And here we have conflicted Sam, fighting the feeling and losing big-time.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"…For there is no folly of the beast of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men."
― Herman Melville, Moby Dick

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

He is so not this guy.

The guy who needs someone to chase away the nightmares. The guy who sulks when she's gone. The guy with the abandonment issues. The guy who loses objectivity, lets his thoughts be consumed …

He never wanted to be this guy, he doesn't know how the hell he became this guy, and it's gonna stop.

He never got a chance to tell McNally that his suspension wasn't quite as harsh as hers was – it was a successful op in the end, after all, though, okay, messy – so it only buys him six weeks off the street.

And back on the street is where he needs to be.

It feels right, being back in harness, doing the day-to-day cleanup of dime dealers and domestics and common-or-garden-variety dirtbags. Traffic stops and taillights. Convenience store hold-ups and coyotes chowing down on backyard Chihuahuas. Dementia patients wandering through the 'burbs in their slippers. He throws himself into it with as much energy as he can muster. Leaves it all out there on the field.

Riding with Epstein? Well, it's a bit like spending the day with a Jack Russell terrier. Annoying, but you can't hate him for it. He has the same sort of allergy to silence she does, though the stuff that comes out of Epstein's mouth furrows Sam's brow in a whole different way. Not necessarily a good way. Some of it makes Sam wonder what planet the kid was raised on.

Frank's merciful, and occasionally lets him spend a shift with Ollie instead. It's good shooting the shit with Shaw. They generally agree on where to eat lunch. And his friend only brings up McNally once, the morning he has clearly been consulting a calendar:

"So, Sammy … McNally due back soon?" He says it uber-casually, looking out the side window and popping a Timbit into his mouth, but he's not fooling anyone.

Sam gives Ollie a quick, hard, leave-it-alone glare from the drivers' side of the cruiser.

But breaktime is apparently over because Ollie's not leaving it alone. "It's, what, coming up on 12 weeks now, right? Heard anything from her?"

Nope, not unless 27 postcards count. Not that he's telling Shaw that.

"Should I have?", Sam retorts. Discussion over yet? No, Shaw's going in for the kill.

"I dunno. You guys … well, we all thought it was about time, you know? Temporary setback, my brother. Nothing you can't fix."

Sam just grimaces. He doesn't know whether he wants to fix it. He's been marinating in that sense of desertion for long enough now that it's familiar and comfortable. And what's not comfortable, not familiar, is how he is when he's with her. The more he thinks about it, the more terrified he gets.

Which has done absolutely nothing to stop the craving.

Gawd, Ollie's relentless today. "Sam, you guys are good together. Really good. I'm just saying …. Don't fuck it up."

So then, Shaw should be proud of him the next day when he's heading out the door for a solo shift, and his phone vibrates with a text.

"Flight 43 from North Bay, Island airport at 11:10. Any chance of a lift?"

So she must be back in cel phone range then.

She follows it up, "Can't wait to see you."

Oh Christ. It sweeps over him like a physical ache. He knows he'll come running. That's what he's become. And he hates himself a little for it.

Shields up, Captain. Let's just be the grown-up, keep it cordial. But it's hard, really hard, keeping that cynical stone face when he sees her coming down the escalator, all tanned and mosquito-bitten and giving him that megawatt smile. His resolve is wobbly, at best.

True to McNally's magnetic attraction to trouble, of course, the whole fucking day goes south within minutes of her getting in the cruiser. She gets to her final hearing, at least, gives her earnest speech, gets re-instated, which has her glowing with evangelical determination to make it all right. She's always been a fixer.

But he can't resist crushing her. "All you wanted was to keep being a cop. And all I wanted was you."

It's probably the most honest thing he's ever said to her about them, and though he sort of tosses it off, the rawness of it stops her in her tracks.

She finds another way home.

And he's driving to his, except that her damn suitcase is in the truck. And that ridiculous canoe paddle.

He knows she's so much more by-the-book than he is. He gets why she left. He'd gotten it all along, really – he just hadn't forgiven her for it, despite the postcards, which he's read over every night, hanging on to the little endearments she's written like a lifeline.

So he's got her luggage, and suddenly the sulking doesn't feel like much fun anymore, and he finds himself heading to her condo.

Still, he's going to make her work for it. He needs to know she's serious. He can't … he can't go there again if she isn't. He needs to know they're on the same page. She's going to have to prove it.

He gets inside the door, and before he knows it, he's caving, and staying, and he tries for a few desperate last seconds to hang tough, but she's right there, inches away from him, and all that crap just melts out of him as he leans in to kiss her softly.

Soft turns to needy within seconds, and then her limber frame is straddling his lap, she's running her tongue down the side of his neck, he's harder than he's ever been in his life, and he thinks that he's just going to have to make peace with being that guy, because he can't function without her anymore.