"We got quarantined for SARS in '03. You know what happened? Snack machine ran dry, Jerry started growing himself a goatee, and I took everybody's money in poker."
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue. (But seriously. How great was the emoting in 2x08?)
[Poker Face.]
Undercover work?
It's all about control.
He controls his reaction: The set of his jaw, the words that slip from his mouth. They sound casual, yes, but they're deliberate. Intentional. He's careful in that respect.
He controls his temper: Suppresses anger. Feigns amusement. Conceals disgust. Just about the only thing that remains involuntary is the beat of his heart and the rhythmic inhale-exhale of breath, but even that…
Well, he's had to regulate that, too.
He has a commanding presence, but on the job, he respects the hierarchy. He has a spine, but he knows when to be subordinate.
Bad guys like deference. Builds trust.
He bluffs with the best of them. No visible tells: Straight-faced lies and half-truths, steady hands and unblinking eyes.
He dispenses distorted, misleading backstories with the calculated composure of the world's best con. He can pinpoint his opponent's weaknesses, use them to his advantage.
He can make a clean sweep of the poker table for the exact same reason.
He's always been good at bluffing.
Propping a foot on the edge of the chair, he takes a smacking bite of his apple and cradles the headphones to his ear.
He shakes his head, biting back a laugh. Diaz is eager like a puppy and about as casual as a tuxedo. Per Andy's instructions, he is pushing and prodding with the hope that Blue Guy will slip.
Sam has to admit, there's a certain poetry to this surveillance: Easy laughs and matching grins, the two of them pursuing a case together. It's a comfortable, familiar dynamic, one he had missed in recent weeks. She has that fire tonight, a steely glint to her eyes that tips him off immediately. Not even quarantine is going to stop her.
She's following a lead, and he's following her.
No one can say Sam Swarek doesn't have his partner's back.
And this case? Well, he has a perfectly legitimate reason for blowing off the poker game.
The pot will be waiting for him in a few hours, anyway.
(If he doesn't get to it? Well. There'll be other games.)
He's happy to see her laughing again.
Her smile is its own reward.
If they were my cards, I would have checked-raise, smooth call, and taken the lead on the turn.
He registers vague disbelief, looking to Oliver for confirmation.
His head swivels back toward her, and he can't stifle the incredulity. Admiration, really. A wry, amused grin threatens to overtake his face, and he fumbles for the gum in his mouth, grasping at distraction.
No gum to be found.
Right. He was, uh, eating an apple.
Color him…
Intrigued.
Impressed, definitely impressed. Maybe a few other things.
On the right girl, poker prowess might make him a little, uh…
Well, it's a trait he definitely doesn't hate.
Full of surprises, that Andy McNally.
It's getting a little harder to remain impassive.
She takes a sip of coffee, but her eyes follow the movements in the holding cell.
His eyes follow her.
She's focused. In the zone. Intent on gleaning the slightest clue from Blue Guy's words.
How long has it been? Eighteen, nineteen months? She's gotten more confident. Relaxed posture but rapt attention.
It's attractive.
His mind wanders.
It's easy to listen to the conversation. It's much harder to watch the camera footage.
He finds himself watching her instead.
She doesn't look any different than usual. Neat brown ponytail. Unruly bangs. Standard issue, long-sleeve uniform.
Of course, barring her brief confession in Interview One (she really does need an axe), she's been in attack mode all day. Yelling at the hot-and-heavy couple in front of the store. Cuffing Blue Guy. Ranting about emotional displays.
Her tenuous grasp on her temper had slipped at Blue Guy's nudging. He was happy to see it go. He welcomes the return of snappish, irritable Andy. It's a far cry from somber heartache or forced nonchalance, and for that, Sam is grateful.
Now, determination replaces frustration: The endgame motivates her. Let's get this guy.
She's resilient, and resilience is its own shade of attractive.
Everything about this damn girl…
Honestly, he gets a little lost in her.
His heart stutters, and he stares a beat too long. A split second later, his brain catches up.
He realizes he's at work.
Adjusts his expression to one of casual indifference.
Returns his gaze to the monitor.
His brain is now blank. He can only hope his face is, too.
He's back at the poker table, one eye on the deck and the other on his partner.
Removed from her immediate vicinity, he can breathe more easily.
Sitting next to her, he had been transparent. Obvious. He's not keen on blatant concessions to emotion, particularly not in a room full of coppers.
For a second there, he had been caught in an alluring, hazy world of sensation. Her dark eyes had clouded his vision, the lingering scent of her shampoo wafting toward his nose...
He's definitely overdue for some time at the poker table. He takes a seat across from Jerry, intent on covering his tracks. A little distance is in his best interest. He could use a break. From her. From this.
She is quick to reel him in again: You know the guy that was beat up? Is he a branch manager? So he's responsible for mortgages, loans…? Maybe he was targeted.
Huh. If Blue Guy 'took it back,' then…
She may be on to something.
