The following scene takes place post-2x12.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue. (If I did, Oliver and Zoe would have their own spin-off show, Ollie and Zoe Take Toronto.)
[behind every good man…]
With a heavy sigh, Oliver turns the key in the lock and steps over the threshold of the familiar brick house.
He hears movement from the kitchen, and a moment later, Zoe pads quietly into the hallway. She is dressed in a pale green bathrobe, her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail.
Stayed up, he notes silently, something tugging inside his chest. Of course she would, after that text.
"Hon?" Zoe prompts softly. A bitter gust of wind sweeps through the foyer, and she rubs her arms vigorously, shivering. She stares at him for a moment, eyes wide with concern and sympathy. "How–?"
Shutting the door, Oliver kicks off his shoes, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. Opening the hall closet, he reaches for a hanger to hang his coat before turning toward her. His face looks exhausted, and he smiles grimly.
"Hey," he greets, his voice hoarse. Exhaling loudly, he steps toward her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Sorry I'm so late…"
The glow of the nightlight illuminates the hallway, and she takes silent inventory of his frame, the tight set of his shoulders and the bags under his eyes. Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head minutely. "Oliver. You don't have to be sorry…"
"Come sit down," she murmurs, tilting her head toward the breakfast nook. She leads him into the kitchen, where half a mug of chamomile tea and a book rest on the table. Collecting them and sweeping them aside, she watches her husband take a heavy seat.
Without another word, she fills a large glass with water and places it before him. Dropping into the chair beside him, she covers his hand with her own.
They sit quietly before she clears her throat, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. Her voice is gentle when she speaks.
"How bad?"
Rotating his palm to link their fingers, he pauses for a beat before the word tumbles out.
"Bad."
His free hand moves to his jaw, rubbing wearily. "Violent exit, good amount of blood. No leads yet. It's not like we're expecting him to pop up in the warehouse tomorrow."
He trails off, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. His eyes move to the kitchen window, to the blue and white gingham curtains framing it. It's hard to believe the number of criminals that lurk just beyond that unassuming, old-world pattern. Zoe had insisted on "a country kitchen in the big city," picturesque and homey, and the curtains were, in her words, "Step one."
Less picturesque, he thinks tiredly as he gazes out the window, when that 'big city' hid a madman who had violently kidnapped your best friend.
Closing his eyes, he draws a long breath. The slight pressure from Zoe's fingers brings him back to the conversation at hand.
"I don't know, Zo." His voice drops to a whisper. "I just don't know."
"It gets worse," he adds a minute later, rubbing his temple. He chooses his words carefully, struggling to believe they are true, even now. "Something happened between Sammy and McNally."
"His rookie?" Zoe asks, her brow furrowing slightly before realization dawns. "The one he's been after since…?"
"She showed up at the scene, and Jerry had to drag her out, kicking and clawing and screaming. A mess, completely inconsolable."
He raises his head, silently asking Zoe to connect the dots. "She wasn't in uniform. No squad car, no radio. The only way she would know where he was…"
"Is if she had been there before," Zoe finishes quietly, shaking her head. "Oh, Ollie."
He shrugs his shoulders, caught between helplessness and frustration. "They don't know if she blew it, or if something else... I don't know. Takes a lot to be professional and detached, but this..."
They sit in silence, house somber and still all around them.
"Well," she says finally, her firm tone leaving no room for dispute. "There's no rubric for a situation like this. What you need to do is sleep. So you're fresh for tomorrow and can contribute to whatever task force they assemble."
"I'm not technically on-shift," he answers automatically, running a hand through his thinning hair.
"Has that stopped you before?" she questions with a tiny smile. Standing, she motions to the water in front of him, silently imploring him to drink it. "You need to go in, but you need to be rested."
She lowers her voice as she gazes at him. "If anyone can handle himself in a situation like that…To be smart and resourceful, persuasive if need-be…Sam is a fighter, in more ways than one. He has... He has a lot at his disposal."
Oliver swallows the water in three quiet gulps. "Damn undercover itch. If he hadn't..."
"No stone unturned," she interrupts in a soft, reassuring tone. "That's how 15 works. Especially when it's one of our own."
Pulling him out of his chair, she meets his eyes, hands resting on his waist.
"We'll get through this," she finishes resolutely. "We will."
He heaves a sigh, staring at his wife with a small, incredulous smile. "You're a good egg, you know that?" he mumbles quietly, wrapping his arms around her. "Putting up with me."
"Mm," she acknowledges. "Great egg is more like it. When things get scrambled, heated, fried…"
He lets out a quiet chuckle, resting his forehead against hers. "Taking lessons from Sammy?"
She flashes a quick smile. "Please. I've got more in my arsenal than henways."
With a soft sigh, she sobers, tracing the collar of his shirt. Raising her eyes to meet his, she speaks deliberately. "He always comes back, Ollie. Too skinny, dirty mouth, and three days shy of a woolly mammoth's beard, but he always comes back."
Oliver purses his lips, releasing her. "I hope so," he mutters with a final shake of his head. "God, I hope so."
Gesturing to the stairs, he backs away slowly. "Just going to poke my head in; say goodnight to the girls. See you upstairs?"
She nods. "See you upstairs," she echoes quietly.
Placing their cups in the dishwasher, she leans heavily against the countertop. Her gaze unwittingly sweeps to the fridge where a photo hangs, attached to a homemade magnet. The picture, from Thanksgiving two years earlier, showed Izzy and Julie flanking their parents in front of the fireplace, while Liv, grinning from ear to ear, rested on Sam's hip.
Family photo! Izzy had cried, tearing through the house after dinner and rallying the troops for an impromptu photography session.
(It had taken four attempts to get the auto-shutter to work properly, and three more to get everyone smiling.)
A slow ache surfaces in her chest, and a quiet, earnest prayer slips from her lips.
For Sam. For Andy. For all of them.
Bring him home safely.