A/N: Thank you so much for the great feedback! There was a bit more at the end, which I cut because it seemed to take the sugary aspect a little too far, so I'm hoping it doesn't seem incomplete as a result. Let me know what you think; I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: Still don't own Rookie Blue.
She's the first to admit that she has more experience interfering with deep-cover assignments than facilitating them. But still – it wasn't supposed to be like this. Wasn't supposed to end up with her arm in a sling and three of Nick's ribs fractured.
Wasn't supposed to hurt as much as what she'd left behind.
The Garcia boys have long been a well-known local dynasty on the surface. As heirs to a wealthy entrepreneur, they own and operate a number of respected businesses – among them, the exclusive lounge where Andy's been slinging fancy martinis for months, and the furniture warehouse in which Nick assembles walnut and mahogany into headboards and bookcases (faking the hell out of carpentry skills he fully admits he doesn't possess). But despite the sizeable profits and their even larger trust funds, sometime after their father died, the three of them got greedy. Their thing for over two years has been drug trafficking; luring in teenage girls from impoverished regions of Central and South America with promises of new lives, of enough money to support their families, then turning them into mules. They travel back and forth between Canada and their home countries, with fake passports (the real ones, of course, are under lock and key at the Garcia compound) and invented back-stories of scholarships abroad and employment with international companies. The irony, of course, is that the lies these girls are forced to tell paint a picture of the beautiful, prosperous lives they've been promised; repeating the words at customs time and again seems to be as close as they'll ever get.
Once the contraband is present, certain warehouse employees – unscrupulous, present in Canada illegally, or both – are enlisted to sell on the streets. Nick and Andy establish pretty quickly that most of them continue to do it long past any point of comfort because they fear for their families' safety if they attempt to leave.
One night in March, a cocaine-filled condom bursts inside a sixteen-year-old's stomach and Nelson, the club's main proprietor, refuses to call an ambulance. Andy, powerless to help, watches her convulse on the dirty tile floor of the club's back room where the girls stay in between trips before her body finally goes still. It's worse than a bullet in the vest and a red button soaring through the air; worse than Ray Nixon's hands around her throat. Worse than anything she could ever bring herself to imagine.
Nick tries, bless his heart; makes her hot chocolate she refuses to touch and finds a marathon of her favorite guilty-pleasure reality show (which he personally can't stand) on one of their six channels. He knows her well enough, though, to know that what she really needs is not in his power to give.
After months of what seem like false starts, Andy grows close to Tania, a waitress at the club who 'earned' her way out of trafficking by unwittingly acquiring Nelson's affections. It's just an even exchange, though, one type of perverse indentured servitude for another. Tania refuses to talk about what happens behind closed doors with Nelson, but eventually confesses that it was better being a mule.
"You could apply for refugee status. They might be able to help you…" Andy attempts, but Tania just shrugs.
"My parents are dead," she says in a monotone. "My brothers are in a gang in Caracas, or maybe they're dead too. I don't know. At least it's safe here, kind of."
"She's only nineteen," Andy begs their handler later that week. "And she's given us tons of information about how the traffickers operate. There's gotta be something we can do to help her."
Paul hems and haws, but eventually agrees to help arrange for Tania to enter a protection program. Andy manages to make the offer without revealing her own position to Tania – it's a little awkward, the vague assurances about her "connections" – but once she convinces Tania of her sincerity, the girl bursts into tears, realizing the potential of a fresh start someplace else.
A car is scheduled to wait for her at a rendezvous point near the club, and everything is going perfectly – until one of the more opportunistic waitresses spots Tania heading out the back door and tips off Nelson. Long story short, Tania gets away; Andy – despite an award-winning performance of playing dumb – gets her ass kicked.
Nick calls Paul, who takes pictures of her busted-up face and promises they'll use this against them in the eventual trial. He asks if Andy wants out, assures her that they can bust the Garcias on what they already have, but she refuses to end the op now; they should be wrapping up in a few weeks, anyhow.
(A few days later, when Nick somehow arouses Martin Garcia's suspicions and is coerced into shooting a dirty needle into his vein to prove his loyalty, she questions whether that was the best call.)
