A/N: You reviewers are champs! Thank you so much! And to all readers: Thanks for putting your trust in me to drive this bus to Crazytown and back. It's been a wild, emotional ride with Sam and Andy.
Once again, the POV switches in conjunction with the line breaks. There will be a short epilogue to follow.
DISCLAIMER: I own neither Rookie Blue nor the lyrics of Lenka.
Chapter Seven: [up above the world, up above it all, here's a hand to hold on to]
She pulls back first, wiping her eyes and releasing the tight grip on his shirt. "Sam, look… There's a lot I need to say to you, and it can't wait."
He steps back, staring at her for two, three beats.
"Okay," he says softly. "Just give me a few minutes, alright?" Scrubbing his hand over his jaw, he moves to the kitchen, picking up his bag. With his free hand, he grabs fills a glass with tap water and wanders back into the living room, passing it to her without a word.
She smiles gratefully, her expression weary but resolute.
He nods in acknowledgment before striding to his bedroom.
(She doesn't know if it's easier or harder like this. Now that's he touched her, now that she's admitted – publicly – that her indifference was a lie... It makes everything that's on her mind and in her heart difficult to vocalize.)
Vulnerability: She's never been very good at it.
Taking a slow sip of her water, she wills herself to think clearly.
Universe, don't fail me now.
When he returns several minutes later, he has shed his leather jacket. He takes a seat on the armchair in the living room, gazes at her steadily.
She decides to invoke prudence. Moving away from him, she sits on the couch.
"'I'm sorry," she begins quietly, struggling to keep her voice even. "I'm so sorry. For calling you selfish, for walking out on you without a word. That's on me, and I regret it."
She risks a glance across the room, locking eyes with him. "I don't expect you to just forgive me outright. I mean, I hope you will, but I understand that one apology isn't enough, that I need to be honest with you, and that's going to take time. I was pretty shitty to you, and I…"
She trails off, attempting to collect herself.
(She doesn't want the apology to be the only thing that gets out; there's still so much to say.)
She takes a deep breath, focuses on her hands in her lap. "I want you to know… Sam, you need to know... You didn't just step into this 'boyfriend' role, filling some void Luke left. You're not a replacement, or a rebound, or someone I was hoping to have a little fun with."
She holds up a hand, silencing the inevitable protest on his lips. "You probably know that, but I still need to say it, alright? This – us – Sam, it's serious to me. You... You have been a part of my life since day one at 15, okay? And you've hollowed out this niche as my TO, and my colleague, and as a leader. And that grew into something more for me."
(She anticipates his movement before it comes, standing abruptly as he begins to rise from the chair.)
She maintains distance between them, walking over to the window. "I know you probably want to interrupt me, but if I'm going to say all this I need to do it in one shot. Just give me a minute, okay?"
The ferocity of her tone startles her, but he nods minutely, understanding.
She inhales deeply, closing her eyes and concentrating. "Sam, you were the one who taught me I can't use the uniform as an escape. I can't let this job consume me."
Spinning on her heel, she turns toward him. "I love being a cop. It's not a secret; you've known that since day one. To be passionate, to stay committed, I need to maintain balance." She opens her eyes, staring at him. "Balance in my relationships, and my work, and my everything, okay?"
"Okay," he echoes softly, and it's sincere, she can tell.
Her hands rattle, and she sucks in another gulp of air. "I'm not going to take the ETF thing. When I say the program isn't for me, I mean it. It's not the right fit now, and maybe it never will be. I need you to trust my judgment. Okay?"
"Okay," he repeats quietly, his gaze never wavering.
"Okay," she confirms, nodding her head. Her shoulders sag, and she drops onto the far end of the couch.
(She'll probably think of eight other things she wants to say in the next minute and a half, but for now, it's a start.)
He notes her tight grip on the glass tumbler. Knows how important it is for her to start this conversation. To say these things that have been weighing on her mind.
(She's always been insanely strong. Seeing her fall apart, crying into his chest… It breaks him.)
He nods along with her points, listening carefully. Makes a move to touch her at one point, but she eludes his grasp.
(The answer is not as simple as twin "Okays," a complacent exchange between the two of them, but it's a step in the right direction.)
"Is it my turn now?" he asks mildly, his gaze fixed upon her.
She nods silently, and he takes a breath. Tries to figure out how to proceed without coming off like a total asshole.
He can't sit for this conversation. He surrenders to the urge to pace, hoping he doesn't look too wild-eyed and frantic.
"I want you to try and see things from my perspective, alright?" he begins, running a hand through his hair.
