A/N So I know I should be writing another chapter for Sleeping to Dream, but this just hit me last week, and I needed to write it. I basically re-wrote the Danny/Lindsay storyline from CSI: NY episodes 6x01-6x05ish for Sam and Andy. Essentially, Sam gets shot on patrol and ends up with a pretty serious injury. Nothing super creative in terms of plotline, but this is how I think it would go. Also inspired by laurzz's AMAZING story One Step at a Time. So please check it out! Hope you enjoy! :)
She wheeled him through the door, the house like a tomb. Her hands clenched tightly around the handles of the wheelchair. He was silent, eyes slightly narrowed, lips turned down – frustrated, irritated. Thankfully the trip home from physio had been a short one, because she wasn't sure how much longer she could take his angry glares he was throwing her way as she drove his truck.
"Well…uhm, we're home."
"Really? I hadn't noticed," he remarked sarcastically.
"I'm just going to get you some of your pain meds, and make some dinner. Why don't you go watch TV or something?"
He just nodded.
"How was physio?" she called from the kitchen.
"Fine."
She came back with his meds and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not exactly a Michelin star meal but in all her conversations with Sarah in that hospital room, she had learned it was his favourite kind of comfort food.
"What am I, 12, McNally?" he grumbled.
"12? Are you kidding? With those wrinkles?" she teased, settling next to him with her own sandwich after helping him out of the chair onto the sofa. He just shot her a disapproving look and ate anyways.
"So Oliver and Jerry told me to tell you they're coming over tomorrow for Poker Night," she told him, in another attempt to start a conversation.
"No."
"Sam, it'll be good for you to see people. They haven't seen you since last week."
"I said no, Andy."
"Alright, Sam," she just nodded.
"Noelle brought Lydia in today. She's so cute."
"Ugh, McNally. You're giving me a headache."
Her face fell and she nodded again, taking the plates into the kitchen, sighing heavily when she saw the mountain of dishes in the sink. A loud thud sent her rushing back into the family room, and she saw Sam sitting at the foot of the sofa on the ground, the wheelchair against the wall and the vase her mother had given her for Christmas lay shattered on the ground. She carefully wheeled the chair back to him, hoisting him up and helping him into the chair. He took one look at the vase, then wheeled into the bedroom. Andy sighed again, quickly vacuuming the carpet after picking up the larger shards, receiving several small cuts on her hands. She went to do the dishes, the monotonous activity seeming relaxing for once. She rinsed off hands and walked into the dark bedroom, collapsing onto the bed from exhaustion, not even bothering to change. 11pm.
4am – Week 3.
His fist connected with her face and her eyes shot open. Ignoring the stinging in her cheek, she slid closer, kissing the top of his head and whispering quietly in his ear until he stilled.
7am.
The alarm goes off. She tries to ignore the bruise as she looks in the mirror applying her little used makeup to cover the welt on her cheek. A quick look in the fridge said Timmy's would have to be breakfast today as she added grocery shopping to her mental to do list. There was enough milk for cereal, but she saved it for Sam and put the coffee on before running out the door. Damn it, she was going to be late again, and breakfast would have to wait.
9am.
"So McNally, how's Sammy doing?" Oliver asked as he drove the cruiser.
"Better. The doctor's said his x-rays are clear and with some PT and rest, he should be walking again soon," she smiled.
"That's good news. Did you tell him about Poker Night tonight?"
"Yeah, I did," Andy sighed internally, "he said maybe another night. But honestly, Oliver, I think you should go. It'd do him good to see people besides me."
Oliver nodded until his fatherly instincts couldn't hold back any longer and he asked about her bruise.
"Locker," she play off in what she hoped was a casual voice, "I wasn't looking where I was going and bam! A locker hit me." She laughed weakly, knowing that Oliver could well enough guess the truth.
"Nightmares, huh?" he asked, prompting a nod from Andy. "Listen, I know you're not supposed to lie to the person you love, but just…don't tell him that was him, okay? I don't think he'd forgive himself."
6pm.
Andy walked into the locker room, studiously avoiding the mirrors, walking right into Traci.
"Sorry, Trace," she apologised wearily, but her friend just looked at her.
"God, Andy, you look like hell."
She rubbed her hand over her face, "Nothing a little sleep can't fix."
Traci nodded. "Maybe you should get some help, you know? A nurse or something."
Andy sighed heavily, "He refuses. But it's okay. Soon he'll be walking again and then things will go back to normal." How she craved normal right now.
"You shouldn't have to do this all alone. You need to take care of yourself too."
"I'm not the one in the wheelchair, Traci," she snapped tiredly.