They're supposed to get pulled before the actual takedown, but with things becoming somewhat unstable, the team has to move faster than expected. Andy's honestly relieved when the raid starts; from her position behind the bar, she makes momentary eye contact with Nick over in the VIP section. The similar sentiment she sees flash across his face and the reprieve it brings are equally short-lived; Nelson corrals her and every other girl within reach into the supply room. As he shoves her further from the door, she stumbles over the open hatchway to the basement and has nothing to grab onto as she loses her balance. Nelson grabs at her in an unsuccessful attempt to keep her from falling, wrenching her left arm from its socket just before she tumbles down the steps.
She lies at the base of the staircase for several endless minutes, her useless arm dangling at an odd angle as she tries to will herself to overcome the pain and get up. Familiar harrowing sounds float down to her: commanding voices, metallic jangles and scrapes of handcuffs fastening, several distant gunshots. After a veritable eternity, she hears footsteps growing heavier on the stairs, finds herself staring a pair of standard-issue TPS boots in the face.
"We've got one down here!" the officer – Chapman, according to his uniform – yells back up to what Andy assumes is the rest of the team. "Have them send another ambulance." He crouches beside her. "You all right?"
She manages to nod, despite every minuscule motion threatening to send daggers through her nervous system. "On the job."
"I know. Your partner's on his way out upstairs – he took a couple when their guys started shooting at us."
Pain temporarily forgotten, she struggles to sit up. "Is he all right? What…"
Chapman puts a hand on her good shoulder. "Easy. He got two in the vest, one in the leg. That one was more of a graze than anything else, he'll be fine. You hit your head at all?"
After the forced-heroin incident, she and Nick decided a vest beneath his shirt might not be the worst idea, at least in the darkness of the club at night. (The low-cut tops her work dress code required didn't quite allow for Kevlar.)
"No, no," Andy responds distractedly. Hit just about everything else on the way down, but that's another story. "The girls who were upstairs – where are you taking them?"
"They'll go somewhere safe until immigration services helps set them up with asylum – or sends them home, if they have a decent one to go to," Chapman assures her, looking toward the radio chatter and static coming from the top of the stairs. "Paramedics are here."
The emergency-room staff at St. Mike's realigns her shoulder – the split second of agony being completely worth the subsequent relief – cleans the abrasions and stitches up the cuts that seem to have bloomed all over her skin. The doctor sends her for a bunch of X-rays despite her protestations, which indicate no internal damage other than a mild sprain of her slightly swollen right ankle. "You should keep weight off of it as much as possible for the next week or so, but with the arm out of commission, it's going to be tough to use crutches," the doctor tells her. "You're going to need some help to get around. Is there someone we can call for you?"
Traci arrives twenty minutes later. Fusses over Andy appropriately, hands her a deli sandwich and a bag of normal clothes, lets her use her cell to dial Tommy and Claire. (The results of both calls leave her disappointed for different reasons.) In the abridged version of 'half a year at 15 Division,' Traci mentions that Sam became a detective, and they've been working together. Andy knows hearing his name shouldn't bring about an involuntary sharp breath on her part – but it does.
"How is he?" she manages.
Traci hesitates. "Good, I think. Misses you."
Andy snorts. "What, did he say that? Can't imagine him suddenly pouring out his feelings in the middle of the work day."
"He doesn't have to," Traci responds with a shrug. "Just like you don't."
Andy bites her lip. "I left, Trace. Things… didn't go over so well the last time I did that."
"He left too, remember? It doesn't have to matter." Traci looks pensive all of a sudden. "Just matters that you both come back. Because you want to… and you can."
Andy places a bruised hand on her friend's arm. Traci said she was fine, and it's not that Andy doesn't believe her; she's probably as close to fine as she can be. But things will never be the same.
She's starting to realize, though, that 'different' doesn't have to mean 'worse.'
"My mom's with Leo, but I should think about heading home soon," Traci says apologetically. "Gail came with me, she said she'd stop down here after she sees Nick. He really is going to be fine."
Andy nods. It'll be months, maybe years, before Nick finds out if he's been left with any consequences from that needle – but after six months of subsisting together in a crappy apartment, she knows that if anyone will find a way to push through the fear of the unknown, it's him.
