A/N: Another one written before we had details about S3, so let's pretend Sam and Andy head to his place after 2x13, shall we? Had "normal" begun immediately, the possibilities are endless.
One more day!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.
[you and me, walk on]
The bed is empty when he wakes.
Murmuring her name, he sweeps a hand across the mattress, flinching as his muscles protest. The bottom sheet is still warm, a fair indication that her absence is recent. He wonders where she's gone. He suspects…
Strike that.
The door is slightly ajar, and that means one thing.
Taking a deep breath, he heaves himself off the bed. He spares a thought for aspirin, choking back a groan as his knee buckles. He reaches blindly for the nightstand, floundering. His muscles are tight, the stiffness that comes from injury and inactivity, sleeping on his back and trying not to roll over. There's a brief second when he thinks it may have been better if Brennan finished the damn job, because pain like this–
He freezes, gripping the edge of the nightstand as images flash before him like directives.
He thinks about the bedspace next to him, that look on Andy's face when he stepped off the porch and into the snow. Thinks about the relief behind Oliver's commanding tone; three small, fair-skinned girls and Sunday night dinners. Thinks about his promises to Sarah; We'll always have each other, little brother.
(He thinks he should probably stop being so damn selfish.)
Taking a moment to steady himself, he exhales slowly. His good hand – a term he uses loosely – skates along the wall as he approaches the door, every motion calculated and deliberate as he steps into the hallway.
A soft glow from the guest bath tips him off, light filtering through the crack beneath the door. There's no movement to indicate occupancy, no rush of water, no squeaky faucets or showerhead–
Just silence.
(It's the silence that's worrisome. He can't help but think about the five stages of grief, of cool autumn nights and Andy retreating into herself.)
He reflects on the last few hours anxiously. She had been quiet that evening, driving him back to his house. Not wholly unexpected, but still unsettling by Textbook McNally standards.
"Normal doesn't mean taking my truck for joyrides," he had teased, hoping to crack that sorrowful facade when she slid into the driver's seat. "So don't get any ideas. Got it, Formula One?"
With a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she had quietly asked if he wanted to stop for food. His stomach had growled at her words, but the exhaustion had hit him, well and proper, as he slumped into the passenger seat. The last thing he wanted to do was stop anywhere short of his mattress, so he deemed his non-perishable pantry stock – dry pasta and sauce, single-servings of applesauce and fruit cocktail from the last time Sarah's kids had visited – suitable.
(Andy and someplace that wasn't an unheated, rundown farmhouse: That's all he wanted tonight.)
A half-hour later, she had catalogued his injuries with tender fingers, murmuring soft apologies under the bathroom's harsh, florescent lights. We have all the time in the world to talk, she insisted, face serious as the grave. You need to eat and sleep and heal.
He was suspicious of the neat dismissal, tidily swept under the rug, but he didn't have it in him to argue.
Hindsight, he thinks foolishly, 20/20.
He pauses before the bathroom door, weighing his options. With a quiet rap of his knuckles, he pushes the door open.
She's perched on the edge of the toilet seat, back to the door.
Her name slips from his lips, voice soft and concern swelling in his chest.
"Andy?"
She waits until his breath evens out before slipping out of bed. Fleeing to the guest bathroom is probably a little extreme, but the tear ducts are overflowing, and she's not exactly a subtle crier.
If she can get it all out now, she can put on her game face for tomorrow. With any luck, he'll be none the wiser.
Flipping the lid of the toilet down, she perches on the edge, a wad of tissue paper balled in her fist. A lump stakes residence in her throat, the emotion seizing her chest as she grits her teeth.
She doesn't want him to see her like this. God, he's gone through enough tonight; he doesn't need to deal with her emotional fallout. She's not the one with a shattered wrist and three cracked ribs, body bruised and beaten, every movement aching and painful.
He hadn't wanted to tell her about the torture, but she knew with the time lapse, Brennan didn't limit himself to a hammer and a few rough punches. His history as an enforcer with the North End Guys - It told a different story. Violent tendencies don't simply disappear overnight.
Waterboarding.
She sucks in a harsh breath, a shudder working its way through her spine as she rocks forward. She can't wrap her mind around it, not really. The idea that he...
(It's consuming, nearly debilitating. She feels responsible for her hand in it, guilty and anxious, and she can't shake this feeling...)
Blinking furiously, she wipes silent tears from her eyes and cheeks. Her shoulders shake uncontrollably, an involuntary reaction brought on by exhaustion and fear and how easily this could have ended differently. There's an overwhelming sense of relief she hasn't been able to process properly, and it's only now hitting her, fast and furious. The visual of Sam, stepping off the farmhouse porch - It plays on loop, unrelenting, seared into her brain.
A light rap on the door interrupts her reverie, and she stiffens automatically. Hinges groan as the door creaks open, and she hears - more than sees - him steady himself, fingers skittering across the wood paneling of the door.
She doesn't raise her head in acknowledgment. She keeps her back to the door, tossing her tissue in the wastebasket and rubbing her eyes with the back of her palm. Struggling to compose herself, she stares at her lap, hands twisting thoughtlessly.
"Andy?"
One hand flies to her mouth as she cringes. She doesn't want him to see her cry; doesn't want to be that girl. The fear is still there. The guilt. The hesitancy.
