A/N: This is a first. Song fics are not my M.O. by any means – I have a hard time adopting the appropriate mindset when I read them, so to write one is completely uncharacteristic. That being said, I was working on the latest chapter of 'Firsts,' and a song on my playlist caught my attention. I think it offers an interesting look at Season One Sam and his POV. The itch to write would not be suppressed.
It's a little different than my other works, so I welcome feedback and critique. If you haven't heard the song, consider this my glowing endorsement.
"Anna Begins," Counting Crows
DISCLAIMER: I own neither Rookie Blue nor the lyrical, angsty genius of Adam Duritz.
My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing."
I am not worried, I am not overly concerned
My friend implores me, "For one time only – make an exception,"
I am not worried
Wrap her up in a package of lies,
Send her off to a coconut island
I am not worried, I am not overly concerned with the status of my emotions:
"Oh," she says, "You're changing,"
We're always changing...
"Sammy," he says delicately. "It's not that difficult. You have two options here: Walking a beat or working the wire room. Between you and me, I'd take the beat."
"Boyko wants me to train a rook. Between you and me, I value my sanity too much. Teaching sure as hell isn't my vocation."
"Make an exception, eh, brother? Listen, you'll be back on a schedule, and I can promise you that Zoe will be extending weekly invites for home-cooked meals. Think about it. Hot showers. Semi-regular hours. Still on the streets, but working a different angle. It's not the end of the world, buddy."
"Yeah, and what happens when I get paired with Bambi, the Girl Guide?"
"You maintain a professional distance and you teach her the ropes. She messed up, Sammy. But so did I. And so did Jerry. If anything, blame the tool with the goatee. Listen, you have to bide your time for another spot in Guns & Gangs… May as well work the blues."
"Besides," he adds with a lopsided grin. "You pull off the uniform in a way most men only dream of."
"Shove off, Ollie."
Oliver grins, fixing him with a long look before turning on his heel. "I'll see you at Parade, brother."
It does not bother me to say this isn't love –
Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love.
And I guess I'm gonna have to live with that
But I'm sure there's something in a shade of grey,
Or something in between,
And I can always change my name
If that's what you mean
He's not sure when it happened, exactly.
It may have been when her voice echoed through Hill's restaurant, and two sensations coursed through his body:
The first, relief. The second, annoyance. Because if this didn't end well, he was all kinds of screwed, and she was climbing aboard a sinking ship.
It may have been in the parking lot of the Penny, when she rushed out, concern written on her face because she feared for Emily's safety.
It may have been after the failed john sweep, because she was angry at herself, and he was angry at himself, and he just –
He didn't want anything to happen to her.
T.O.s train, and teach, and sometimes they have to yell.
The headache between his eyes was from lack of sleep. It certainly wasn't because of the pained expression in her eyes.
She's not infiltrating my senses and wreaking havoc in my chest cavity.
He thinks.
My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing."
But I am not really worried, I am not overly concerned.
You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself
To make yourself forget – To make yourself forget
I am not worried
He leans against the hood of his car, closing his eyes and exhaling as a cool, night breeze sweeps across the lot.
It's Oliver's voice that breaks through his reverie.
"Are you coming for a drink, pal?"
He shakes his head, not eager to repeat the cycle that had his head spinning and his ears ringing this morning. But there's an unspoken truth: He is waiting on someone. Er, something.
The keys. Definitely waiting on the keys.
Oliver mistakes his exhaustion for another hangover symptom – and yeah, that might be part of it – but he also adopted a case unexpectedly and ran all over creation, and for God's sake, she almost took a bullet. So he tells Ollie to go straight home and go to bed, and he points him in the direction of his car.
And Oliver seems to accept this at first, because, yeah, Sam is taking care of everybody today – That's his M.O., apparently. He would have been fine, but she chooses to emerge from the barn at that exact moment, all long, dark hair, and lean, tanned limbs, and body swathed in white.
"Are you, uh – Are you waiting for your rookie?"
"No, I told you, I'm waiting for my keys."