She lies back on the stretcher, wondering if maybe he's rubbed off on her a little.
The details of Project Dakota are supposed to be confidential; for the eyes of task-force insiders and white shirts only. But really, Sam reasons, if Frank is going to keep the progress reports that Callaghan delivers in plain view on his desk and leave his office door unlocked when he goes out for lunch, he's kind of asking for it.
For months, the files are mercifully boring, mostly factoids that Andy and Collins have gathered from their various unknowing informants. He's expecting much of the same when he opens the latest installment the first week of May, only to be met with an image of Andy's battered face. He stares at her eye, shiny and purple and swollen shut; the ugly black sutures at the side of her lip; the dark bruises on her limbs and abdomen. Wills himself to keep it together as he reads her statement, shaking his head at her recollections of helping the girl escape. Of course she would, he thinks. No matter what it meant she had to go through herself. Wrenching as he finds the contents of the report, hope rises in his chest as he nears the last paragraph: "McNally and Collins aware of timeline for remainder of project, likely to be concluded within 2-3 weeks."
He wants time to speed up, and to stop. He's desperate to see her, and has no idea how he's going to react when he does. (Or how she will. Especially how she will.)
It's ten days later when his phone chirps during the evening news with a text from Nash. St. Mike's ER. She wants to see you. Don't be a baby.
He rolls his eyes, but he's starting up the truck within five minutes.
Amidst the chaos of the emergency room, a harried nurse points him in the direction of a pulled curtain in the corner of the large main area. He peeks around just enough to see a touch of dark hair falling across a blue patterned hospital gown, steels himself, and pulls the curtain back enough to walk through.
She jumps a little at the sudden motion, her eyes going wide when she sees him. "I… hi."
He just looks at her for a moment, her eye and lip mostly healed (fresh bruises in their place), her fingers nervously tying the blanket over her lower half in knots. "Is it okay that I'm here? Nash told me, but I can…" He motions toward the edge of the curtain.
She shakes her head gingerly. "No, it's okay. It's… I just need a minute."
He nods. "I can go get a drink. I think I saw a machine back there. You want a water or something?"
"No, I…" She motions to the plastic chair beside the stretcher. "I mean, I just need a minute to… I don't even know. It's fine, Sam. Really."
He takes a seat, allowing the turbulent silence between them to simmer for a moment before venturing, "Heard you did well."
She shrugs. "I just did what I had to do."
"With that girl? What was it, Tania?" He raises an eyebrow. "You gave her a new life. Took a beating for her. That's brave, Andy."
She gazes down at her lap. "Or stupid. Depends on how you look at it."
He sighs. "I don't look at it as stupid." Silence settles over them once more.
"I would do it again, if I had to," she says suddenly, glancing up at him. "Even knowing everything that would happen, I… I couldn't live knowing things were like that."
It's plenty clear to him that she's not talking about Tania anymore. "I know."
"And you still think it's… not stupid?"
He tips his head back to stretch his neck. "You're not the only one who did what they had to do. Sometimes it's good to take a chance."
She smiles a little then. "Yeah, congrats on making detective. Trace told me."
"Thanks."
"She also mentioned what you did with Leo. That's… I think it's really sweet."
Sam shrugs. "She tell you that he wants to be a boxer who doesn't hit people when he grows up?"
Her smile grows wider. "No, I missed that one."
"Yeah, and guess who gets to clue him in on the likelihood of that?" He grins. "So when can you go home?"
"They said I'm probably going to need help for a while, so unless someone can help me limp around for the next few days, they're sending me to the short-stay unit. Ugh." She rolls her eyes. "Traci would, but I guess with everything with Leo, she's trying to give him more stability – so she can't stay over. I'd go over there, but fourth-floor walkups don't really go well with busted ankles."
He nods. "Your dad?"
She shakes her head. "According to his answering machine, he and Amy are on a cruise in the Caribbean until next week. Another snorkeling and Serenity Prayer deal." She shrugs. "But they're happy, so that's good."
"Claire?" Not that he wants to ask, but he knows he should.
Just like that, Andy's expression hardens. "She cut me off before I could tell her what happened. Apparently this week is just terrible for her, and can we maybe get together for lunch at some point, she can't wait to hear all about the task force."