"You've been given this huge opportunity. Whatever else you wanna say about it, it's huge, and you can't overlook the fact that Elaine Peck singled you out."
He looks to her for confirmation, and she nods again. Her jaw is set, tight, but at least she's acknowledging the facts.
"I respect your judgment, Andy. And maybe I don't tell you that enough, now that we're split up in the field. You're smart and you're capable, but you can't deny that sometimes you're a little impulsive... And this nagging about Montreal was to make sure you gave it thought."
"But that's exactly what I mean," she interrupts, her spine straightening in a blatantly defiant move. "You're not my life coach, Sam."
"Wait," he says, a degree too sharply. "You got to say your piece; now I need to say mine."
(So much for not looking like an asshole, then.)
He exhales harshly, mentally kicking himself. "I didn't mean to say it like that; I just–"
(He knows how she'd shine at a special forces seminar. Light up the damn room and inspire others with her enthusiasm, her commitment. It's part of what makes her so attractive, professional and otherwise. He's not trying to be condescending, just wants her to understand the extent of her capabilities, her career options.)
"Andy, I know what a great cop you are. I know that you'd excel in a training program. Forget Peck; I know that it's only a matter of time before bigger bigwigs take notice." He pauses, dropping his gaze to the floor.
His voice is low but passionate when he speaks again. "When I told you to think about… When I tried to encourage you to take it…"
"Andy, I don't want to ship you off to Montreal for nine weeks. But I also don't want you to stay for me. If Montreal could open doors… I just meant that we have all the time in the world for us. Opportunities like this don't come knocking every day."
It's his earnestness that kills her.
He's right on most counts: It is a huge opportunity.
(That doesn't mean it's a good fit.)
"But that's the thing, Sam," she blurts out, folding her arms over her chest.
(God, it's like he's purposefully dense sometimes.)
"You're saying we have all the time in the world for us, for this. We don't have all the time in the world, not in our line of work. Every day we put on the uniform, we're taking a risk. And as much as I love my job - and you know I do - I'm not going to let it consume me. I'm not going to bring it home with me every night and base every important decision on whether it's prudent for my career. Keeping Toronto safe is one of my priorities, yes, but my friends? My family? They're important too, Sam. I'm not going to forsake the people I love, get so caught up in this job that I lose myself..."
She swallows hard, willing the tears to stay firmly lodged in their ducts.
(She's not going to cry; she's not. She's not going to think about her dad, either.)
"When you wouldn't stop insisting… I know you meant well, Sam, but…" She looks around helplessly, willing him to understand. "It's stifling. It's like this utter and complete lack of trust, like I'm incapable of making my own decisions. And after everything with Luke, all I want is for us to trust each other."
(He winces at Luke's name; she sees it from her peripheral.)
She takes careful note of his reaction, speaks urgently and steadily. "Luke is probably the last person you want to talk about, I get that, but I need to say this: If I hadn't been with him, if I hadn't gotten my heart broken, I wouldn't be approaching this relationship with the same kind of seriousness. Looking to the future and reevaluating my five, ten year plan. I wouldn't be so pissed off about a damn training initiative, for god's sake..."
"My plan?" she continues quietly. "The most important thing… You need to understand that I want you to be a part of it. But I can't – I won't – let you dictate that plan. And if you can't handle that, then we can't be together."
(She wants to be with him, she does, but if they can't work together…)
"You were shutting down, moving away when I tried to tell you why ETF wasn't the right program. You were retreating; I could feel it, and I didn't know why…You weren't letting me explain my reasons; you had it in your head that the only answer I should give was yes."
Don't screw up this next part, McNally.
Rubbing her temple, she tips her head toward the ceiling. "I didn't know if you wanted an out. If this was your way of taking a break: Sending me to Montreal. And I probably should have had more faith in you, but Sam… You've been looking at me like I'm one step from sprinting away. Since day one, practically."
She draws a ragged breath, her next words coming out in a rush, frenzied. "And god, it's silly and stupid and maybe I'm too insecure, but when you look at me like I'm going to be the one to break your heart… It hurts, okay?"
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
"And I know I've made mistakes, and I know I jerked you around for a while, and there were moments and times when I was a total witch to you; god knows, that whole mess with Luke before we got together… And I was stupid, alright?"
(She can feel her throat closing up, and her heart is in her stomach, and everything hurts so damn much…)
"But I want this. I want you. And I want you to want me here, not look at me like we're thirty seconds away from total implosion. I love you, okay? And I haven't stopped – not when I walked out and not when we had to work cases together and not when I saw you in the Penny, even though I basically wanted to throw up – and god, Sam…"
(She can't stop them from pooling. Curses her weakness, her foolishness.)
