable cup.
(Long day would be an understatement. It's barely 2:00 p.m.)
In recent months he's cut back on the coffee consumption. Not cold turkey, what with extended shifts and the fact that he's been drinking the stuff since he was fourteen. He's not a total glutton for punishment, not yet.
He simply moderates his intake more carefully. Works to keep his perspective fresh and the routine balanced.
(It takes some time to coach his body, and those first few weeks are miserable. Still, five months later, and he has fewer jitters and blood pressure spikes: All told, it's been a decent idea to exercise some restraint.)
For my health, he tells Shaw, whose confusion ultimately yields to baser pleasures—mainly heckling. You should probably take notes.
There's a slight rustling to his left, the tread of light footsteps and the unmistakable swish of a starched blue uni. He opens his eyes to find brown hair and a gleaming white smile, and his mouth curves upward in appreciation.
"Hey," he greets warmly. His stance is casual as he leans against the countertop.
She holds his gaze, sliding a hand across his chest. "Hey yourself." She plucks at the hem of his t-shirt, then raises a single, sculpted eyebrow. "Heard you had an eventful morning."
He nods wordlessly before blowing out a long breath. "Yeah, uh. Could say that."
Both eyebrows arc at his admission, and her expression remains vaguely curious. "What are you still doing here?"
He shrugs. "Not quite ready to get behind the wheel." He tips the cup in her direction, eyes teasing. "Thought I'd grab a cup; maybe see you off before your shift."
"Mm," she murmurs around a smile. "Planning to find me in the locker room? Never known you to be a skulker, Swarek." She leans closer, resting her hip against the cabinetry. "Sweet, though. A little out of character, but sweet."
(The thing about Marlo? She's direct. She doesn't beat around the bush; will come out and say exactly what she thinks, leaving no room for misinterpretation. It's one of the qualities he likes best about her.)
He's not surprised, then, when her next words are:
"So... McNally's back."
It's a thing they talked about, way back in the "friends" stage. One month into her transfer, she started joining Ollie and Sam for drinks, and they became a motley Brat Pack, laying claim to a table in the back corner of the Penny. At the time, Sam couldn't quite pinpoint who was the rebel and who was the basketcase.
(It was Oliver who eventually ran his mouth, emphasizing words like history and the universe, never knowing when to quit. Looking back, Sam's eighty percent sure it was intentional. She's under, Sam had clarified, taking a slow sip of his beer. The lager had gone down easily, smooth and crisp, as he held Marlo's gaze across the faux-wood bartop. We dated. It didn't pan out.)
He suspects Marlo has gleaned the rest from the water cooler, but she never pressed for more details. They're the same stock, he and Marlo: regroup in solitude, share on a "need-to-know" basis. The job is the job, and the rest is secondary. Fidelity to the badge and your brothers— That's what matters.
He considers her words now. Her tone isn't petty or calculated; she's not in a tizzy over this morning's events. Instead, she seems genuinely interested in Sam's reaction.
He purses his lips, then taps the cup reassuringly. "It's in the past."
"You sure?" Her composure is striking, a refined devil-may-care attitude. "Nothing you need to talk through?"
"Positive." He can feel the beginnings of a grin. "Just looking to the future now."
Leaning forward, she sweeps an open palm across his shoulder. The posturing is familiar, the warm, insistent press of her mouth against his own. It's been almost four months.
(You look like you could use some easy-breezy, she had murmured to him in the weak light of his office, pushing a case file aside. I could too.)
"You coming over later?" he hears himself say.
"You think you're my only friend in this town, Swarek?" She bites out a laugh, then spins on her heel. "I'll see you tomorrow."
(Discussions are always face-value, and that's enough for her. No fuss, no muss.)
He doesn't see McNally in the doorway until it's too late.
part iii: the communication
[ANDY]
The faucet squeaks as she shuts off the tap, and she chances a look in the mirror: She's spent the better part of ten minutes scrubbing the grime beneath her fingernails, chanting silently about readiness and drive, intuition and instinct. She doesn't feel rusty, but it's been a while. Possibly she is compensating.
It's an easy decision to wear long sleeves for her first shift back. It's considerably less easy to ignore the lingering pain in her lower spine, courtesy of some crossed wires during the post-op, and a razor-sharp elbow from 27th Division. The skin around her wrists is still abraded, and bruises litter her right shoulder and chest.
Heaving a sigh, she tightens her bun and heads out of the locker room. She plasters a smile on her face for the sake of her colleagues, mentally reminds herself about control. No more faking it: She is the master of her own destiny.
(Unbeknownst to her, destiny has other plans. They arrive in Fifteen's empty hallway in a jean-clad, dark-haired package, with all the swagger of a newly-minted D. The abbreviation, she acknowledges, is apt.)
They both freeze, no doubt reliving their last two bouts of face-time. For all his attempts at being discreet, she can tell he is taking silent inventory: It's impossible to sidestep the familiar gaze that sweeps over her body.
She's well-aware of what he must see: Skin, sallow. Cheeks, hollow. Bags... Many. Still, she hasn't spent the last six months cowering in a corner, so it's with surprising grace and ease that she hears herself say—
"Hi, Sam."
A beat passes before he seems to catch up to speed.
He meets her eyes, finally.
"Hey."
Another pause, then—
"Good to have you back. You look, uh. Good."
She tilts her head, an eyebrow lifting in faint challenge.
"Took my daily multivitamin," she deadpans. The words roll off her tongue, pink mouth twisting wryly. Her voice is clear and confident. "Hear it's important to keep up the regimen."
His lips twitch once, blink-and-miss speed.
(That said, her observation skills are far from lacking; copper instincts finely-tuned these past few months. Subtle concessions to fear, triumph, disgust, fear, amusement - They're all amplified. Dakota was hopscotch on top of a minefield; jump-jump-pause-jump, a game of detection and reaction.)
Suffice to say she catches the twitch.
"Well, you know what they say," Sam drawls, rocking back on his heels. His hands drop to his waist, prepared to curl around a duty belt that no longer exists. At the last second, he collects himself, redirecting the motion.
His fists find his pockets instead. "An apple a day, and you're already in better shape than Ollie," he finishes, a small smirk settling on the edge of his mouth.
There's a current in the air, and for one lingering moment, it's as if nothing has changed: Fifteen's fluorescent bulbs and scuffed, gray-white floor; the faint polyester itch around her neckline and the heavy, underwater drag of her boots after a long weekend. Dark brown eyes that meet her own, teasing and jovial, and that tiny flutter in her belly as they exchange twin grins...
The harsh bang of the locker room door breaks the spell, and they both jolt backward in surprise.
He recovers first. The tough-guy stance he adopts is familiar: arms rigidly suspended across his broad chest, mouth set in a thin, firm line.
He directs his chin toward the drab, tile ceiling, and she feels the air palpably shift.
"Get that looked at, yeah?" Sam nods at her bruised collarbone; keeps his focus on an invisible point past her left ear. His voice is low and controlled. "We'll need all hands on deck the next few days."
(And god almighty, she did not miss this look. Distant and detached, those glazed eyes that empirically refuse to see.)
She smiles tightly. "Already on it. Thanks."
He turns abruptly, raising his hand in silent salute as he walks away. "Welcome back, McNally."
(Months of anticipation, and that's how it plays out.)
Good to be home, she thinks, but doesn't say.