Chapter Note: Lots of thanks to those who reviewed the extremely short preview and placed this story in their favorites/alerts. It's amazing :) McSwarek really is a fun pair to write about and I couldn't get this piece done fast enough. My apologies for those who have subscribed to the story alerts – you probably got multiple alerts because FFnet keeps eating my formatting, and it's driving me nuts. Hopefully they finally get it right this time.

001. Fresh Blood Stinks From A Mile Away

She would never tell him, but she was scared shitless, that first day she met him.

Her gun had been at the ready, the safety was off, and she was all prepared to fire if she needed to. But when she came upon him, in the middle of what looked like a drug deal, all her training had gone out the window and it had taken all she had to stop her hands from shaking.

All the way, she was praying fervently that she wouldn't have to pull the trigger.

He hadn't heeded her order to put his hands up; instead he had merely gotten up from his place at the windowsill and climbed out. Her knees had come close to buckling, her fear keeping her rooted to the spot, yelling for him to stop and hoping she wouldn't have to give chase.

She'd hidden behind a false bravado, bolstered by the uniform she wore and the courage her weapon gave. Her badge was her shield, and she retreated almost instinctively behind it, diving straight for the cover it gave her and hoping it would repeal the dangerous vibes that the men in front of her were emitting.

Yet the gun felt heavy, like a burden, before she holstered it and gave chase, and she would never forget how Sam Swarek made her run on her first day at work.

. . . . .

He would never tell her, but he could smell her fear from a mile away, that first day he met her.

He was in the middle of a deal with his informant and that skinny, dirty weasel had just been about to drop a bomb on Anton Hill just as she burst into the apartment, and it had taken all his control to stop from lashing out at her bad timing.

Only the big mouth standing next to him had stopped him from ripping into her, stopped him from demanding that she take her rookie high-handedness out of his undercover deal and let him get on with his work. Because damn it, the rookies always had a way of interfering with the real police business, and they always had a way of making sure everything went south after they got involved.

He briefly wondered where her training officer was – and who it was, since he probably would have to yell at whoever it was for not keeping their rookie on a tighter leash – but she had looked so unsure of herself that for a moment, he was reminded of his first day on the job.

For that brief second, his heart actually went out to her. He thought he detected a slight shake in her hands, the weapon wavering from its aim, and it made him feel sorry for her. He didn't know if it was her first day, or her second, but it definitely was her first week on the job and he was sorry that she had to come face-to-face with a jackass like his undercover self.

But he knew that if he remained any longer in that room, his cover would be blown or she'd shoot him or he would continue getting sappy over the memories of his first shift. Neither of those was a good option to consider, so he'd high-tailed out of there, grabbing the slow-witted weasel by the arm and praying hard that the little rookie didn't give chase.

Because the only thing worse than getting caught while undercover was getting caught by a clueless rookie on her first day at work.

. . . . .

"Or what?"

Without missing a step, he taunted her. If the circumstances had been any different, he would definitely have mocked her further.

She was hot on his tail – a junkie's tail – and she still had the presence of mind to stop and radio for help. If he hadn't been so intent on running, so determined to keep his cover intact, he would have stopped to point to her that her radio wasn't even turned on, a fact that he had noticed the moment she stepped into the room, and that effectively, she was only talking to herself. After he had finished laughing his ass off and making fun of her.

That sort of story would definitely make the locker room a lot livelier after shift ended.

But he couldn't. He couldn't spare the time to slow down, talk to her, and tell her exactly what she was doing wrong and what she should be doing. The fleeting thought that he was lucky to be undercover instead of training a helpless rookie like her crossed his mind, but he didn't have time to dwell too much on it.

Why was it always the rookies who felt the need to report their every step back to dispatch?

. . . . .

She supposed that drug addicts were conditioned not to stop when ordered to, so she wasn't exactly sure why she expected Sam Swarek to be any different. After all, he was nothing more than a greasy-haired dealer who just so happened to match the description of the killer they were seeking.

She thought she had lost them, after that near miss with Luke and his car, but her first day luck was surely shining down upon her and she heard them arguing. She hadn't expected how easy he seemed to have made it for her, taking cover behind a dinky garage shed a mere three blocks away, but she supposed that he couldn't be too smart if he was in that shady business.

If she hadn't been panting, out of breath, adrenaline taking over her system and her fight response taking over the flight instinct, she would have made a snarky comment about his intelligence. She didn't, of course, and she always told herself that it was because she was a professional in that uniform and not because Swarek – greasy hair and all – had truly rattled her wits.