"Okay, but you wanna talk, you know where to find me."
She hugged her friend and thanked her, getting into Sam's truck and ignoring how wrong it felt to drive it when he couldn't.
9pm.
He'd barely spoken to her all evening. Just nodded when she gave him his meds and barely lifted an eyebrow when she came into the house after work. She knew his book wasn't that interesting. And then Oliver and Jerry showed up. The looks he threw her way…
She finally looked at herself in the mirror. She looked awful, Traci was right. Dark circles ringed her bloodshot eyes and she swore a thousand new wrinkles had appeared. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion, her usually thick brown hair lay limp and stringy. She groaned when she remembered the groceries and slugged out of the room.
"I'm just going to go get groceries. You want me to get anyone anything while I'm out?"
"Good…there was barely anything to eat today. I had to order in."
"Alright, well, you kids have fun. I have my cell if you need me."
10pm.
Andy finally closed the door after her third trip from the car, bags in hand. Sam's voice called to her as she put away the groceries. She brought his pill out with a glass of water and handed it to him only to be met with a hard glare.
"This is the wrong pill."
"It is? Oh my god, Sam, I'm sorry. Here, I'll go get the right one."
He thrust it back into her hand, "What are you trying to do, kill me? The pill boxes are labelled the days of the week, Andy, how do you mess that up? And there's still glass in the carpet, by the way."
Andy flushed, embarrassed at being chewed out in front of her colleagues, who were now basically her friends, but she just turned on her heel and got the right one. She didn't mention that she wasn't even sure what day it was at that point. That between her nightmares and his, she got about two hours of sleep a night. That she had been pulled into Best's office after shift and put on desk duty because she was just so out of it. She could hear their voices floating in through the bedroom door.
"Sammy, brother, that was a little harsh."
"She's doing her best, man."
"Well, clearly, she needs to try harder."
And as her eyes closed, those were the last words she heard from him before sleep claimed her.
1am.
"Hey…Andy? This is Jim from McGinn's. Your dad is here –"
"I'll be there in 15 minutes."
9am
"Andy? Andy, wake up."
"Mmh, hm? What's wrong, babe?"
"We have physio in an hour."
Andy nodded tiredly, dropping a chaste kiss on his lips, pretending not to notice how he didn't respond. She rolled over onto his chest, nudging his nose the way he usually did, and gave him a sweet smile.
"Good morning, handsome."
"Morning," he replied, his voice still rough from sleep.
"Well, it takes us 15 minutes to get ready, and 10 minutes to get there. 35 minutes is plenty to make your morning into a good morning," she teased, trailing her fingers down his chest.
He turned his torso, effectively turning away from her, and basically pushing her off him. Hurt flashed across her face but she took a deep breath. Big people loving stones.
"Okay. Well, what do you want for breakfast then?"
"I can do it myself, Andy."
"I know you can, but I want to."
"Andy it's fine! I'll do it."
"Alright," she conceded and the two began to get ready.
"Where'd you get the bruise?"
"Oh," Andy hesitated, remembering Oliver's words, "uh, a suspect."
"You should be more careful," he informed her in his TO voice.
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," she replied between slightly gritted teeth.
12 pm.
"You did really good today, Sam," she praised.
He just glared at her as they entered the house again. She stopped and knelt in front of his chair.
"I know you're frustrated. I would be too. But you go to physio and you keep trying. We'll get there, Sam. We will. And chair or not, I don't care. I'll be here," she kissed his forehead, "I'm not going anywhere. Except for work and I'm going to be late!"
"Yeah, okay," was all she received in response.
"Oh crap. Sam, do you think you could do me a favour? I put the clothes in the dryer before we left. DO you mind folding them? You can watch TV or something while you do it, but I don't have time and they're gonna get all wrinkled."
He nodded, turning on the TV.
"Okay, gotta go. I love you."
"Yep, you too."
He sounded sincere. Well, half sincere. And yet the 'love' he didn't say hurt more than anything he'd said so far.
10 pm.
"Hey, Sam. Sorry I'm so late," she called, as she came through the door.
"Uhhuh," he replied, lifting his eyes from the laptop screen momentarily, then looking back down.
She sighed. Physio was hard. He's in pain. Just a few more days.
"So, did you eat? And how was your day?" she asked as she walked into the kitchen.
"It was fine. I ate all the spaghetti, I hope you don't mind."
Her heart sank, she had made it yesterday so she wouldn't have to cook after shift. She was too tired to make something, there was no spinach or lettuce, so salad was out. Cucumbers and tomatoes for dinner it is.
"No, it's fine. I'm not that hungry anyways." Even though I haven't eaten anything since last night, she added mentally.
