A/N: Having watched the premiere once or twice more … (ahem) I have finally come up with logics for Sam and Andy's OOC moments, which have cheered me up no end. So, a Sam stream of consciousness-ish thing before I tackle the intensity that's going to be the next chapter of Running on Empty
He'd screwed up today.
More than once, actually, but who was counting?
Well. Him, obviously.
He hadn't thought she'd actually do it, move in with Callaghan. She was always so unsure of herself and of her relationship with golden boy. When he'd heard that Callaghan was buying a house and had asked her to live with him, Sam's first impulse had been to smile, because he'd thought that she'd panic, run a mile.
But she hadn't.
He could trace the change in her back to the undercover op. Before, she'd always lacked faith in her own abilities, needed a little nudge, a little pep talk to believe in herself. Then afterwards, she had been calm, serene, joyful even. She'd suddenly had a huge injection of self-confidence, self-belief. And while it was long overdue in his opinion, he wished it had pushed her towards him, not Callaghan.
He hadn't lied to her, that last day of the heatwave, when he'd told her that Callaghan chose a different rookie every year. He might have been motivated by jealousy and the thought of her eating ice cream, naked, but it was still the truth. He couldn't understand why Callaghan had chosen this year, this rookie not to get bored and move on.
Well. Yeah, he could. Of course he could. He knew that if Andy McNally was his, he'd barely let her out of his sight, let alone let go of her completely.
He couldn't quite understand how or when she'd gotten under his skin so completely. There'd been other women. A lot of other women, and he'd been in love before. Hell, he'd even been on the wrong side of unrequited love a time or two, but it had never been like this. The few times that the Swarek charms had failed to win a woman over, he'd always been able to find another pair of willing arms, and been happy to use them.
But now … he'd blown Monica off, which at the time, when he hadn't taken McNally's relationship with Callaghan seriously, had thought that something was happening between the two of them had made sense. But it had been months since the blackout, since McNally made her choice and he hadn't called Monica. Hadn't found anyone else.
Hadn't looked.
Hadn't been able to.
He'd thought a lot about that damned first day that they'd worked together. If he'd pushed it, pushed her, he knew he could have had her back to his place and in his bed, and he'd caught himself wondering if maybe he had, he'd have gotten her out of his system. It had happened before – he'd found someone he wanted, obsessed over her, and then promptly lost interest as soon as he'd slept with her.
Or he might never have been able to let her leave.
So he'd screwed up today. His first day rostered on with McNally since she'd shacked up with Callaghan, thrown by the sick feeling of jealousy he'd had, the sense that the rug had been pulled out from under his feet, and Boyd had decided to come and offer him a place in Guns and Gangs.
He thought that maybe it was her laughing indifference when she'd asked,
"What's holding you back?"
that had made him tell the truth,
"You."
And then, with Oliver's gaze boring into the side of his skull, he'd realised that he'd got the tone wrong; too serious, not sarcastic enough, and he'd carried on talking, tried to save it.
"Love workin' with you McNally. Can't imagine my life without you in it."
Again, he'd meant to sound flippant, maintain plausible deniability. But again, it had come out too serious, too close to the truth.
He'd seen the flash of uncertainty in her eyes before she'd grinned and shot off her own cheap line,
"Hey, you'll get to wear all that hair gel again."
He'd wished that there'd been a locker around for him to punch.
Either her poker face had improved, a lot … or she just didn't care. And he'd just pretty much announced how much he cared about her.
That was screw up number one.
And then she'd been shot.
He had a feeling that he was going to remember those few seconds for the rest of his life.
Oliver, God bless him, had gone for the girl, letting him take McNally, see that she was breathing, see that she'd taken the bullet in the vest, wasn't bleeding, was going to be fine. Adrenaline had surged through his system, and his training had kicked in, letting him go onto autopilot
secure the perimeter don't let anybody leave clear a path for the ambulance
And when he'd been able to stop, once there'd been a little space for him to think, all he'd been able to think about was Andy. About the blood across her face and where it had come from. About the fact that the only thing that had saved her life was her vest. About how he really couldn't imagine his life without her in it.
Without having to be asked, as soon as he'd put the wounded girl in the back of the ambulance, Oliver had smoothly taken over running the scene without even a word to him, just a look which said
"Yeah, in five minutes you are not going to be able to function, brother."
He'd steered clear of her while she was with Frank. Even though Frank was his friend, he was also a white shirt – and he didn't need Frank asking questions about how close he was to his partner, about his objectivity or lack of it. Or putting two and two together about retraining, for that matter. He'd kept her in his sights, though, right up until she went into the trailer to be interviewed by Rosati, then waited outside as it became clear to him that Oliver had been right and that he really was not able to think without first checking she was all right.
And so came screw up two.
He'd had the presence of mind to drag her around to the other side of the trailer – away from where any of their colleagues might see them.
She'd been babbling away, which was comforting. He'd seen that she was silent with Frank, and that had worried him. Only a fatal injury could shut Andy McNally up. He hadn't really listened to anything that she'd said, but he knew that she wasn't just giving him,
"I'm fine."
She was letting him in. He was grateful for that. It gave him hope.
He had pinned her against the side of the trailer, started checking her face, making sure the blood wasn't hers, that she hadn't hit her head when she hit the ground. He had been brushing the hair from her face almost reverently when she'd seen the kid,
"Sam ..."
She hadn't been looking at him whilst he was examining her, which was good. He had no idea what had been showing in his face, but he doubted that seeing sick terror, pain, despair, horror, grief, (want), (need), (love), would have benefited her at that point.
Screw up two. His actions, if she'd been paying attention, been in any state to pay attention, would have told her how he felt.
The vast majority of his interaction with McNally was a bluff, to maintain plausible deniability. Just enough of the truth that if his feelings were reciprocated, he'd be able to find out and work from there, just hidden enough that if she was indifferent, he could pretend to be too.
I find you attractive, not You intrigue me.
Callaghan's a good guy, not I'm a good guy.
Your constant talking is annoying, not Your constant talking is getting under my skin and I don't know what to do.
I want to sleep with you, not I want you.
It was what it was, not I hate that that's what it was to you.
But today, his poker face had slipped. And given that she seemed determined to forge ahead with Callaghan, he thought that his feelings might start coming through his facade more often. Plausible deniability was fast becoming an impossibility.
He couldn't afford that.
So, now he had two options.
Fold. Walk away, take the position with Guns and Gangs, leave her to Callaghan's tender charms.
Or to go all in. He knew that he was under her skin. The other option was to push her buttons, push her, make her admit her feelings for him – the attraction, and hopefully the rest.
He'd never much been one for folding.
A/N 2: The ice cream, naked, before I get comments about it – I just wondered if Sam had maybe heard it, and that's why he snapped at her. He's probably too far away, but I rather like the idea of it distracting him all day.