"I don't know how to fix this," she finishes softly, the tears falling freely. "I don't."
His head is spinning. Even for a McNally rant, this one's…
Loaded.
(Her words come like gasps, and his chest tightens in response. He doesn't know where to begin, how to tell her… She's so far off the mark.)
Dictate the plan?
He doesn't want to dictate any plan. If that's what she thought this was…
He's a goddamn idiot.
(He wants to tell her that he's spent the past month miserable out of his mind – Angry and lonely and missing her like he was missing a part of his heart. That he's an asshole a lot of the time and he's not used to playing by the rules; that he flies solo and sometimes doesn't consider other people's feelings; that he can be infantile and petty and he's not used to having someone else's opinion mean so goddamn much. That he misses her and loves her and is used to masking insecurity, but it's a hell of a lot harder where she is concerned, and basically, he sucks at communication.)
He hangs his head, not sure how to translate those sentiments into actual words. Taking a seat on the coffee table, he shifts so he's sitting in front of her.
He pauses before raising his head, slowly reaching for her hand.
(Like he's exhausted every other option, and the only thing that can kickstart this monologue is her warm skin touching his own.)
She doesn't pull her hand away, so…
(Progress, right?)
"Andy," he begins carefully, leaning forward. "You were right about one thing. I was pulling away, and I did a shitty job explaining myself."
He blows out a breath, and a shaky laugh escapes. "It's hard for me, letting people in. Letting them in and letting them weigh in. My track record with relationships is…" He pauses, considering. "Terrible, frankly."
He sweeps a thumb over the back of her hand, stalling. "I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life. I just… I don't want you to look back in ten years and regret not doing the program. That kind of sacrifice has personal and professional repercussions."
(Bitterness will eat away at you...)
"Andy, if I can't even communicate about this…" He swallows hard, contemplating. "You're part of my world on both ends – On the job and off. And I've been so busy trying to navigate those waters and not screw up, to avoid putting you in a position where you're forced to chose between a job that you love and me, that I ended up pushing you away."
(Sometimes he feels a thousand years older than he is, really and truly.)
He meets her gaze, clasping her fingers tightly. "I'm sorry."
Pausing, he considers his words carefully. "I just… I don't want to be another mistake for you."
(There it is: All cards on the table.)
Well. All except one.
"Those times we talked around the issues and ignored what was going on? That wasn't just you, sweetheart. I'm not blameless, not by a long shot. And hell, if we're going to talk about the Penny, you may as well know that I don't know that woman's name and Jerry is a pain in my ass…"
He laughs uneasily, the pain in her eyes still a fresh memory.
His eyes are dark, his expression inscrutable when he speaks again. "I love you, Andy. And I want to figure this out, okay? You and me."
"Sam…" she begins softly, hesitantly. Fisting a hand in his shirt, she closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. "Um, okay. Okay."
Pull yourself together, copper.
She slides her hand to his, twining their fingers together. "It's probably super-important that I get this next bit out..."
She stares at his chest, opening her mouth, then closing it again.
"You have never been a mistake. And even if–" she breaks off, her voice faltering. "Even if we don't…"
Clearing her throat, she tries again. "Look, you've helped me grow as a person. Taught and led by example, and that's never… I won't ever consider that a mistake, alright? And being here with you… I've been fighting it for a month, but it's where I want to be."
Her chest loosens at the admission, and she persists. "I don't want to give that shitty night in the Penny one more passing thought, and as far as ETF goes…"
"My dad is finally starting to get his life in order, and I'm, like, finally getting to know the streets of Toronto, and I… Sam, I love that. I'm happy, and I'm not ready to give it up."
She focuses on the pattern of his floorboards, eyes sweeping across the ground. "And it's not all better; it can't be all better after one conversation; I know that, but…"
"God, you're not a mistake. I want us to try again. Please."
They stare at each other for a long moment, apology written in their eyes.
(Far from over, but the journey of a thousand miles...)
"I missed you," he says after a long moment, searching her face. He threads a hand through the hair at her nape, pulls her closer. The beginnings of a small smile tug at his mouth, and he directs the motion toward her cheek.
(It's familiar posturing, familiar words; an echo of conversation in the parking lot of 15 Division.)
Five months ago they were different people; had different ideas about what missing each other was.
"You have no idea," she returns quietly.
The conversation continues on the couch. Soft whispers fill the room, emotional questions and responses.