"So tell me what Susan said at PT, I had to run off for a few minutes," she asked, munching on a cucumber as she slumped down next to him on the couch.
"You're not trying hard enough. You're just giving up," Susan told him firmly, "You could be and should be walking. It's your brain and your heart stopping you, not your legs."
"I don't want to talk about physio."
"Come on."
"No."
"Okay, let's talk about something else. Have you talked to Sarah recently?"
"Just leave me alone, Andy."
"I do! All day," she snapped, "So sorry, if I want to spend some time with you when I come home.
She looked at him for a minute then huffed and got up.
"Sam, have you seen my Mac sweatshirt? I swear I put it in…the wash," she trailed off as she opened the dryer.
11pm.
Finished dishes and folded and ironed all the laundry.
I didn't have time, he had told her.
"I didn't have time," she mocked under her breath. "What did you need to do, watch another episode of Criminal Minds? Urgh!" she growled.
2am – Week 4.
"Andy? Hi. It's Jim again."
"Coming."
"Dad, you can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this. You need to start going back to meetings."
"Oh, Andy. I'm so sorry. I will, I will. I'm going to change."
His words just left her seething.
The days continued and Andy slowly felt herself being pushed to her breaking point. She was so fucking tired of Sam's constant abuse, a man who she thought would work with her to create some kind of future was now sulking and things were rolling backwards and fast. Nightly calls from her new best friend Jim weren't helping and Andy still hadn't rid herself of her own nightmares, let alone his.
She wasn't angry. She was resigned. God, the excuses she made for him to justify his actions in her own mind. He was shot, he's in pain, it's only been a few weeks, he's dealing with it. But she wasn't sure she could pretend much longer. The old McNally would've snapped a long time ago. Lashed out in her hot Irish temper. But those hours of holding his limp hand in that plastic chair beside his bed, the unwavering vigil in his hospital room, crying her eyes dry with his sister, the uncertainty as he hovered between life and death. Those moments had changed her. Made her realise that Sam undoubtedly held a huge, irreplaceable place in her life. That a bullying Swarek was better than no Swarek. It was a desperate attitude. A victim's mentality. She loved him, head to toe, chair or no chair. She wouldn't be the girl that walked away when life got tough.
But God, she just wanted someone to hold her. To let her cry and be angry and punch something. To make her dinner for once, or ask her how her day was. No, that's not what she wanted. She didn't want someone to do any of that. She wanted him to do it. She missed his teasing, his warm eyes, and those dimples that hadn't seen the light in a month. She was trying so hard.
9pm – Week 5.
She saw him in his chair, straining to pick up a DVD from the ground. It was just out of his reach. Without thinking, she picked it up and put it in his hand, her smile faltering as she saw the look in his eyes, and braced herself for the yelling.
"I could've gotten it."
"I know, I was just trying to help," she said quietly.
"Well, stop. Just stop! Damn it! I'm not 4! I need to go on with my life. I'm probably not getting out of this chair, I need to fucking get used to it. And you're just making everything worse!" he growled, his eyes menacing.
"Sam, I…I'm not sure what to do. I've given you your space. I haven't even pushed you to talk about it. I'm just trying to make things easier," she argued weakly, becoming acutely aware of the dull thudding in her head.
"Easier? You practically baby proofed the house! You moved all the dished down, only stock the bottom shelves of the fridge. You think I didn't notice? Well, I did. It's like shouting 'Sam's a cripple' throughout my own damn house!" he roared and he shrunk back slightly.
She stood up, crossing her arms over her chest protectively. She knew he'd never hit her. Didn't mean he'd never hurt her.
"Our house. It's our house. Remember? You asked me to move in?" she reminded him angrily.
"Well, maybe I shouldn't have."
She stepped closer, resting her hands on the armrests of his chair. "You don't mean this."
"Yeah, I do. Just go, McNally. I need to be alone, I need some real sleep without your phone going off at 2am, I need you to just leave me alone," he told her coldly.
"Sam," his name escaped her brokenly. "I'm your partner. I thought this was having your back. Haven't I shown you that? I'm here for you."
"Well, you obviously didn't have my back at the warehouse, because that's where I got shot. In the back."
The statement rocked her to the core. And hating herself for the desperation she exuded, she tried one more time, "Sam, please, just –"
"Damn it, McNally. Just go!"
He shoved her hands off his armrests and the force of it sent her careening backwards onto the floor, where Andy clutched her side with a pained cry. She pulled herself up and with a final look at him, she grabbed her keys, coat and walked out the door.
