There seem to be a number of "first" fan fictions inspired by Rookie Blue, and this story is no exception. Here it is: My audition. Reviews would be helpful and very much appreciated!

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, except bewildering levels of concern for fictional characters.

It had started off innocently enough; she analyzed his movements because he was, after all, her training officer and partner. Looking back, she is not sure where it began. How many times had she studied the contours of his hands? The way he gripped the wheel when he drove, the way he carelessly flipped his phone open before he barked into the speaker, the way he swirled his beer bottle that night at the Alpine…

Sometimes his hands were a silent entreaty, on which their safety rested. He would signal noiselessly, and she knew to remain quiet, or to move in on a suspect from the right or left side. More than once, his hands steered her to safety, quickly moving her behind the squad car doors when shots were fired, or guiding her over the rubble where a laundry mat once stood. Hell, his hands had instinctively shot forward to prevent a shower of cans from blocking her path as they pursued "Blue Guy" in that supermarket. He knew when to goad with those hands, helping her release whatever pent-up anger, frustration, or disappointment lingered in the wake of Luke's infidelity. But for every hard punch he threw, he followed with a playful tap, and she was reminded of just how patient those hands could be.

There had been brief moments when passion overruled coherent thought, and the hot touch of his hand seared her – First, the night of the blackout, and then their brief undercover stint as Gabe and Edie. As meaningful as those moments were, they were born of something else entirely – of a desire to comfort and be comforted, and of an oath to serve and protect. Logically, she could explain both away... Or she thought she could, anyway.

As much as she tried to convince herself that he merely "had her back," as any partner would, she knew that his hands went above and beyond the call of duty. She suspected it on the mornings when she found him, clutching two hot coffees, lazily resting against the cruiser door. She was almost certain the night he gingerly wrapped her leg, after hours of chasing an escaped prisoner through the wooded – and in Sam's eyes, maddening – forest. But she knew – she knew – the day she had been shot, that his hands conveyed more than traditional concern for one's partner. And when he pulled her behind the medic truck and gripped her arms, then her neck, and finally her cheek… She knew that he meant more, and she felt more.

On the first day they rode together, he had uttered the words, "I am not your boyfriend, and I will not be holding your hand." He was right on both counts. But weeks later, as she stood shaking and reeling in front of a man with three bullet holes in his chest, she felt the familiar weight of his hand on her shoulder. She didn't have the presence of mind to recognize the sentiment, but in the weeks afterward, she would remember. He too recalled the pain of taking someone's life for the first time. The ending was tragic, but the act was necessary and unavoidable. Like him, she would have to forgive herself, and like him, it would take time.

He didn't hold her hand that day. Instead, he used his hands to hold a trembling, whimpering young girl to his chest. He could only hold Andy's gaze, repeating firmly but gently, "It's okay. It's okay."

It was as much for her sake as it was for the terrified little girl.

It was different now, months later. His hands were free to say all that his words could not.

Outside the Alpine, his hand fell onto her shoulder again, but this time, the movement was not purely sympathetic. Different words followed – it wasn't okay; they were foolish to think anything about this current situation was okay – and yet, she trusted him implicitly. The sudden weight of his hand didn't startle her as a stranger's might; rather, it burned with familiarity and prompted her heart to beat rapidly.

His mouth, ever the defector, instructed easily: "Let's go." He wanted to add, "Away from here, away from me, away for now," but when her face lifted eagerly, he couldn't form the words. It wasn't until they reached his apartment, and she tugged off her coat, that his brain reacted. In a moment of clarity, he reached for her jacket : It was his anchor to reality, as the rest of his logic slipped away.

Sam – capable, rational, stalwart, master-of-emotion Swarek – could prevent his hands from wandering, as long as he clenched the puffy fabric. He could call her a cab, he would call her a cab; he would do anything to stop the magnetic pull that linked his hands with her body. Tonight in the bar had been enough of a test. He had resisted touching her, moving his hand to his own face when the temptation proved too great. The last thing he wanted to do was establish a connection with Andy – or Candace – in front of Brennan. Here, in the silence of his dark apartment, the temptation was rampant.

Her seemingly defiant tone echoed in his ears, "I don't wanna go back," and in an instant, his traitorous hands reacted, moving of their own accord, gently cupping her neck and side. His movements were achingly slow at first, for neither wanted to rush the moment. A soft brush – his nose against hers – rooted them, before he slid his arms around her back. Again his hand moved of its own volition, desperate to weave itself in her hair. He deftly released the last few buttons of her shirt, and those hands grabbed her lapels, tenderly bringing her forward.

Resting her palms on his bare chest, Andy allowed herself to move toward him – an instant of closeness, their breath mingled together, before he slipped one arm under her knees. Those hands that she had scrutinized and admired for their strength, for the way they steadily held a gun – Those hands lifted her, carried her, and loved her. Those same hands stroked her back in the early morning hours, and those hands dialed her number a few nights later, desperate to touch her again. And two blocks away from the Penny, those hands eagerly reached to lace fingers through hers, as she swung herself into J.D.'s SUV.

His hands were the initiators, it seemed. And now, it was her turn to initiate.

She walked over to the driver's side of the truck and looked at him pointedly until he grimaced, sliding over into the cab. Her left hand slammed the door, then grasped the wheel, as her right hand moved instinctively toward him.

Her keen eyes, sharpened by months on the force, took in every gash, scrape, and visible bruise, as she carefully lifted his injured hand. Inspecting it closely, she released the bulky brace and then met his eyes, swallowing hard. He offered a tentative smile in return, eyes crinkling and shoulders shrugging. They would have all the time in the world for a heavy conversation about Brennan, his injuries, and their suspensions. Tonight, each was the other's focus. They were both safe and alive and mercifully together.

As she moved to pull away from the curb, Andy exhaled deeply, releasing a breath she didn't know had caught in her throat. This time, it was her hand that moved without conscious deliberation, and her fingers cautiously settled on his.

For the first time that evening, a genuine smile broke out on Sam's face, and he caught her eye. She grinned briefly in return, flipping her hair behind her as she released the emergency brake. "We're partners, so you back me up, no matter what. Don't move unless I tell you to; it may be your truck, but you're injured, so tonight, my rules are the rules… I did not ask to fall for another officer, but for the record, I would like to be someone's girlfriend, and I will be holding your hand."

She quirked an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth pulled, as his right hand moved to settle on their joined fingers. There it was – that warm, familiar pressure. For tonight, it was enough.

"How's that for normal?"

Reviews – even a word or two – would mean the world! I love all Sam/Andy interaction, but for some reason, the scenes in 1x07 are some of my favorites. No, not the apartment scenes (insert requisite whoops and hollers), but the scene where Sam finds Andy, gun in hand, paralyzed by what she has just done. The locker room conversation afterward is brilliant.