Author's Note: First of all, thanks for your reviews, PMs, and general encouragement, guys! As you can imagine, the Shaw situation introduced in 3x02 has thrown me for a loop, but I've had this story mapped out for some time, and Zoe will remain an integral part of it. I can only hope they reconcile soon… Heartbroken Ollie takes the wind out of my sails and sends my muse into hibernation. (Poor guy.) As we learn more about Sam's personal history – and it seems we will this season – I will likely have to ask you to suspend disbelief. So much for writing a story that wouldn't be rerouted by canon, huh? :)
Buckets of exposition in this chapter, but we'll see Ollie and Sam interact very soon. Finally, forgive the title. I hold Joey Lawrence responsible for any campy associations.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.*
(*Okay, I should add a few other things: I have never been a resident of Toronto, a cadet-in-training/rookie, or a twenty-something male from the mid-90s. Research is an integral part of any writing endeavor, and I promise to do my best, but please forgive any glaring anachronisms or oversights... I have a feeling that despite my best efforts, they will pop up every now and again.)
CHAPTER ONE
[March 1996.]
Oliver Shaw woke to an anthem of classic rock, fuzzy and insistent from the nightstand beside him. The static jarred him from sleep, cutting in and out intermittently, and he felt the vibrations of each guitar riff in his bones.
Next time, easy on the Crown Royal, killer.
Throwing a pale, freckled arm over his eyes, he blindly slapped the top of his clock radio, silencing the noise. He shifted restlessly before turning on his side, breath escaping in a quiet yawn. The warm mattress was every bit an invitation, far preferable to the spring chill of Toronto's air. Resuming his position on the down pillow, he allowed his eyes to drift shut.
Toronto.
Realization struck him with the blunt force of a barreling freight train, and his eyes popped open comically. Bolting upright, he squinted through half-mast lids, gaze fixed on the clock. The glowing red digits confirmed the date and time, and without further prompting, a wide grin spread across his face.
Eagerly tossing the duvet aside, he slipped out of bed and rubbed sleep from his bleary eyes. First day at the one-five, he reflected, stretching his arms. With a shake of his head, he glanced out the small bedroom window. The sky was still dark, the city largely asleep as he acknowledged the day before him.
First day of the rest of your life.
Reluctant pipes groaned and clanked as he stood before the bathroom sink, waiting for a decent stream of warm water. With the flat of his palm, he wiped away the steam that clung to the vanity mirror and rocked back on his heels. Only when he was satisfied that the fine blonde stubble had been removed from his jaw, did he drop his gaze to the bathroom counter. With a slight grimace, he retrieved the small, black comb and silently saluted his reflection.
Drew the short stick with follicular genes, he acknowledged with a wry smile. He scratched the back of his head with the curve of his fingertips, a nervous tick that stemmed from adolescence. Nervous tick, he reflected further, with a pretty limited time frame.
"Pompadour was a lost cause," he muttered to his reflection. "Better to just embrace your fate, Moby."
Walking into the kitchen nook – and nook it was, Oliver could touch all three walls at once – he lit the gas stove and filled a saucepan with water. After a quick shuffle through the cupboards, he came up with a carton of whole grain oats, a bottle of maple syrup, and some brown sugar.
Breakfast of champions, he told himself against better judgment, anticipating a withering look from the closest cereal box. He quickly filled the coffeepot with water, scooping the grounds onto a clean filter. His mind was always sharper with a cup of coffee in hand.
Eight minutes later, he let warmth flood his body as he sipped from his mug, body jittery in a way that was unrelated to caffeine. His gaze fell to the stove top, and he silently mused over the prospect of a paycheck, the convenience it would bring him. First order of business, he noted, looking down at his half-empty bowl of oatmeal, Buy a microwave.
He glanced down at the plastic packing crate on which his feet were propped and smirked. Maybe some real furniture, too.
The apartment was new, first and last month's rent paid by his parents after his college graduation. It wasn't the nicest place – he can still remember his mother's face when she saw it – but it was clean and livable. More importantly, he could make monthly rent payments. The city of Toronto wasn't known for being particularly generous with its employees, so he'd take what he could get with a copper's paycheck. The whole reason for coming to the city was independence, anyway. If he wanted his parents supplementing his income, he would have stayed in Kingston.
Serve, protect, and learn to balance a budget, copper.
Exiting the apartment shortly thereafter, Oliver locked the door and moved to pocket his keys. His mind was on his car, and more specifically, the muffler. He wasn't keen on having an engine that announced itself from two kilometers out, particularly not when the end point was a police division. The car had been a shitty hand-me-down from his older brother Greg when he left for Wall Street. So driven, his father had said, So motivated. You know, son, you really should consider...
