A/N: So I'm very much enjoying all of the holiday-themed stories popping up, but I kept getting drawn back into task-force time for some reason. This was originally going to be a one-shot, before alternating POVs and flashbacks made their way in. (Why these things take on a life of their own, I'm still not sure.) Hopefully, there isn't too much jumping around here. Part 2 will be out before Christmas – unless I go into labor this week, in which case I make absolutely no promises. :) Let me know what you think, and thanks as always for reading.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue.
It's exactly five days before she feels anything other than numb.
In a way, it's beneficial; allows her and Nick to focus on getting established, making initial contacts, setting up the dingy apartment they've been granted for the duration of their assignment. The radiator's broken, and it's almost disconcerting how quickly she grows accustomed to watching her breath emerge in slow puffs as she attempts to find a comfortable sleeping position. (It's not like she expected the department to spring for memory foam or anything, but there had to be something within the budget beyond this pathetic excuse for a mattress – really just a mess of metal coils covered in a few thin layers of cotton batting. She's sure the pullout couch in the living room, on which Nick has insisted he sleep, isn't any better.) She wears her parka indoors and keeps her face impassive when their handler tells them not to call the super about fixing the heat, as to avoid any undue attention this early in the op.
(Part of her wants to snap back that he doesn't have to huddle by the lit oven every morning so his fingers don't fall off, but she can't seem to drum up enough annoyance or frustration to penetrate the walls that surround her. Amazing how an absence of feeling can so strongly overpower any emotion that actually exists.)
Day six, she wakes up with a vague gnawing sensation. Manages to repress it as she preps the bar at the Garcias' nightclub, directs her energy to bottle inventory and paring endless cases of citrus fruit into wedges. She begs off at four when the early-shift waitstaff arrives; doesn't have to be back until nine or so. Nick's supposed to meet her to pick up some dinner – and buy a space heater – but he tends to run a little late most afternoons, getting caught up in conversation with his less illustrious coworkers. (She's pleasantly surprised by how good he is at this. The surprise of her own doubt and lack of focus? Not so pleasant; not by a long shot.)
She ducks into a dilapidated convenience store near their agreed-upon meeting point as snow begins to fall, and browses the aisles absently as the gnawing begins to feel less ambiguous and a whole lot more like regret. What's done is done; she's here now, and for the sake of their safety, she cannot allow it to be anything other than the right decision. But visions of the potential alternatives begin to creep into her mind, if she'd turned Luke down and gone to the Penny – because she knows she would've shown up, if only to see where 'give me a chance' would lead. (She figures in spite of everything, she couldn't resist offering Sam that much – or little, really.) She knows he'll find out she accepted a place on the task force, if he hasn't already; that he'll assume she left because of him. Wants him to know that it's not true, not exactly.
Her eyes fall on a small rotating stand on the counter, containing pre-stamped picture postcards with aerial Toronto city skyline images gracing one side. She selects a card and flips it over. The disinterested clerk shrugs at her and returns to playing Angry Birds on his phone; there's no one else in the store, and he clearly figures she'll probably be a while.
To say everything she wants to express would rival War and Peace in terms of length, not at all conducive to the small box designated for text. Plus, she'd need to consider her wording carefully if she were to fully explain things, and Nick really should be getting here any minute. Time and space will never stop finding new and interesting ways to cause me problems, she thinks wryly as she digs in her bag for a pen.
In the end, she scrawls I love you too across the back. Drops it in the mailbox on the corner and hopes it's enough.
There's a blizzard in late April, bad enough that Sam briefly questions the sanity of anyone with concerns about global warming. The light snowfall that started shortly after he arrived at work becomes a full-blown winter storm, with piles of fluffy white flakes up to his shins by the time he leaves. His usual cold-weather vehicular accessories having been abandoned somewhere in his garage last month, he improvises, using a file folder to hastily brush off his windshield. Climbing into the truck with a huff and cranking the heat all the way up, he has to fight a grin when he spots Epstein mournfully looking at his bicycle, chained to the rack with its wheels buried completely.