He offers a sympathetic grimace. "Sorry."
She sighs. "I think she's great at stuff like party planning and coffee dates. Not so much at the actual mothering. Maybe it isn't so bad, as long as I know what to expect."
"Mmm." As quiet again overtakes them, he's beginning to realize exactly why Nash told him not to be a baby. "I don't have any plans this week, you know."
"Sam…" She begins to shake her head. "I wouldn't ask you to do that. Not with everything so…"
"You're not asking," he says softly. "I'm offering."
She hesitates, and he wonders incredulously how much she's actually missed him if she's considering a loathed hospital stay over his help. But finally she nods. "Okay."
Sam stands up slowly. "I'll get the nurse."
Forty-five minutes and a mountain of discharge instructions later, they pull up to her building after brief stops at the pharmacy and a tolerable Chinese takeout joint. He lets his hand hover near her back, hesitant to actually touch her, as she balances with one crutch beneath her good arm on the way through the lobby and elevator. Inside, she groans at the thin layer of dust on most horizontal surfaces; he dampens a paper towel in the kitchen sink and brushes off the counter before placing the food down. "Not something you need to worry about tonight."
"I know." She sighs as she sinks onto a barstool. "I was just… hoping one thing might not be messy."
He contemplates this as he pulls paper cartons from the bag. "Messy's not always bad."
"Oh, yeah?" She smirks and reaches for the sweet-and-sour. "How do you figure?"
"Well…" He toys with the metal wire handle of the fried rice container. "Can't be all that horrible if you get a chance to clean it up."
She stabs a piece of chicken with a single chopstick and chews thoughtfully before nodding. "I'll give you that."
He's not sure whether she's talking about the point he's making or the opportunity he's hoping to receive; has a rather optimistic feeling it's both.
After they've eaten, Andy tells him she wants to shower; concludes after a moment that given her current issues with balance and weight-bearing, a bath might be a better idea. He shoos her away from the bathroom long enough to fill the tub with hot water, placing every scented girly bath product he can find on the ledge within reach. She hobbles toward the threshold, having gotten herself into her robe.
"Thanks," she says, not looking at him.
He nods. "Just, uh… yell if you need something, I guess." He heads back out to the living room.
A good while later, he faintly hears his name being called, and nudges the bathroom door open a crack. "You all right?"
"Yeah, I just, um…" Her voice sounds somewhat sheepish. "The whole washing my hair with one hand thing, it's not working too well."
He takes a deep breath. "Want me to come in?"
An exasperated sigh comes from behind the door. "I want my hair to not be gross."
Okay, then. He pushes open the door slowly to find her completely ensconced in bubbles, with the exception of her head and her elevated ankle.
She slides a hand out from under the water to pick up one of the several bottles he's left for her. "This one."
He nods, settling onto the ledge of the tub behind her and pouring a small amount of shampoo out into his hand. He wavers for a moment, then runs his hands through her hair, massaging the lather onto her scalp with his fingertips. Her eyes close. "Mmm."
"That okay?"
"Mm-hmm." Her head lolls back toward him. "Feels nice."
He continues for a few moments until the shampoo is thoroughly worked through her hair, then wipes his hands on a towel and reaches for the hand-held shower attachment. "Keep your eyes closed," he instructs as he rinses away the suds.
She obliges with a small smile. "Thanks. Um, do you mind doing conditioner too, or…"
"You got it." He repeats the process, noting that the bath water is starting to get cold. "About ready to get out?"
"Yeah."
He's uncertain as to whether he should leave and let her attempt to climb out on her own, but she scoffs at his hesitation, not unkindly.
When he looks at her in surprise, she shrugs. "It's nothing you haven't seen before, you know."
He reaches for the bath towel hanging on the rack behind him. "Fair enough." She uses her good arm to push off the edge of the tub, and he helps her to a standing position, getting her onto the bathmat and wrapping the towel around her.
"Not that this is exactly how I envisioned you seeing it again, but whatever," she continues to mutter as he carefully dries her left shoulder.
At that, his head snaps up. "Oh, really?" He tries to conceal the stupid grin spreading across his face, but to no avail. "Can I ask how you did envision it?"
