A/N: Your feedback has been amazing, guys! Thank you! In the interest of spitting out these chapters, I haven't had a chance to respond to individual reviews like usual, but please know that I appreciate each and every one. Your comments keep me going!
Sam's POV again. Poor guy. Here's to turning a corner...
DISCLAIMER: I own neither Rookie Blue nor the lyrics of Regina Spektor.
Chapter Three: [your stitches are all out, but your scars are healing wrong]
What happens when normal is encumbered, hits a wall, and knocks you to the ground?
That's his question.
Universe, submit your theories.
He's half-listening to Frank, his eyes roving the room as the staff-sergeant hands out assignments. He rubs his jaw wearily, knowing instinctively where his gaze will settle. It's like he has an internal homing device, and all signals point to a neat brown ponytail and side-swept bangs.
Today, they're carefully pinned behind her ear.
(He's grateful for days when they're pinned back. Stops him from wanting to sweep his hand across her forehead every time they brush her eyes.)
He studies the dark tresses, the swing of her ponytail as she turns in her chair to say something to Epstein. Wonders briefly just how many minutes of his life he's spent staring at the back of her head. On some level, it's easier this way. She can't see him looking, and he can feign indifference at the appropriate time.
(This, right here? This is why the universe frowns upon relationships with coworkers.)
He supposes the fallout was unavoidable. They were involved before every being involved. That's what happens when an eager young rook burns a cop from her own division.
He draws a breath, blowing it out slowly.
(He'd let her burn him three times over again if she'd just meet his eye.)
Since Oliver found out, he's been persistent. Nudging his shoulder, inviting him over for dinner or out for a drink, keeping his mind otherwise occupied.
That's how he found himself on the Shaws' deck last Tuesday, watching Oliver overcook steak kabobs. Five beers in and feeling particularly bold, Oliver had jokingly referred to the past month as "AA."
After Andy.
The slow rehabilitation as you worked rookie cops out of your system.
(He had the decency to apologize the next morning.)
Sam's not convinced he can get her bright smile out of his head. That he even wants to.
(Her 3 a.m. giggles. Her bouncy runner's step. Her sleepy weight, cocky bravado, empathetic nature...)
Hell, if he's going to be a masochist, he may as well be honest about it.
No going back. That much is true. Once she's with you… No going back.
He's not keen on being caught staring, so he drops his gaze to the floor.
An unbidden memory flashes to his brain as her dark ponytail bobs in his peripheral.
First day back from suspenion, and he hadn't seen her yet. Didn't want to make a point of asking Frank where she was.
(Conduct unbecoming is still fresh. Probably not a good idea for him to be pressing his staff-sergeant for information.)
When he exits the barn, he sees her leaning against the taillight of his truck, her gaze locked on him.
"Hey," he greets when he's a few meters away. He's not sure how this reunion is supposed to go, what expectations she has, if any...
"Hey," she returns, straightening. "I, uh. Didn't see you all shift."
"Debrief meetings lasted way too long..." He breaks off, studying her. "You changed your hair," he says, the surprise evident in his voice.
(He's not as obtuse as he seems, he swears.)
"Yeah, well. Time for a change," Andy answers easily. Her smile is vaguely pleased, like maybe she's glad he noticed. Sweeping her hair off her neck, she fingers a tress lightly. "Know what happens after break-ups?"
His brow furrows; he's not sure where she's going with this. "I, uh... No. What happens?"
"Girls go out and get a haircut. New color, sometimes. Out with the old, in with the new," she explains with a shrug of her shoulder. "It's an identity thing."
She looks at him, an impish smile on her face. "Where have you been for all my play-by-play commentary on The Bachelor? Three weeks of bad TV, and this is what I figured out: They have post-break up transformations down to a science. Hosing those girls down until they're sober and smiling, then dying their hair."
He feels vaguely unsettled, an uneasy smile on his face. He needs to clarify something before he can begin to process the rest of this conversation. If break-ups spur makeovers...