"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, you know, uh – Sammy, training officers and rookies… can't…"
He raises an eyebrow expectantly and leans forward, daring Oliver to elaborate.
And then Ollie's fumbling for words, simultaneously greeting her and backing away, "I'm gonna go, I'll be at the Penny if you want any, uh, you need anything… Um… yeah, goodnight."
He's smiling on the outside, because he knows what Ollie is getting at, but he likes to see his friend flounder.
"Thank you for the car," she says quietly as she drops the keys in his outstretched hand. Standing in front of him, she appears years younger, but there's something in her eyes that gives him pause. Disillusionment, maybe. And that part of her –
Well, suddenly she doesn't seem so young.
"Heard about your witness," he replies not unkindly. He knows that it must have hit her pretty hard. Benny was a good kid, and he didn't deserve…
She rolls her eyes, a frustrated noise coming from her throat. "Ugh. Yeah, he was never a witness. He was always just evidence."
He lets her talk, lets her get it out. The sadness is there, enveloping her body, and for a brief moment, he–
His fist tightens on the keys in his hand, and he stops himself from reaching out and touching her.
"It's…This job is… I guess I just have to get used to it, right?"
He nods silently, his eyes probing yet sympathetic.
"You need anything? Wanna go for a drink? Need a ride home?"
He doesn't realize he's proposing the same offer he just turned down.
"No, I just need to – Actually, what do you know about plumbing?"
And he smiles, because if she's coming along for the ride, then he's game.
Oliver has nothing to worry about.
He hopes.
"If it's love," she said, "Then we're gonna have to think about the consequences,"
But she can't stop shaking and I can't stop touching her
And this time: When kindness falls like rain
It washes her away, and Anna begins to change her mind
"These seconds when I'm shaking leave me shuddering for days," she says,
And I'm not ready for this sort of thing
He feels the waver in her voice more than he hears it.
"You alone?"
And he thinks, for a moment, maybe she wants to talk. Maybe she's ready to process the emotional turbulence of the day, and she needs him to listen, to sort this mess out.
It does a funny thing to his heart, this idea that she might need him.
Suddenly, she's through the front door and pushing him against the wall, warm body and eager mouth and wandering tongue, desperately seeking solace.
Her body is shaking – he can feel it – but so is his.
He can't tell where she stops and he begins.
And then they're in his room, and his shirt is gone, and she –
God, that mouth.
And there is a tiny, rational part of his brain – the side that sat with her on the locker room bench and said, matter-of-factly, "Okay. You shot someone today," – that side pipes up, but the next moment, he squashes its tinny, distant voice.
Because she's leaning into him, and he's lifting her, and then her shirt is off.
Legs wrapped around his waist, urging him closer, and he can't think, can't breathe.
Her body is trembling, and he just wants to ease her pain: Use his body as a balm and heal whatever wounds haunt her.
He lays her on his mattress, and he is overwhelmed.
The taste, the sight, the scent of her – It's too much and not enough.
He rolls his hips, the arching need of denim pressed against denim, desperately seeking friction.
Her throat beckons, and he answers. Swift, heated kisses that are gentle yet purposeful.
The sounds she makes nearly do him in.
He returns to her mouth, and he can feel her hands moving, scorching everything she touches - the nape of his neck, his shoulders, his chest. He's lost in her, and the only thing he wants to do is magnify those sounds.
From some cloudy land of sensory perception, he hears a hum that's not hers.
Electricity.
The lights flicker, the television blares, and reality rears its ugly head.
He nudges her nose, grounding her as the two of them gasp for breath.
It takes every ounce of strength he has to lift himself from her body, all the while cursing power outages, timing, the universe…
When he returns, the atmosphere in the room has changed.
Tense. Uneasy.
He sees the heavy burden of realization on her face.
Every action has a consequence, and his is staring at him: Sorrowful brown eyes and the light flush of embarrassment.
"Yeah, I guess everything goes back to normal."
But I'm not gonna break and I'm not gonna worry about it anymore
I'm not gonna bend, and I'm not gonna break, and I'm not going to worry about it anymore
It seems like I should say, "As long as this is love..."