He heads for the phone, punching the number for 27 Division. At the very least, they can email the mug shot and have an officer dispatched to Victoria Mercy. Maybe the branch manager can ID Blue Guy. It seems like a solid plan of action.
Until she practically leaps over the desk.
No! Hang up! Hang it up, hang it up!
He's thrown for a loop.
It's, uh, not the first time. Not even the first time today.
She's a box of Froot Loops, that one.
He stares at her with patent concern, his expression a severe mix of annoyance, doubt, and bewilderment. He can't wait to hear this explanation.
Just… listen. We're on quarantine, right? And as far as we know, this might be our last case, so… Do we really want to give it up?
His reaction is knee-jerk.
There's an affectionate grin edging onto his face, a little bit impressed and a lotta bit fond.
Frank could issue a cease-and-desist order, and it wouldn't do a damn thing to stop his face from bursting with decidedly tender pride.
If this is their last day, she's not going down without a fight.
It's another check for Andy McNally, closet poker enthusiast. She's dealt a shitty hand, but she's got nerve.
She refuses to fold.
Sitting at the table with Shaw and Barber, he thinks about the connection between poker and UC. There's a lot of correlation, actually. The method by which one plays a hand is remarkably similar to how one operates in the field.
Jerry is a detective; he relies on sharp eyes – His focus is observation, not concealment. He can hypothesize and infer, but he's never spent time learning to hide his own reactions.
Undercover? Jerry would stick out like a sore thumb. You could dress him down, sure, but his tell is in the way he carries himself, the set of his shoulders as he walks across a room. Strip him of his designer suit, expensive watch, and the moisturizing cream he vehemently swears belongs to Nash, and Jerry is an amateur at the World Tour of Smugglers and Drug Lords.
Ollie fares better. Average build, discreet and unassuming. He knows how to blend. He won't call attention to himself, but he's not much of a risk-taker, either.
UC is all about risks. Danger. Living in a near-constant state of suspicion; evaluating everything by the threat it poses to your identity. You put your life on the line.
Sometimes it pans out. Sometimes it doesn't.
Huge stakes and narrow margins of victory.
So, yeah. Ollie can blend. But he's got a wife and three daughters to think about, so he bets moderately and walks a beat. Risks are for guys without commitments. Guys like Sam.
It's only in recent months that commitments have seemed less like strings and more like connections. Links to something greater than himself. Bonds that aren't restraints or chokeholds, but gateways to something raw and human and new.
It's not bad counting on someone; having someone count on you. There's a comfortable security, a mutual reassurance. It's actually kind of nice, a shred of normalcy in the crazy world of law enforcement.
Partners, for instance. There's a commitment he can get behind.
Partners who are partners?
Maybe it's something worth exploring. Something worth betting on.
More often than not, he's amused by the vehemence with which she tackles cases. Or, you know, people.
She doesn't give up easily. No place for passive police in the Andy McNally Handbook.
Fiery combatant, electric warrior, tenacious fighter: The heart of gold and disarming smile appear when you least expect them, and the effect is nearly crippling.
You can try to prepare for it, but it hits with all the blunt force of a kick to the chest.
That's why her attitude in recent weeks has bothered him. This silent grief, tempered with emphatic denial and casual dismissal. Things were moving too fast; we're slowing it down.
She may have improved since the Mermaid Lounge ordeal, but she doesn't have a natural gift for bluffing. Anybody who cares about her is gonna figure it out. Frankly, her poker face is terrible.
But today? The spark returned. When the call came in, he started to see traces of the old Andy.
A fire he knows. A fire he just might lo-
Regardless.
He welcomed the hard, unyielding tone she took with those randy kids. Silently cheered at her blatant annoyance. Of course, he baited her with a surprised "Wow," because Sam Swarek wouldn't let her attitude slide without comment.
(No matter what he felt on the inside. No matter how happy he was to see her color return, the signs of life and spirit and obstinacy.)
He's a confident guy. He doesn't hide behind a false pretense of modesty. He can acknowledge his talents as well as his faults, and he likes to think he's self-aware.
He can lay the bravado on thickly, sure, but it's part of his charm. He can cop to fleeting moments of idiocy in his rookie years, but on the job, he is a man with few chinks in the armor.
He is a man who knows his strengths.
If you asked him two, three years ago? He thought he knew his weaknesses, too.
He chases criminals and the occasional shot of whisky.
He doesn't chase women.
Or, uh – He didn't.
He didn't use to do a lot of whatever this is.
He catches himself staring a lot more. Smiling. Eyes cut over to hers to see if she's laughing or provoking, working or relaxing, fixing her hair or sipping a beer or maybe…
Watching him with the same mirrored intensity.
He wonders when he became so obvious.
He's always been good at bluffing.
Straight-faced and smooth-talking until... Well, until she sat down at the table.
That control he boasts? Gone with the crook of an eyebrow and the barest hint of mirth on her lips.
He's a good player, sure, but this round?
She holds all the cards.
A/N: Rewatch/check out Sam's reaction when Andy says, "This might be our last case, so... Do we really want to give it up?" It's a good one, I promise.