"Callaghan?" he begins hesitantly, setting his jaw in anticipation of her response.
(Me? he thinks, but doesn't say.)
"Oh god, no," she replies immediately, her forehead creasing. "I was 'on a break' from the division, so..." She gestures to her head, her lips twitching with the trace of a cheeky grin. "New cut, new color. Darker, obviously."
An odd sense of relief washes over him. He wasn't aware of the tightness in his chest until something inside loosened, and his breath came more easily.
"Besides," she adds, settling one hand on her hip. "Now I feel more like the badass cop I am."
Her expression is serious as the grave, but she breaks a moment later, grinning. "Your silence is your 'edge.' Gruff demeanor," she explains, taking a step forward. Her hand slides to the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. "People already think you're scary," she murmurs.
"That right?" he asks, sliding his thumbs through her belt loops and tugging her closer. It feels good to touch her, something his hands have been aching to do all day. "You think I'm scary?"
She shakes her head emphatically, left to right. "You're secretly a pushover," she says matter-of-factly.
"Huh," Sam muses, stepping forward and brushing his lips against her jaw. "Well. Only for one person, I think."
She smiles into his cheek, wrapping her free arm around his waist.
"I missed you," she says softly, pulling back slightly as her eyes search his face.
"You have no idea," he answers steadily. With a grin, he slides his palm into hers, hauling her toward the front of the cab. "I like it, by the way. The hair."
"Yeah?" she prompts with a laugh. "Thanks. If you didn't..." She cocks an eyebrow, teasing. "Dealbreaker."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, uh..." He unlocks the door of the truck, ushering her inside. "If it's all the same to you, I think we should probably make up for lost time..."
He shakes himself, interrupting his suspended reverie.
Dismisses the memory. Exhales deeply. Acknowledges the merits of self-preservation.
Better not to dwell, anyway.
(Still: She hasn't changed her hair. That means something, right?)
He doesn't know.
Veteran cop, fourteen years on the force, and he doesn't have a goddamn clue.
Daydreaming during Parade? Least of his issues today.
It never just rains, it pours.
He approaches the scene, the eastern ravine of High Park where they've been dispatched. The ground is soft beneath his feet, the result of summer showers, and he squints, making out the embankment where she and Epstein are surveying the land. There's a dip by the water, in which the battered body of a teenager is lying.
Shit.
Any death is terrible – troubling – but it's always worse when it's violent. Always worse when it's a kid.
His hand slides gently across her waist, nudging her aside as he leans closer, peering into the ditch. She inhales sharply, and his reaction is instinctive. His eyes fly to hers. He drops his hand like he's been burned and takes three steps to the left.
"What've we got?" he says, averting his eyes.
Epstein squares his shoulders before clearing his throat, his voice low and serious. "Lacerations around the face and neck, cause of death undetermined. Officer McNally was the first to find him after canvassing the park..."
Sam's gaze flickers to Andy, silent and searching. He stops following Epstein's recap, his focus elsewhere for the moment.
It's the first time they've had unbroken eye contact in weeks.
"…and Homicide's been called," Dov finishes a minute later, looking at him expectantly.
He nods infinitesimally, swallowing hard and tearing his eyes away from her.
(She has a weary, defeated look on her face, lines on her forehead and dark shadows under her eyes. He feels that age-old constriction, long days in the field as her TO. Wanting to say something but bound by professionalism. )
Not your place, Swarek.
He hates not being able to say something.
(Five months with her, and he's allergic to silence, too.)
Jerry talks him into a drink at the Penny.
He's not at the top of his game, which is how he misses the scheme at first.
(He figures it out quickly.)
He wants to be pissed. He didn't force Jerry into anything, those months when Traci was back with Leo's dad. The Penny is a breeding ground for rumor; he doesn't need more of a headache because Jerry is an idiot.
(He's the bigger idiot, walking away from the best thing that's ever happened to him. Letting her run away and not going after her.)