His voice is low, but the gentleness of his tone does her in.
"Felt a little under the weather," she says at long last, throat muscles working furiously. "I'll be in soon."
Her voice is a whisper, controlled and even, but she avoids his gaze. Her bare feet scuff the sandy tile, dark brown ponytail slipping over her shoulder, but she doesn't turn to face him.
Nice try, copper, he thinks, setting his jaw.
"Is that why you're hanging out here?" he asks, his voice a quiet rumble. "The other bathroom is a lot closer."
She stumbles on her words. "I, um. I didn't want to wake you."
She shifts restlessly, arms locking defensively beneath her knees. Not for the first time, he wonders who and where and how, why she insists on reassurances when she's anything but fine. His chest aches in a way that's not related to any physical injury.
Don't be strong for me, sweetheart, he thinks silently, watching her. We're both broken here.
He steps forward slowly, mindful of her tense shoulders and hidden face. Crouching next to her, he brings one hand to rest on her knee. He struggles to rearrange his features, the slight grimace that threatens to give him away. Even in the dimly-lit bathroom, he knows she'll see. Knows she'll take it to heart, punish herself for something she had little part in.
(It's the same reason he wore a shirt to bed. She saw the bruises, the abrasions – there was no hiding them from her – but she didn't need a reminder when she woke in the light of day, that's for damn sure.)
She shakes her head before he can speak, urging him to stand. Sliding off the seat, she wraps a hand under his elbow and lifts gingerly, helping him stand up straight.
"Sam," she murmurs, her voice wavering slightly. She meets his gaze for the first time, eyes pleading silently. "Don't...Don't strain yourself, please."
He notes the tear tracks first. The redness of her eyes, that bottom lip that looks as if it's been ripped to pieces, tiny, dotted marks from the imprint of sharp canines. He moves carefully, eyes locked on her face as he thumbs her cheekbone, gently wiping away the traces of tears. He can regret the timing, regret his selfishness and stupidity for calling her back, regret following Brennan out that door...
Not you, he thinks resolutely. Never you.
He stares wordlessly for two, three beats. She shifts under his gaze, swallowing hard as she tilts her head toward the door.
"I'm fine, Sam." Her voice lowers marginally, words tapering off. "I'm sorry if I woke you..."
(Just like that, he's had enough.)
He slides one arm around her waist, pressing her close. Her body is soft and warm, the best balm for his injuries given the circumstances. Burying his face in her hair, he holds her. Not tightly or with any sort of force, but the intention is still there.
"Seriously," she maintains, pitch heightened as she squares her shoulders. Her tone is familiar, this professional edge that's meant to deceive, as if sitting alone in the guest bath is par for the course. "We can go back to bed, Sam; I'm good."
(He doesn't answer. Doesn't acknowledge her explanation.)
Exhaling quietly, he traces slow, gentle circles across her lower back.
"Sam..."
Her voice is strained, and she's fidgeting in his arms, struggling to keep it together. Still, she doesn't pull away, so he gives it time, holding her silently. If this is going to be a battle of Andy's placations versus his intuition, he's prepared. He'll stand here 'til kingdom come before he concedes.
The house is silent around them, the whistling wind now calm and unobtrusive. The only sound that penetrates his consciousness is their rhythmic breathing, the steady beat of their hearts. Closing his eyes, he presses his lips to her hair softly.
Her shoulders slump two long minutes later. She leans into him, and he feels the dampness against his shirt as tears stream silently down her face.
"I'm sorry," she says brokenly, her voice a shallow whisper. "I thought..."
"I know," he murmurs quietly. "Andy, I know."
(He was terrified, every second in that farmhouse, not for himself but the idea that she– )
She buries her face in his neck as he repeats the same words, over and over.
"We're okay, sweetheart. We're okay."
She can count on one hand the number of times she's cried while on the force. Deep, wracking, sobs that shook her body and her belief in something greater, that made her second-guess her preparedness to serve and protect.
It happened twice because of her dad. Once, the night of the blackout.
(Tonight, the sobs are less audible - less guttural - but the emotion is no less paralyzing.)
Her whole body shudders, and Sam pulls her closer. She's careful of his chest, mottled with purple and red bruises. Painkillers can only do so much, and she doesn't want to exacerbate his condition. Still, his arms are more comforting than she could have imagined; his voice, a low, soothing hum in her ear.
"We went through this together, Andy. You and me. Different kinds of worry and pain and fear, sure, but we went through it together."
He stares at her with dark, sober eyes, hands gripping her waist. "Andy, listen to me. We're gonna get through it together, too."
She takes a slow breath, gazing at him silently before fisting a hand in his shirt.
(Moments like these, she wonders if understanding and acceptance is something you gain with age and perspective, or if this is another one of the hundred reasons Sam is different.)
Leaning forward, she rests her cheek against the warmth of his chest, lips grazing the soft cotton where his heart beats. Maybe, she reflects quietly, no going back means being honest. Being brave.
"Sam?"
He pulls back gently, eyes growing serious as he observes her expression.
"I'm so..." She swallows thickly, resting a warm hand against his nape. "I'm so glad you're safe."
He gazes at her, unblinking, before pressing his lips to her temple.
"Glad you're safe," he echoes quietly. "Glad you're here, Andy."