She had expected him to obediently wait his turn to be cuffed, and she certainly didn't anticipate another mini-marathon. He had been watching her intently, and she grew increasingly uncomfortable under his unwavering stare. She would never tell him how the intensity of his dark eyes sent shivers up her spine, or that instead of being shivers of fear, of the unknown danger he posed, they were actually delicious quivers of an emotion she couldn't put a name to.

She was so focused on taking him down that she didn't stop to consider his words or how, instead of being afraid, he seemed more frustrated and angry, probably at himself for not being able to evade her. She was equally annoyed too, that he wouldn't stop talking. His voice distracted her, broke her concentration, and she needed to focus on what the academy had taught her to do in situations like these.

She needed to retreat behind cool professionalism and fall back on the training manual or she would once again dwell on the way his body felt under her hands.

. . . . .

He had dropped all pretenses, and now he was actually trying to resist arrest for real. It wasn't a game to play with the rookie; he needed to remain on the streets long enough to nail Anton Hill, and he couldn't afford to have his street cred flushed down the drain because he got caught.

So, it didn't take much of an effort to watch her closely and look for his opportunity to escape. For a moment he debated how far he should go to prevent her from taking him in, but in the end, she made the decision for him.

She went straight for his waist.

If he hadn't been so busy cursing himself, trying to adjust to the waves of pain spreading through his body at the contact he made with the hard pavement, or too busy cursing his inability to escape from this rookie – this rookie, for crying out loud! – he would have enjoyed the soft sensation of her hands on him.

Her hands lingered on his chest as he cried out in pain, an action he didn't think she was aware of. He allowed himself to enjoy the feeling, just for that moment, since it had been a long time since any woman had touched any part of him. That was the life of an undercover cop, and although he didn't regret it, he couldn't exactly say that he hadn't missed the soft warmth of a woman's arms.

And when she ran her hands over his back, over his ass, he had to resist the urge to shiver delightfully. It was a routine pat down, and he was somewhat disgusted at his own reaction, but the thought that suddenly popped into his mind was of this woman running her hands over him under different circumstances.

. . . . .

He could feel her smug smile washing over her in droves and the strange temptation to laugh overcame him. She was proud because she caught him? She probably had no idea of what she had just stepped into, and he was certain that Boyko would not take too kindly to the ruin of their eight months of hard work.

He accepted his unfortunate fate and slid willingly into the backseat of her cruiser, then silently kept a lookout for her training officer. He hoped it would be someone who knew he was undercover, because he would hate for the news to be all over the street before they even returned to the barn.

It had to be his lucky day when Oliver approached the car, and he stifled a bark of laughter as Oliver turned the rookie's radio on for her. Oliver was too kind to her; if it had been him, the rookie would definitely have gotten a lashing down for forgetting to turn her radio on. As a cop on patrol, the most dangerous thing was not being able to call for backup, and the rookie needed to learn that before she got herself killed.

He held his breath as Oliver settled into the car and met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Don't say anything to jinx this, was the mantra he played over and over in his head, silently willing Oliver to understand. To his immense relief, Oliver not only kept his mouth shut, but he also played along and pretended that they didn't know each other. He would definitely have to buy the man a couple of beers once this sting was over.

Until Jerry blew it all. He thought they could get of this with his reputation unscathed, then Jerry entered, greeted him like the long lost friend he was, and all the damage was done. Jerry couldn't retract it, and everyone in the room knew he was done for. He remembered her look of disbelief and astonished horror as the realization of what she had done dawned on her. He gave her a quick wink, although until this day he was still unsure as to why he felt the need to reassure her at that very moment.

He could barely control his fury in Boyko's office later, with Jerry apologizing repeatedly and the failure of his operation staring in his face. He didn't know which was worse: getting caught by a rookie, or having Jerry give the game away. It was a combination, he supposed, that fate dealt him, and while he had no other choice to accept that his cover was blown and there was no way he could go back out on the streets, it didn't mean he had to like it.

And he couldn't take his anger out on Jerry, because damn, the man was his friend and he was feeling terrible and he couldn't bring himself to berate him even further. Because Jerry was possibly the only person in that room who truly understood what he was feeling at the moment, and as furious as he was, he just couldn't stay mad at the man for ruining everything.

But the rookie… she was different. She was the easiest outlet to heap his frustration on, and to his surprise, her confident bolster from earlier had completely disappeared and she listened him rant and rave and blame her for nearly everything that had gone wrong. He was so far into his resentment that he nearly overlooked that she had sufficient cause and she had done everything right, by the book, just as he would have.