He overheard the rook talking yesterday afternoon about how weathermen get it wrong more often than not; "They predict this stuff, everyone quakes in their boots, and it'll end up being awesome outside." Sam considers the merits of yelling out the window at Epstein to enjoy his spring bike ride, but instead offers to drive him home, even lets him chatter en route about anti-rust coating and how he has enough soup stockpiled to make it through an apocalypse. It's not necessarily out of the goodness of his heart, though he's reasonably confident he wouldn't have let the kid freeze; it's because Andy would have insisted they do so.
(Of course, she also probably would have insisted they accept Dov's invitation to come in for some chicken noodle, which is where Sam draws the line; he manages to be polite in his declination, at least.)
His gas bill this month is going to be a nightmare, but it's worth it to walk into a warm house. He sheds his jacket and enters the kitchen, surveying the rather dismal contents of the fridge; grocery shopping has been overdue for a few days now. Within ten or so seconds, he concludes that he might have been better off with Epstein and the soup. A bit of rummaging yields an egg carton, one-third full and miraculously unexpired, tucked behind old takeout containers and Tupperware with something fuzzy growing along the side. He tosses together an omelet, cutting off the wrinkly side of the sole bell pepper that's in the crisper, and adding the ham from the deli drawer (it only smells off when he thinks about it for too long). He eats in front of the TV, plate on his lap, and pours himself a scotch – rationalizes that the cold weather is reason enough to make it a double.
His cell phone beeps as he returns to the living room. He places the rocks glass he's holding on the coffee table and glances at the screen; it's Nash, asking if they're still on for tomorrow afternoon. He sends a quick affirmative reply before settling back onto the couch, lifting the glass for a slow sip of the smoky liquid.
It started a few weeks ago, when her cell rang across the D's office. Though Nash kept her voice hushed as she spoke to whoever was on the other end, her tone was clearly heated, and she practically threw the phone back on her desk after hanging up.
"Can you hold down the fort here for a little while?" she eventually asked him. "I have to go take care of something."
He raised an eyebrow, not wanting to pry but curious nonetheless. "Everything all right?"
She sighed, taking a swig from her extra-large to-go cup, and he realized that at some point in recent history, she'd gone from a normal-sized serving of coffee to something more suited to a long-distance truck driver. "It's Leo. He got into a fight at school, and I have to go pick him up." She pinched the bridge of her nose.
"His dad can't…"
"Nope." She shook her head for good measure. "Dex is on business in Ottawa all week, and my mom went on a casino trip with her friends. So Leo can deal with sitting here for a few hours until I'm done. He's been… things have been tough lately. Since…"
Sam opened his mouth, then closed it without responding. It was fairly obvious what kind of impact Jerry's death would have on Nash, but he hadn't given a great deal of thought as to how much her kid might be struggling with it as well. "Go, I'll cover you," he eventually told her.
When she returned forty-five minutes later, Sam found he hardly recognized the boy who trailed behind her. Leo was taller, sure – kids always have a tendency to seem taller when one doesn't see them on a daily basis, don't they? – but it was the scowl on his face, the anger in his eyes that so took Sam aback.
"Sit," Nash commanded, motioning to the chair in front of her desk before looking toward Sam. "Epstein and Price tracked down one of the eyewitnesses from the carjacking on Dundas last week, but she's not talking. I'm going to go see if I can get something out of her." She looked over her shoulder at Leo as she headed toward the door. "Do your multiplication worksheets."
After she left, Sam found himself looking up at the boy, who was slouched in the chair, arms stubbornly crossed over his chest. He did not appear to have any interest in multiplication worksheets – or anything constructive, for that matter – and Sam wasn't about to be the one to attempt to discipline a kid he barely knew. But watching him sit there in silence wasn't especially comfortable, either.
"Got in a fight, huh?" he eventually asked.