"Cool your jets," she says in a warning tone – but she's smiling too. "I'm on the injured reserve list here. Don't want to get you all worked up for no good reason."
"Uh-huh." He moves behind her and her slide her arms into her bathrobe before wrapping the towel around her head. (He can't do that turban thing with it that every woman on the planet seems to be able to pull off, but at least it'll keep water from dripping down her back.) She slides an arm over his shoulders, leaning on him for support as they head out toward the bedroom.
"Let's just say… well, you know already. Undercover gets lonely. Lots of time for the mind to wander."
"You had Collins," he points out.
She stops in her unsteady tracks, looks him dead in the eye. "Not like that."
He nods. He'd figured, but… six months being a long time, he didn't think it could hurt to make sure. "Yeah. I, uh… I get what you mean."
"Do you?"
"Yep." He helps her sit down on the bed, reaches for the pajamas she set out before coming into the bathroom. "Lonely's not exclusive to undercover, you know."
"Hmm." She exhales forcefully as she maneuvers the strap of her tank top over her left arm. "You didn't try to… I don't know, fix it?"
"What, move on?" At her nod, he shakes his head. "Thought about it for thirty seconds or so. Idea didn't take." He moves the cotton strap into place without thinking about it, looks at her for a long moment. "I doubt it ever will."
She bites her lip. "That so?"
"Yeah." There's so much more he wants to say, wants to ask – but if her startlingly shy grin is any indication, that'll suffice for the time being.
Once she's dressed, with her arm positioned in the sling and her ankle rewrapped, she settles on the bed, right leg out straight in front of her and left leg tucked up under her body like a sedentary flamingo. She's been wincing enough during this whole process that Sam convinces her to take one of the painkillers the doctor prescribed; in addition to making her more comfortable, he's hoping it'll help her sleep without incident. (He knows a little too much about how difficult it can be, the first night back in reality after deep cover.)
"I should comb my hair," she announces several minutes after knocking back the pill, but makes no move to pick up the brush on the nightstand. Feeling slightly emboldened after their earlier conversation, Sam rests at the edge of the bed beside her, lifting the plastic brush and gently pulling the bristles through her damp locks. As he continues, she slouches further back until her head is resting against his chest.
He glances down to see her eyelids looking heavy. "Hang on a minute," he says, transferring her weight to the pillow behind him long enough to get up, turn off lights, and triple-check the alarm she had installed. When he returns, she's sprawled on her side, half on top of the blankets. He smooths the duvet over her and is about to step out of the room when he hears a protesting whimper.
"Stay."
He freezes, but when she opens her eyes and repeats the request, he lies down on the opposite side of the bed. Almost instantly, she scoots toward him, her back tucked against his front. Just in case it's the oxycodone talking, he'll wait until she goes to sleep, he figures; then he'll move to the couch. Maybe tomorrow, they can –
"Love you."
The words are slurred with sleep and medication, but are nonetheless unmistakable. He lets himself place a tentative hand on her hip, which she promptly pulls across her waist.
"Love you too," he whispers. All he hears in response is a contented sigh, followed by the sound of deep, even breaths filling the air.
Early-morning sunlight awakens him, confirming that an injured but serene Andy is asleep beside him, her head resting on one of his arms while his other lies over her midsection. He debates attempting to get up without arousing her, just in case she has no memory whatsoever of last night, but there's no easy way to disentangle himself, and it'll probably be worse if she wakes up to find him sneaking out of the room. It turns out he doesn't have to debate for long, though, because not two minutes after he opens his eyes, she begins to stir.
"Sam," she mutters.
"Hmm?"
"Morning." He feels her smile against his skin.
He grins, more than a little relieved that her wanting him here was authentic and not narcotic-induced. "Morning, McNally. Sleep well?"
"Slept great." She sighs. "You?"
"Mm-hmm." Better than he has in well over half a year. "Want me to get up, start some coffee?"
She shakes her head. "Maybe in a minute. I, um…" She slides her body a bit further back toward his. "I missed this. A lot."
"You're not the only one." He drops a gentle kiss onto her bare shoulder, causing her to shiver a little. "Cold?"
He feels her grin again. "Not anymore."