He sure as hell wasn't groomed for Wall Street or a life of business, Oliver knew that. Like every copper, he had a reason for wanting to wear the blues, and his…
Well, he acknowledged, throat dry. His was as good as any.
"Morning, Oliver!"
Shit. Be cool, man. Be cool.
He spun on his heel slowly, rubbing his neck in a poor attempt to look casual. With a half-hearted smile, he raised his hand in greeting to the pretty girl down the hall.
"Hey, Cathy."
She was a new resident. He had only gotten the nerve to talk to her once in the mail room, asking how she liked the building; if her water pressure was as terrible as his. A teacher's aide at a private preparatory school, Cathy usually left around the same time each morning - clacking heels, swinging skirts, and strawberry-blonde hair framing a soft, white smile.
"You start today, right?"
He stepped forward, surprise evident in his tone. "Yep. 15 Division." Clearing his throat, he scuffed the hallway tile aimlessly with the toe of his lace-up Doc Martens. "You make a point of knowing coppers' schedules?"
Her smile widened, and she straightened her skirt. "My boyfriend works at 43 Division. He mentioned that rookies start this week, so I just assumed it was the same with other divisions."
"Yeah," Oliver echoed, plucking at his belt loops. He scratched the back of his head with his index finger, silently cursing the tick again. Maybe he'd outgrow the habit when his hair finally outgrew its welcome. Dropping his hand, he fingered a button of his flannel and smiled for her benefit. "Right, that makes sense."
Of course there was a boyfriend. If his twenty-three years had taught him anything, it was the marked downside to average builds and non-threatening demeanors: Pretty girls trusted you to help them with homework (high school), walk them back to their dorms (college), and feed their pets/collect their mail/water their plants (every other occasion) while they vacationed with Fabio McMuscles.
"Well, I should…" He jerked his head in the direction of the parking lot, bobbing between his right and left feet. "Have a nice day, okay?" Hitching his bag higher on his shoulder, he started for the steps.
"Good luck!" she called after him, her enthusiasm nearly infectious. "I know first days can be pretty nerve-wracking."
First days could be nervewracking, he knew that. Still, there was a reason his body had been humming with raw energy all morning, a reason why even now, his heart swelled.
He was ready for this job. Prepared to a walk a beat and connect with people on a human level; eager to put his Academy skills to use, to serve and protect. Today was a day where anything could happen. Hell, he might even have his first collar in the books by sundown.
The possibilities were endless.
"Cathy?" he said quickly, spinning on his heel. "Thanks."
With a spring in his step, he hopped down the stairs, goofy grin affixed to his face.
"Sa-am!" Sarah Swarek hollered, her voice carrying down the small hallway of their brick townhome. Her foot tapped impatiently as she moved around the kitchen, sorting through a sink of clattering dishes. "Get your ass in here; you're going to be late."
With one last glance in the mirror, Sam dropped his razor by the sink, sweeping a callused hand over his jaw and throat. The skin was smooth, and nodding in approval, he slipped the t-shirt over his head. Grey like the weather outside, the fabric stretched tightly across his chest.
He spared a thought for his hair, relieved at its rebound rate. It had grown in, thick and full since Sarah's attempts at salon magic, and during his weeks at Academy, he had made a point to use a real barber. It was marginally longer now, enough that he could run a hand through it and justify the length of his sideburns. He acknowledged the small victories - Foremost, keeping sharp objects out of his sister's hands and away from his head.
Slinging his duffel over his back, Sam strode out of his bedroom and made his way to the kitchen. He inhaled sharply, the smell of coffee warming his lungs as he ducked through the entryway.
"I swear, if this hair hadn't grown back–" He stopped short in the kitchen, eyes flickering around the room in surprise. "Sare…?"
Sarah stood in the center of the kitchen, hands clutching an oversize, dark green mug as she blew on the steaming liquid. Her eyes were wide and bright, and she shrugged, hiding a smile. "Happy Copper Day, Sammy."
Blue streamers were threaded through the wooden slats of his chair, and a blueberry muffin rested on a plate, one unlit, white candle protruding from the top.
He was speechless for a long moment. For the life of him, Sam couldn't remember the last time they had a tablecloth on their kitchen table, nevermind one that was ironed and clean.
"No flowers," Sarah said, breaking the silence. "Made it too girly. I know you have a rep to keep up with."
She raised her mug in silent salute, continuing, "Oh, and for future reference... That new bakery on the corner? Makes a kickass lemon poppyseed muffin. I thought about saving it for you, but I hear poppy can mess with your system. You know, in case they randomly drug test you today or something," she finished with a smirk.
"You're nuts," he murmured softly, shaking his head as he observed the scene. Swallowing thickly, still incredulous, he pulled her in for a quick squeeze. "Really pulling for that Sister of the Year Award, huh?"
