A/N: I have no rational explanation for all the angst I've been writing recently. I blame cryptic promos and the shuffle on my ipod. (Did weeks seem this far apart last year?)

The following scene takes place somewhere down the road in Season 3.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.

Slipping out of bed, he follows the light source – the soft glow of her two-arm lamp in the living room. She's standing by the far window, dark hair free and messy down her back, arms wrapped around herself.

"Couldn't sleep," she says quietly, before he can touch her, greet her. Her spine is stiff, the neckline of his grey shirt slipping over one bronzed shoulder.

His eyes roam her form, long bare legs and untidy bedhead, and he wonders if they're both products of keen, homing radar. That time and time again, his eyes drift instinctually toward hers in a crowded room, and that she knows his presence before he announces it. It's been a familiar holding pattern since that first month on-shift together.

Copper's instincts, he notes silently. But something more, too; an undercurrent that has always existed, connecting them. He can trace it back to the Penny: He, sitting on a barstool, thinking about water pressure and his razor and a mattress that wasn't infested with bed bugs. She, approaching with a smile like a ray of sunshine, encroaching on his bubble of solitude.

Angry and sullen, he had fought her light. The eight-month loss was still fresh, circling and spiraling down the drain. The anger didn't dissipate immediately, that much is true; she wasn't a miracle-worker and he wasn't ready to let it go. Still, something about that night...

Reflecting now, he thinks it was her laugh – warm and bright at that damn rookie table, splintering something inside his chest.

He moves behind her now, the heavy weight of one arm draped across her collarbone. He shifts, crooking his elbow and pulling her back against his bare chest. His open palm sweeps across her shoulder, a gentle, soothing stroke. She smells like dryer sheets and him, the soft cotton blend of his t-shirt and the deodorant he applied after shift.

For one brief, fleeting moment, he wishes it were possible to stop time and just be: Sam and Andy, without the chaos and weight of their careers and surnames and every sharp retort exchanged in a moment of anger.

"The first thing I did in here was paint," she begins softly, clearing her throat. "It seemed like a fresh start. Strip the wall of its history, add a little primer, and boom… You cover it with something bright and clean and new. The possibilities are endless when you have a blank wall, you know?"

He slides his free arm around her waist, silent. There's no need to respond.

"It's never going to be easy for us, is it?" she asks quietly, almost forlornly. "We have a fresh start, sure, but it's complicated by everything that's happened in the last two years. Everything we've said and felt and the stupid mistakes I've made…"

"We've made," he corrects her, voice hoarse with disuse and mounting emotion. He clears his throat, his words a soft murmur against her temple. "Plural, Andy. You and me."

Been you and me for a long time, he reflects. Even if we didn't admit it.

"You've seen the bad parts," she says a moment later, her voice a faint whisper directed toward the window. "All that stuff you're supposed to ease into."

She trails off, swallowing hard. "Most first dates don't start off with a trunk full of baggage. 'My dad's an alcoholic, and I have abandonment issues, and there's a fairly good chance some catastrophic disaster is going to take my life in the next few years, because I've had an insane amount of close calls in the field.' I'm supposed to be charming..." A laugh escapes, quiet and desperate as she continues. "Lulling you into a false sense of security before I spring all that on you."

He closes his eyes against the onslaught of feeling; her subdued tone stirring something within him. It's not often that she seems young, not since that night she showed up on his doorstep. He remembers it now with startling clarity – all of Toronto dark and without power, and the burning need to forget in her eyes. How he wanted to cover her, spare her the pain and the heartache, ridiculous as the notion might be. He can't help but think of it now, weariness settling in his bones and his whole body aching.

She turns in his arms, a sad smile on her face. "I don't know how to do this, Sam. Everything is blurred already."

In the moment, he wants to tell her a lot of things. That he doesn't know how to be open, but for the first time, he wants to be. That his biggest fear is not angry words and heated arguments, but the idea that his walls are impenetrable. That he's spent so many years building them up, he doesn't have a goddamn clue how to tear them down. That she'll give up, stop trying, and he'll have no one to blame but himself.

Even now, silence is his worst enemy.

He can't bring himself to say all that, not yet.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" His eyes are trained on the ceiling tile, but she can hear the muscles in his throat working. "A woman who is remarkably resilient. A woman who dealt with a lot of crap, but came out stronger because of it. That 'baggage' makes you who you are, Andy."

He feels her shoulders slump marginally as she leans into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"You say that now." she says slowly. His heart is a steady thump against her cheek, but her fear persists. "But what happens when we disagree in the field again? When that 'strength' and 'resilience' is less like some glowing attribute and more of a frustration? When you yell, and I lash out, and…"

Her voice tapers off, and she lays a hand against his chest. "What happens then, Sam?" she finishes quietly. "We can't just 'reset.' Paint a fresh coat and forget about what lies underneath."

His face wears the shadow of another night, all traces of amusement gone. "I don't know," he says finally. "I…" He lets out a laugh, weak and without humor. "I have no idea."

"I know I want this to work," he continues, his voice a slow drawl beside her ear. He tightens his grip on her, hands sliding down the length of her back. "I know it's gonna be hard, but I'm not ready to throw in the towel."

"High-stress jobs aren't exactly known for easing personal tension," she says bitterly, swiping at her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "It just feels like we're balancing on a ledge, and I..."

A lump stakes residence in her throat. "I don't want to lose this, Sam."

In the moment, she wants to say a thousand things. That low expectations are her way of curbing disappointment; that sometimes she has too much blind faith, and other times, she anticipates failure because it's easier. That she can deal with judgment from nearly any other source, but not from him, not when it matters. That's she terrified she'll lose him because of relationship ideals, impossible standards. That she's put herself back together time and time again, but she doesn't know if she can do it without him.

She pulls him closer, arms tightening. The words are stuck in her chest, meters away from her mouth and from reality. She settles for sentiment that comes easily, and she prays he understands.

"I want you here, Sam."

His voice is low, thick with emotion. "I'm not walking away, Andy. Whatever else we have to figure out..."

They stand in silence, enveloped by the muted, distant sounds of early morning: the steady stream of traffic, of people rising and birds chirping and the world shuffling to greet another day.

Stay.

It's both a promise and a plea on their lips.