"Comparing you to..." The words jump from her mouth, and she swallows hard, pausing. "I was so wrong; I never should have said you were anything like her..."
"Andy," he interrupts softly, squeezing her hand. "I know. You're not the only one who replayed that conversation, and I don't want you to think..."
"I was wrong," she blurts out, fast and insistent. "God, of anyone, I'm the one most like..."
"Andy," he repeats steadily, nudging her chin up to meet her eyes. "You... You're not like her either."
Closing her eyes, she leans against the armrest. "You don't know that," she protests quietly. "How could you?"
"I know you," he replies, his voice low and even. He keeps his gaze fixed on hers, waiting for the words to sink in. "And I know that heart, and I know how much that heart feels."
"We both said stupid things that night," he continues quietly. "You and me both."
She opens her eyes slowly, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she finally whispers.
"Me too," he echoes. "Me too."
He wakes hours later, muscles achy and tight. He takes a moment to orient himself, rub the sleep from his eyes. It's dark outside, and he offers a silent salute to the universe, grateful for the weekend.
(His spine is stiff, and the fact that he doesn't need to spend the next ten hours in a squad car? It's a welcome relief.)
He's not sure how they ended up in this position, exactly. He chalks it up to exhaustion, confessions about the last few weeks that spurred heavy, emotional dialogue.
It's not over; it's not finished by half, but they're moving forward.
(Somewhere in the middle, he imagines they just passed out. Mental, physical, emotional tolls.)
He's sprawled on the couch, feet on the coffee table, head tilted back onto the cushions. Andy is draped over his lap, head and arm resting on his thigh.
(It's not an unwelcome position after nearly five weeks of separation, but still: It's a couch, and he's too old for this shit.)
He nudges her awake, sweeping an open palm across her shoulders and shaking her lightly. "Andy. Sweetheart, wake up."
She shifts slightly, mumbling nonsense into his jean-clad leg.
(The apparel: Another reason they need to move off this couch.)
"What time is it?" she mumbles blearily.
"Late," Sam replies with a yawn. "Or early, however you want to skew it."
She forces herself into a seated position, giving him room to move around. "Did we just…?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He manages a half-smile. "I think we were both more tired than we thought."
He swallows thickly, staring at her mussed hair and sleepy expression. "You, uh… You want me to take you home?" he offers.
(It's a good will gesture: He doesn't want to force anything here.)
She shakes her head, still groggy with sleep. "No, um. No, it's late. Unless…? Unless you want to take me home?"
(It's an out: She doesn't want to force anything here.)
"Not really," he says, shaking his head. His casual tone belies the relief in his eyes. "No, actually. Not at all."
Dragging himself to an upright position, he offers his hand with the intent of helping her stand.
Her gaze flickers between his hand and his eyes before she smiles once, slow and wide.
Clasping his palm, she allows him to pull her up.
(One foot forward. Destination: Normal.)
"Hey, um," she asks, following him to his bedroom. "Can I use your bathroom? I want to wipe off whatever makeup is left on my face…" She laughs lowly, the noise catching in her throat. "Whatever makeup I haven't cried off, that is."
He gives her a small push in the right direction. "Go for it. I'll find you something to sleep in."
"Thanks," she says, squeezing his hand before dropping it lightly.
Her smile reaches her eyes, and it's a refreshing sight.
She finds it when she steps inside his full bath.
A fresh toothbrush, still in its clear plastic.
A small, blue hand towel.
Her facewash.
(The same brand of foaming cleanser she distinctly recalls shoving in her toiletry bag before she left. Same scent and same stupid pump.)
New.
Sitting there.
Waiting for her.
He sees her standing by the doorway, the light from the adjacent bathroom filtering behind her.
Her arm is limp at her side, fingers clutching a purple toothbrush.
"You…" she murmurs softly, her grip tightening on the toothbrush. Her mouth falls open, and she struggles to find the words. "You…"
His eyes drop to her fist, and he swallows hard. Gauging. Assessing.
"I just wanted you to come back," he says softly. "I figured… You'd need some stuff right?"
"But what if…" she begins hesitantly, the muscles in her throat working furiously. "What if I hadn't…?"
"I don't know," he replies, a breath catching in his throat. "I guess…I don't know."
Their eyes lock.
Stay connected.
Two, three, four beats.
She moves like lightening, leaping into his arms, the force knocking him backwards and nearly causing him to stagger.
"I love you," she murmurs against his ear, warm arms clasped around his neck. "I love you so much."
"I want you here to stay," he whispers softly, pulling her impossibly close. "Stay."