She wrinkled her nose in response, feigning annoyance. They shied away from anything overly affectionate, but every now and again, something slipped out. Pointing to the chair, she bustled over to the stove. "Sit down, punk."
He obliged, dropping into the seat. "Service with a smile, huh?"
"Don't get used to it," she added wryly, sliding a plate of eggs and bacon in his direction. Her tone had a hard edge to it, bossy teenage voice belying the softness in her eyes. "One time thing, and only because it's your first day."
Leaning over his chair back, she crooked an arm around his shoulders. "Still. Proud of you, kid."
He imagined it might be weird for some siblings, twenty-something brother and sister living together, but he and Sarah made it work. Our normal, Sarah liked to joke, Just shy of everyone else's crazy. With their mother gone – Well, he knew they both felt a little more useful when they were together. For all her maternal instincts and good-natured razzing, Sarah counted on him.
He might be loath to admit it, but he relied on her too, even on days when everything seemed taxing. Despite the shit she threw at him, no steady girlfriend and his hooligan hair, he liked their version of normal. Too much chaos in the last decade and change, anyway.
(He remembers that summer when everything was silent, and he's grateful for everything they have now – pointed jabs and infrequent hugs and a streak of fierce protectiveness on both sides.)
It wasn't forever, wasn't permanent, and he knew that. It had made sense, financially and otherwise, while he and Sarah were in school. Ever the academic, Sarah was working toward her master's in clinical psychology. He had exactly zero aspirations for higher education – police exams and the Academy were enough of an aspiration; hell, he'd known since he was nine – but he spent two years shuffling his way through night classes at McLaughlin because his mother had wanted it. For no other reason than his mother had wanted it, if he were being honest.
You'll have a better chance of acceptance, she had said in that low, quiet voice of hers, a reminder of Sam's childhood, of bedtime stories and normalcy. Education is the foundation for your career, Sam.
He was seventeen then. Two months later, her request became his promise, homage to her memory.
"So…New kid on the block," Sarah said conversationally, interrupting his reverie. She took a sip of her green tea, eyeing him speculatively. "Gotta remember to hang tough."
"Hilarious," Sam deadpanned as he shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He aimed for cool nonchalance, but all these years later, hearing her joke still brought a smile to his face. He masked the wry twist of his mouth with another large bite. "You're a real riot."
"This coming from Mr. Hambulance himself?" she quipped. Pulling her legs up onto the chair, she propped her chin up with her knees, studying him. "You have no room to talk, buddy."
He swallowed a sip of coffee, rocking back on the legs of his chair. "Hambulance was a classic."
"Ohh-kay," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "If by classic, you mean ancient and devoid of any real humor. Like Uncle Ernie after two scotch and sodas. Christ, the stories he would tell about the hockey rink..."
Sarah shook her head, censoring herself. Setting her mug on the table, she studied him with a cool, appraising look. "You sure you don't want me to drive you to 15 Division?"
He cocked an eyebrow, catching himself on the wall as his chair tipped forward. "I'm sure," he said firmly, eyes glinting with vague amusement. God almighty, he did not need to be that guy, first day of kindergarten all over again: Sarah, fixing his shoelace and dropping him off at the classroom door, reminding him to keep his milk money in his front pocket and avoid the fifth graders at recess. She was a little mother back then.
Still is, he reflected, staring at his plate and smiling. Just with a little more spunk, a little more fire. A killer right hook. Choking back a laugh, he recalled the day he gave her Barbies military-issue haircuts. Fire was always there, come to think of it.
"This," he said abruptly, waving his hand around the kitchen. "This was really nice of you, Sarah." He hesitated, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Thanks."
"You're a good kid, Sam," she said quietly. Standing up and swiping his plate, she cleared her throat, her voice rising. "You dress like a chump, but who knows? Maybe you'll move past that; make solid police."
"Now get out of here," she ordered, flicking the dish towel in his direction. "Or I'll get the camera out - Little Sammy Swarek, first day on the job. Can never have too many options for the family Christmas card, right?"
For all the years he spent thinking about life on the force, Oliver never quite imagined it like this.
Things he expected: The sun shining down, the wind at his back, and a heady, rush of excitement as he burst through the front doors of the division. Things he did not anticipate: Grey skies and slick roads, foot hovering over the brake while he prayed he didn't hydroplane.
Pulling into the division parking lot, Oliver killed the engine and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. With a slow exhale, he steadied himself.
His eyes wandered, and he caught sight of a solitary figure approaching the division. He swallowed the chuckle in his throat, wondering briefly if every division had a James Dean type. If last night was any indication… Well, the jeans and leather jacket he was currently wearing just enhanced the image.
[flashback]
Oliver's face hit the bar, cheekbone bouncing off the hard, aged wood. A subdued "oof" escaped from his chest, lungs constricting as the senior officer released his grip on Oliver's neck.