She tried to apologize, but he shot her down. He didn't need Bambi or any of her excuses right now. As far as he was concerned, she was the reason why he had to go back to donning the blues, and nothing she said or anyone said was going to change that fact.

. . . . .

She wasn't sure what motivated her to step into the men's locker room to look for him, just that there was an overwhelming sense of guilt and the need to make things right. She approached quietly, rehearsing her words of apology in her head, hoping that they would be enough to soothe his anger, but when she saw him, kicking and venting his frustration against his locker door, all thoughts of giving a meek apology flew out her head.

She didn't know why she started yelling at him, only that he suddenly made her so angry and she wanted to take it out on him. Didn't he realize that she was as frustrated as he was? Didn't he realize that she probably felt worse than he did? His operation had failed, and it was her fault, and there was so much more at stake for her here. Why didn't he see that?

But there was much more at risk than either of their feelings: a man had been murdered and his killer was still at large. She knew she had to focus on that, focus on making things right again, and she hoped that he would be able to look beyond his own failure to help her. It was their only saving grace.

She just wished he wouldn't undress in front of her. She knew she had encroached upon his territory, the one safe haven he probably escaped to so he didn't have to face her, but she was still unprepared for the sight of his toned abs. She didn't know what she was expecting… a beer belly, perhaps? This man obviously kept himself in good shape for the job, and for the first time, she actually wished he hadn't so she could force her eyes away.

It became a challenge to keep her gaze averted, and pretending to offer him some measure of privacy while he undressed in front of her was harder than she imagined. It took great effort to plaster a nonchalant expression on her face and act as if men undressed in front of her every day, and she was sure that he would see through her bluff.

She tried to focus on his words instead, on the important details he was telling her, but then his jeans dropped and his briefs came into view and she had to mentally censor herself for the lusty thoughts that suddenly popped into her head.

He might be a jerk, but Sam Swarek was also one fine man.

. . . . .

He did it to get a rise out of her.

He had headed straight for the locker room, wanting to release some of the tension that had been building up inside of him and wanting a hot shower to wash away the memory of her hands on him. Kicking his locker had been juvenile; the last time he did that was probably in high school when Mary Williams broke up with him. He couldn't remember any time after that where he felt so angry and helpless at the same time and needed to take his anger out on something else.

Then she'd stormed in and he hoped that she wasn't there to give him a meek apology, because God knows, he couldn't handle any more doe-eyed innocence and timid words. She surprised him once again, lashing out at him and making him focus beyond his immediate situation. She reminded him that there was so much more at stake, more than his failure and her stupid mistake. She reminded him that he was a cop. That catching the bad guys was the reason why he took up the UC job.

He was humbled. He had been blinded by the anger, the denial of what he saw as his big, glorious moment when Anton Hill was taken out of commission that he hadn't stopped to think further than that. Her words reminded him that she had a job to do – as did he – and that he could not allow one failure to overshadow the duties and responsibilities he had to the city and her people.

Her words brought an uncomfortable lump to his throat, and he suddenly felt the need to rattle her senses as thoroughly as she had his. So he chose the next best alternative: taking his clothes off. His tee came off, as did his shoes, but he didn't see a flicker of interest until his sweatshirt came off.

His ego took a boost then, because he knew he was in great shape. He took pride in his body, keeping it in its prime. Working out had been his way of relieving tension while on the job, and it became a maniacal obsession when he went undercover. It gave him some semblance of normalcy in his otherwise abnormal life, and it grounded him because it would remind him of the times when he kept fit so he could always catch up with the baddies.

He couldn't deny the masculine pride that rose up in him when she diverted her gaze as he dropped his jeans, knowing that although she had been doing a pretty good job of remaining impassive and unconcerned about his various bouts of nakedness, she wasn't nearly as unaffected as she pretended to be.

He didn't understand why, but he had a desperate need for her to want him. He brushed it off as a yearning for a woman – any woman's – attention.

But if he had been more vigilant, he would have asked himself why he bothered to take a second look, a longer look, at her retreating back.

. . . . .

She tried to buy him a drink, at The Black Penny, to say sorry, thanks, or whatever; anything to help soothe over the events of the day. It was the only way she could think of assuaging part of her guilt. She'd ruined his sting but he still gave her valuable details to work on her own case, and she definitely owed him a big one for that.

But his pride wouldn't let him let her go that easy, and he wanted to make her suffer a little more, a little while longer. He had been so close to taking Anton Hill off the streets permanently, and he needed her to understand how much effort she had washed down the drain.

Another day, another time, he might consider her offer; hell, he might even buy her a beer instead. But for now, he just wanted to drown his sorrows and remind himself why he never quite liked rookies anyway.