He's too damn old. Too damn tired. He doesn't want to play this game, buying drinks and taking girls home from bars. He's past that point in his life where the idea is even remotely appealing: Laying on the charm, employing the dimples like a task force, one goal in mind...
It's empty.
(He's not interested in the thrill of the chase, the mind games and manipulation tactics. He hasn't engaged that side in years, doesn't like being a guy who uses a woman – even when she's willing. There's only one girl on his mind at present, and he's acutely aware of the hollowness of everything – everyone – else. How other women pale in comparison, how he doesn't feel excited by the prospect of freedom or bachelorhood or whatever the hell you want to call it. Mostly he feels old and exhausted and fed up.)
Jerry chatted up a girl tonight, cute and blonde, before passing him the reins like every bad sitcom ever: "Have you met my friend, Sammy?"
He nods half-heartedly, hoping the motion carries enough casual disinterest to dissuade her. Takes a slow pull of his beer. Focuses on the dusty chalkboard behind the bar like it's a recent discovery, high scores for darts and fifteen year old drink specials.
The woman – L-something, Laura, Lola, Linda? – tries to engage him politely, asking questions. She falls within an age-appropriate bracket; doesn't have badge bunny written all over her. Even so...
(He's not interested. Not remotely.)
He swivels his stool toward her, keen on telling her so – Blunt honesty has always served him well, right? Plastering a smile on his face, he opens his mouth before movement catches his eye, a point past her ear. The entryway to the Penny.
His eyes slide over to the door where he meets Andy's gaze.
She looks stricken, slowly backing away before spinning on her heel. The expression on her face – It's raw. She averts her gaze immediately when she catches his eye, perhaps hoping he hadn't noticed her noticing him. The door slams with a dull thud.
He thinks about taking Jerry's boat shoe (seriously, how is he even friends with this guy?) and shoving it up his ass.
He begs off, drives home. Falls into a fitful sleep that night. Dreams about sad brown eyes and plaid shirts.
She was the one who ran, for god's sake.
You drove her to it, his conscience niggles. And you left first, so...
I walked out the door so I wouldn't say something and come to regret it, he reflects.
You walked out because you didn't want to talk about the bigger issues at hand. Where you're both going, and if your futures include one another.
I know my answer, he thinks immediately.
Yeah, but were you ready to hear hers? Accept hers?
(He's not sure when his conscience became so snippy.)
So honest?
He's out of answers.
He knows this: He misses her something god-awful.
Regret ushers in second-guessing, overthinking, and what ifs - Unwelcome guests at his empty dinner table.
(Everything is a reminder these days. She had this stupid way of folding napkins, little origami shapes when she set the table at his place... That's one difference between having a steady girl in your life and not having one: Cloth napkins.)
He smirks briefly, the motion unnatural after weeks of grimaces and forcibly casual apathy.
The next moment he sighs, one hand rubbing his temple as he pushes his plate away.
She's right on one count.
He was retreating. Well-intentioned or not, he was pulling away without explanation.
(Of the myriad ways this relationship could have ended poorly, he never envisioned self-sabotage as a possible scenario.)
He thinks about her first year on the force. If Andy seeking him out at every awkward turn was bad, Andy not seeking him out is worse.
He doesn't know how to do this boyfriend thing. Knows less how to do the ex-boyfriend thing.
He wants to be supportive, but he doesn't want her overlooking commendation from the brass. He wants to lay it all out there, but –
(He's never been this invested. Not even close. She has the power to break him. He's a nearly unrecognizable version of himself, missing her.)
He's an idiot, he knows that. They have this chain of reacting, one angry comment on top of another, building and building until the walls come tumbling down and they're both broken.
(It's ridiculous. She's the one that gives him a steady foundation, and if she understood that...)
He loves her. God help him, he loves her.
Everything he's ever wanted - ever really wanted - he's had to work for.
He doesn't know why he expects this to be any different.
Risk/Reward. The stakes are the highest they've ever been.
He just hopes he's not too late.