But it's not all that easy, so maybe I should
Snap her up in a butterfly net and pin her down on a photograph album.
I am not worried 'cuz I've done this sort of thing before
But then I start to think about the consequences,
And I don't get no sleep in a quiet room...
He sends her back to Callaghan.
Because it was what it was.
They'll be happy together, the blonde boy wonder and the earnest, doe-eyed rook.
And hell, they can have their 2.5 kids in that financially sensible murder-house. Summers at the fishing cabin and long, Toronto winters solving crime and stories in abundance about how they met on the force.
Happily ever after.
He doesn't care.
He's set to return to Guns and Gangs. The sooner, the better, as far as he is concerned.
He starts to hate her laugh. He tells himself to hate it, anyway.
But it's not that.
He hates the look of disappointment on her face when she gets the brush-off.
Hates Callaghan's smug grin and protective arm around her shoulders on the nights he deigns to stop at the Penny.
Hates himself for not taking the initiative.
He's not sleeping.
It's not because her scent lingered on his sheets for weeks.
It's not because she sits next to him in the cruiser and somehow, he still misses her.
It's not because he can picture her future. Laugh lines etched into the creases of her face and that same, warm body – a little bit softer, a little rounder – hugging a brood of bubbly kids. And then he sees his future like a prison sentence. Perpetual Bachelor. Lone Ranger. Solitude like fetters. A life that is stagnant and unfulfilling, late nights at the Penny with a tumbler of scotch for company.
It's definitely not that.
And this time: When kindness falls like rain
It washes me away, and Anna begins to change my mind
And every time she sneezes I believe it's love
And oh Lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing
She's talking in her sleep
It's keeping me awake, and Anna begins to toss and turn
And every word is nonsense, but I understand
And oh Lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing
She gets under his skin like a disease, but now, he's not looking for a cure.
There is a small part of him that hopes she'll stay forever, loath as he may be to admit it.
He finds himself smiling more frequently: on patrol, in the Barn, at the Penny.
She likes to goad him in a playful way. That goofy little half-smile, her eyes dancing, itching for a fight like an unruly third-grader. He'll usually appease her with a raised eyebrow or an expectant "Yeah?" because he's witnessed her persistence firsthand. She crackles with energy like the sky before a storm.
He'd be a fool if he didn't acknowledge her beauty. There are days when his physical attraction rivals his emotional attachment. She's got full pink lips, thick, lustrous hair, and legs for miles.
Even when she is petulant and moody and uncooperative, she manages to worm her way into his heart. Because underneath it all, he has seen the real Andy McNally. She talks tough and chases down leads, but really, all she wants to do is prove herself - prove she can do this job, and when she messes up, prove she doesn't need a bottle to cope with her mistakes.
She cares about people. Really cares. Gets inside their heads, prompts them to open up. She is kindness and tenacity, compassion and ferocity, wrapped in navy blues and finished with a meticulous braid.
A lion's heart, through and through.
And he thinks he loves everything about her: The way she fiddles with her wristwatch when she's nervous, the way she talks about everything and nothing, incessant rambling, like she's afraid she'll lose steam before she can fully recount last night's trashy TV episode. The sweeping, observant gaze, partially hidden by her bangs or a police-issue cap. The confident attitude that veils her insecurities, well-concealed to most but glaringly apparent to him. The way she chews her lip when she thinks carefully about something, the way she tosses her hair when someone annoys her, that freckle on the underside of her nose...
The smile that stretches across her face and cuts him to pieces.
And he knows one thing –
He's never felt like this before.
Her kindness bangs a gong,
It's moving me along, and Anna begins to fade away -
It's chasing me away. She disappears,
And oh Lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing.
She's moving in with Callaghan.
And he feels it all over again, like his heart has been sliced in half.
Like a gilded butterfly, she has spent the afternoon dancing in front of him, bobbing and weaving lightly with the breeze.
She has drawn close but remains just beyond reach.
She refuses to be caught. He wouldn't catch her, anyway. He wants her to want him with the same, unyielding, all-consuming desire.
She's not ready.
But he'll wait for the day when she is.