Leo's head snapped up in surprise, but his face quickly settled back into its glower. "Why do you care?"
Sam shrugged. "Been in plenty myself. You don't look like you fared too badly, though."
Leo looked away. "I gave him a bloody nose."
"Congratulations," Sam deadpanned. "What'd he do to earn that?"
"Nothing. I mean, he's kind of a bully, but… I don't know. I just keep getting mad." Leo was now staring at his feet, his next words mumbled almost too quietly for Sam to hear. "I miss Jerry."
Sam cringed. "Yeah, I know." Me too, he thought, but a heart-to-heart with a nine-year-old was a bit beyond his capacity. "What's your mom tell you to do when you get mad?"
Leo made a face. "Count to ten. Take a deep breath. Think of something happy. None of it works."
"Hmm." Words echoed across Sam's memory, distant like they were underwater.
You need to hit something.
Hit what?
Me.
"Get up," Sam said suddenly, pushing his own chair back from his desk and rising to his feet. "Come on."
Leo wrinkled his nose in doubt. "Mom said I'm already grounded till high school."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Let me worry about that."
It didn't take long upon their arrival to the gym to find the box of training equipment from the last teen-and-tween self-defense class 15 held. The gloves Sam dug out were slightly too big for Leo, but after wrapping his hands in extra tape, it seemed they would suffice. "Now repeat after me. There is a time and a place for hitting. Not school, and never people."
Leo obliged while looking at his hands in puzzlement. "So what do I do?"
Sam pointed to the heavy bag in the corner. "Go over there and… think of whatever makes you mad."
Leo got the hang of it pretty quickly, attacking the bag with vigor as Sam quietly advised him about his stance and the position of his hands. He was actually smiling after a few minutes, tossing in roundhouse kicks and loud karate-chop sound effects, when Nash appeared in the doorway.
"What is going on in here?" she demanded.
Leo stopped immediately and turned toward his mother, eyes wide. "There is a time and a place for hitting. Not school, and never people," he recited rapidly.
Nash looked from Leo to Sam and back before throwing her hands up in the air. "I'll be in the office," she muttered as Leo enthusiastically resumed his assault.
Sam walked in tentatively the next morning, an extra coffee in hand, unsure as to whether his work environment was about to become considerably less comfortable. But Nash accepted the cup cordially, putting away her coat and powering on her computer before speaking. "He likes you."
Sam looked at her in surprise. "Because I told him to hit something?"
"Because you knew what he needed," she replied with a small smile. "He's been so… cold lately. No kid should be like that, ever. And the thought of losing him, too – not the same way as Jerry, obviously, but... it's too much. And after yesterday, he… I don't know. Came back."
Completely unsure as to how to respond, Sam nodded slowly. "That's, um. Good."
"Yeah," she agreed. "And, uh… he wants to learn more 'cool boxing stuff', just so you know."
"Okay," Sam said with a slow exhalation and a slight grin. "We can do that."
Leo's been at the station three or so days a week after school to take out whatever aggression he possesses on an unsuspecting inanimate object; Nash says his teacher hasn't complained once about his behavior, and his homework is always done without her having to nag or wheedle. (Sam suspects it also has something to do with the somewhat curtailed hours she's adopted in recent weeks.) He never saw himself becoming a kids' boxing coach – or anger management counselor – but it seems to be working for all involved parties.
He didn't do it for Andy, but it doesn't hurt to know that she'd probably be happy about it.
He drains the last of his scotch, feeling the warmth rush through him as he gently fingers the postcard on the end table, a deep crease in one corner from the careless postal worker who delivered it. It isn't signed, but even if he didn't recognize her handwriting – hell, even if it had been assembled from cut-out magazine letters like a ransom note – he'd still know that it was her. That while he isn't entirely sure of why she left just yet, it was despite his asking for a chance, not because of it. That every time he looks at it, the seemingly permanent chill in his chest eases off minutely.
One thing he knows above all: she has to return eventually. He just hopes the message remains true once she does.