"Coppers," a uniformed copper crowed from behind the bar. "Time to welcome the newest batch of rookies."
Shuffling through their IDs like cue cards, he called out their names. "Daniel Levine, Elena Martinez, Oliver Shaw, and Sam Swarek."
"The vets here know the drill, our 'initiation' as it were. If you have more than half an ounce of common sense in that thick rookie skull, you'll have figured it out by now: Get out of those cuffs anyway you know how. First one free drinks for free. Everybody else pays."
Right, Oliver thought. Okay.
Clearing his throat, he turned to the guy next to him. He knew Swarek nominally from the Academy. Bit of a loner type, quiet, but had a keen eye for investigative details. Hand him a firearm, and he was a ringer at tactical training, too – The guy could get a shot off like no one's business. Still, Oliver wasn't sure what to make of him. Vigilante attitude and conspicuous biceps and from what Oliver could glean, remarkable self-assurance.
"Didn't expect this, huh?" he muttered to the dark-haired man.
"Kinda naïve not to anticipate hazing," Sam replied with a smirk, his eyes fixed on the officer counting them down. He lowered his voice marginally, body buzzing with energy. "Guess it just depends on your outlook. You one of those lifelong coppers? Sherriff's badge and gun when you were little?"
"Didn't say that," Oliver replied, shrugging.
"It's a job for me," he continued, when Sam didn't respond. "I mean, don't get me wrong... I care about it. But it's a job, you know?"
Sam hummed noncommittally. Oliver didn't have much time to dwell on his disinterest, as the officer standing before them dropped his arms, signaling the four rookies to begin.
Walking calmly over to a group of pretty girls, Sam smiled widely, dimples summoned like a genie from a bottle. In a low, earnest voice, he asked if any of them had a bobby pin or a pair of tweezers to help a fledgling copper out. For a moment, all Oliver could do was stand and watch, dumbstruck, as two girls' hands immediately shot to their purses.
A full three seconds passed before Oliver shook his head, half-disbelievingly, half-admiringly, and sprang into action. His plan had formulated as soon as the cuffs had clicked, but the success rate was iffy. Still, they were fated to look ridiculous tonight, so… Might as well go all-in, right?
Dropping to a crouch, Oliver twisted his arms and legs, testing his range of motion. With a shadow of a smile, he went to work.
He might not have the fastest mile time, but there was a marked upside to those "asinine headspins." His body was flexible enough that when he dropped to a crouch, he could loop his cuffed hands under his legs. Yeah, screw you, Greg, he thought with satisfaction.
With his hands now in front of him, Oliver scanned the room, looking for an instrument with which to pick the lock. His eyes fell on a waiter's corkscrew, resting by a wine rack behind the bar. Hesitating briefly, he considered his options.
They did say 'any way you know how.'
Thrusting his upper body forward, Oliver leaned over the bartop. By extending his arms into a full stretch, he managed to get his fingertips around the edge of the corkscrew. Tool in hand, he quickly drew back, using his thumb to flick open the retractable foil cutter.
Sam, meanwhile, had given up on the bobby pin that the first girl had bent open and offered. He now had eyebrow tweezers in hand, and he strode over to where Oliver was wrestling with the foil cutter.
Oliver could sense that Swarek knew what to do – It was simply harder to maneuver the tool when his hands were behind him.
Turning his back to the bar, Sam craned his neck over his shoulder and went to work. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he jammed the tip of the tweezers into the cuffs, relying on the mirror behind the bar to guide his movements.
In the interim, Oliver had balanced the corkscrew in his left palm, wedging the sharp point of the foil cutter into the lock of the cuffs. Twisting it back and forth, gently and slowly, he wiggled the blade and listened for the tell-tale click.
His breath was coming in harsh pants, and he could hear Sam cursing softly next to him. The bar was so noisy with jeers and catcalls, Oliver nearly missed the soft pop of the cuffs as the lock released.
The bar erupted loudly as Oliver lifted his hands in the air and shook the cuffs off, a dazed but pleased expression on his face. Turning, he faced Sam, whose hands were also free – Just two seconds too late.
Sam stared at him, bemused, and Oliver returned his gaze with a shrug.
"Said it was a job," he explained, a twinkle in his eye. "Never said I wasn't good at it."
[end]
I did enjoy that whisky, Oliver acknowledged. Always tastes better when you're not the one paying for it.
Still, the night hadn't been a total loss for Swarek, at least not as far as Oliver could tell. After the initiation, Sam had returned the tweezers to the petite, raven-haired girl and spent the rest of the evening in a low-lit corner of the bar, flashing the dimples easily, so…
Shaking himself from reverie, Oliver smiled, popping the car door open and stepping into the rain. Not even the weather was going to dampen his attitude today.
First day, he repeated to himself. Anything can happen.