Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Everyone has secrets. Sam Swarek is no exception.

For instance, he inwardly looks forward to the Disney movies his nieces insist he watch with them each time he visits St. Catherine's. Sure, he gripes about it, and pretends to focus more on the popcorn than the plot – his tough-guy reputation won't maintain itself in that household. But he likes the rhythm of them, the happy endings, everything neatly wrapped up in less than two hours with no lasting damage to anyone involved (except, of course, the bad guys). Plus, that whole Circle of Life thing? Actually pretty deep.

Another one is that he's spent most of his adult life projecting as many perpetual-bachelor vibes as possible to conceal his always having been a one-woman man, just waiting for the right one to come along. Mind you, the right one tackled and arrested him; he can't say he's thrilled that the entirety of the 15th Division figured that one out practically as soon as the cuffs came off his wrists, but he concedes to himself that not every secret is always as well-kept as one might like.

And anyway, if Sam can only preserve one of his secrets, he'd rather it be this: that for all the cocky smirks and corny jokes, he never stops being terrified.

He supposes it started with Sarah. The despondent shell that replaced his vivacious older sister awakened him to the reality that being good doesn't always keep you safe, that it's not always easy – or possible – to prevent someone from breaking, or fix the damage once it's been done. He became gunshy, nearly hitting the ceiling every time a door closed too loudly (which did wonders for his popularity amongst the junior-high contingent), waking up several times a night after faceless chilling possibilities clawed their way into his dreams. (When he was able to sleep at all.)

He needed something stronger than fear. So he got pissed off.

His Grade 10 school photo displayed a scowling boy with a black eye and split lip, courtesy of his near-daily sparring matches at the boxing gym three blocks from his house. The fights did nothing to quell the rage, though; his anger mixed with the persistent fear instead of scaring it away, leaving a scalding anguish coursing endlessly through his veins. He didn't know what it was anymore not to be on edge.

His halfway-decent grades slipped, because he was far too wound up to concentrate in class. His mother, juggling two jobs and Sarah, didn't notice. He was staring out the window one morning in Social Sciences class, apparently baiting his own reflection, when Mr. Clarke asked him to answer one of the previous night's homework questions. Sam ignored him. Mr. Clarke repeated the question four or five times, each query as patient as if it were the first, until Sam finally exploded. He swept his books off the desk, smacked the wooden surface loudly as he rose, and yelled, "Who gives a shit?"

Mr. Clarke calmly made his way over to Sam. Turning his head in such a way that the teenager was forced to make eye contact, he quietly responded, "Pick up your things. I'll speak to you after class."

Sam, who was expecting a screaming express ticket to the principal's office, was too stunned to do anything but obey.

When the bell rang, Mr. Clarke told Sam he wouldn't mention the incident to anyone else, on one condition.

Sam muttered, "Yeah? What?"

"I coach the cross-country team. I want you on it."

Sam hesitated. His instincts were telling him to inform Mr. Clarke exactly where he could stick his offer, but far gone as Sam was, he knew he couldn't afford to screw up much more. So he agreed to attend practice that afternoon. As he turned to leave, Mr. Clarke called his name.

"How's your sister?" he asked softly. Sam bristled initially, but saw the concern in the teacher's eyes. He suddenly remembered how much Sarah had talked about this class two years before.

"She's…" He trailed off, unsure of how to respond. She quit school and spends ninety percent of her waking hours staring into space. I haven't heard her speak in months. He shrugged. "You know."

At his first cross-country practice, Sam ran seven kilometers and threw up in the bushes. The ache in his legs and residual nausea left him numb and exhausted, too much to realize at first that he wasn't angry anymore. He stuck with it, riding the endorphins that served as a barrier between the fear and himself. He got along with his teammates, a few to the point of actual friendship. His assessment on Career Day unequivocally pointed to becoming a cop, and the more he considered it, the more he realized that nothing else would've made sense. For his admission into the Academy, Mr. Clarke wrote a letter attesting to his moral character.

His years on the force passed with increasing renown, but were not without setbacks. The high stakes of his work led to a resurgence of the fear, and he adamantly believed it would be his fault if anything happened to his partner, regardless of how many times Oliver tried to tell him otherwise. He'd hit suspects too hard and too frequently during takedowns, fired shots he still believed were unnecessary (even if he was cleared in every investigation), and had more than one partner beg the staff sergeant to pair them with someone, anyone else.

Sarah – who had eventually finished school and married a guy who Sam had to admit was worthy of his sister – pointed out that he'd never survive if he kept it up. The irony was not lost on him. So when the opportunity came up in Guns and Gangs, he jumped at the chance. It would just be him out there doing his thing, nobody about whom he needed to worry. No one to get hurt while he watched powerlessly from the periphery. And for a few cases, it worked. He'd be under for months, immersed in whatever character his team had cooked up, then back to the real world long enough to open his mail. No one would ever construe it as normal, but he was okay with that… until the day Andy busted through the door of that crappy cover apartment.

He's terrified again. Truthfully, he has been for the last two years, more than his adolescent self could ever have imagined or endured. He tries not to think about Brennan, the crushing fear he felt throughout his torture in no way related to physical pain or concern for his own life, but of not knowing whether she was all right. He thinks back to the bargain he made with a deity he's not sure he even believes in, sometime between the hammer and the second waterboarding: Get me out of here alive long enough to know that she is.

She's drifted off now, her head across his lap; he's been pretending to watch SportsCentre for the last half-hour, one hand running through her hair, the other gliding up and down over her bicep. The deadbolts are secured, and if someone was stupid enough to try to break in, he could get his gun out of the lockbox before they realized anyone was home. (No question; he's timed it.) She couldn't be safer, and yet he still feels the fear rising like bile in his throat. He knows it's why he copped out of defining their relationship earlier; any proclamation that she's his – really his, even though he desires nothing more – might do him in with endless worry. If he has her, all he'll think about is the ways in which he could lose her. Maybe it's better to keep it in limbo, he reasons, if only so he doesn't drive himself completely insane.

He feels Andy twitch suddenly, a surprisingly welcome distraction from his racing mind. She tosses her head back and forth, and with a short gasp, her eyes fly open.

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Hey," he says softly. "You okay?"

She turns to look up at him as confusion and relief and – is that embarrassment? – flit across her face. She sighs and pulls herself up to sit beside him. "I just… saw it again," she responds, looking somewhere past his left ear. "You, walking toward that gun… I'm pretty sure my heart stopped."

He reaches out and caresses her shoulder. "You counted the shots. I trust you."

Her eyes meet his, as something familiar to him flickers across her countenance. "When it comes to you being okay," she says slowly, "I don't always trust me."

He gets it then, finally understands what the pull of this woman has been since the beginning. They're one and the same. She's consumed with the same fear that occupies him, but instead of building up walls to fight it, she takes action. It's why she wants everything solidified and set in stone; to her, plans and declarations and rules (especially rules) keep it within her control.

He remembers hearing that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. For the sake of his mental well-being, he needs to try her method.

He closes his eyes, brings his forehead forward until it rests on hers. Their lips meet briefly. "I love you," he whispers, before he can overthink it.

She pulls back slightly to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise and happiness. Her warm gaze holds almost none of the apprehension it had moments before, and her smile grows as she pulls him in for another kiss.

There has to be something stronger than fear. Maybe they'll find it together.