She knew he knew she had nowhere to go. Traci and Jerry had gone away for the weekend, her dad's was not an option, and she had sold her condo weeks ago. Gail and Chris were moving in together and Dov was staying on their couch for the time being, so they didn't even have space. She sat down on her front steps and began to cry. She sobbed her pain out on the doorstep of what was supposed to be her white picket fence. The right choice. The right guy.
"Oliver?"
"Andy?"
"Do you think you could come get me? I…I didn't know who else to call."
"Where are you?"
"The house."
If Oliver thought that was strange, he didn't say anything. "I'll be there in 10."
He took her coat, and Zoe came to the door, enveloping the young woman in her arms. That in itself was enough to cause her to break down in tears all over again. Zoe led her to the couch, gently rubbing her back and stroking her hair, giving her the attention she badly needed. An uncomfortable but worried Oliver had escaped to the kitchen, coming back with tea as he heard her sobs begin to die down.
"Andy, can you tell us what happened, honey?" his wife asked.
Andy nodded, taking a deep calming breath. "Well, since the shooting, Sam's been in the chair, and he's just so angry all the time. God, I haven't seen him smile in weeks. And I'm trying to make it easier. I reorganized the kitchen, I'm trying to encourage him at physio…I'm just trying to help, you know? But, he's so…he's just mean. He won't even look at me. And my dad's started drinking again, so I've been getting these late night calls to pick him up. And between work, Sam, Dad, all the housework. I'm so tired," she explained in a slightly disjointed, weary way.
"So…you left?" Zoe asked her hesitantly.
"Sam threw me out," she asked quietly.
Zoe and Oliver traded shocked glances.
"Why?"
"I handed him a DVD he couldn't quite reach and he just…lost it. Started yelling that I was coddling him and making everything worse. And that…that I obviously didn't have his back because that's where he got shot."
"He said what?" Oliver questioned in disbelief and anger.
"It's okay though, he probably just had a tough day at physio," she tried to justify.
Zoe's eyes were drawn to a spot on the side of her shirt. "Andy, sweetie, what's happened to you?" she asked, gently lifting her shirt and clicking her tongue at the blood. "You've pulled a stitch."
Andy winced but just said quietly, "Please, no hospitals. You're a doctor, can you just take care of it?"
Zoe looked unsure before relenting and she beckoned her husband with a quick jerk of her head. "We'll be right back. You drink your tea."
"Ol, she's obviously not telling us everything."
"Sammy wouldn't hit her, Zo."
"No, he wouldn't. But sometimes words can be just as painful."
"I've seen him. He can be downright mean. It's so unlike him. And she just takes it."
"Ollie, I'm worried. Not about the stitches. Look at her. She just looks so…"
"Broken? Young? Miserable? Exhausted?"
"Yes."
Zoe had cleaned her stitches up, given her a pair of PJ's and the guest room.
"Oliver, thank you. I mean, I know you and Sam are friends and I'm sure this must be awkward."
"Andy," he stopped her, "You're my friend too. We take care of our own."
She climbed up their stairs when a little girl poked her head out of the door.
"Aunty Andy?"
Andy crouched down to the child's eye level.
"Yes, sweetie?"
"Can I give you something?" she asked shyly.
"Of course you can."
She pulled a piece of paper from behind her.
"Well, I really like Uncle Sammy. And he seems really sad right now. But you make him smile. And you take really good care of him. Like Daddy when Mommy gets sick. And so I made you this to say thank you for getting him better."
She handed her the picture and Andy felt tears spring to her eyes.
"Maggie, it's beautiful," she breathed.
"You're like his angel," the little girl said, beaming at her, and Andy pulled her into a tight hug as Oliver and Zoe shared a kiss at the bottom of the stairs. Maggie scampered back to her room, leaving Andy just staring at the picture. It was a crayon drawing of Sam in his wheelchair and her standing next to him with a bright yellow halo over her head, with a big heart in between them. And Andy swore it was the most beautiful piece of art she'd probably ever seen.
3pm.
The loud rapping on the door continued and Sam grumbled as he rolled over to the door.
Sam was miserable. Plain and simple. An ambush at a warehouse on patrol had landed him in the hospital for weeks and basically dropped him right in the middle of everything he hated. He hated hospitals because they reminded him of those nights he spent there, terrified and hurting after his father drank too much. He hated medication, because addiction was a concept he wasn't even willing to chance. He hated being helpless because he felt like he was 9 again, trying to comfort his traumatized sister. But aside from feeling miserable, he wasn't feeling much of anything else. He welcomed the pain because it temporarily relieved the numbness. He started fights with Andy because he needed to feel something. It's not just his legs that are paralyzed, he felt like his emotions were too.
"Zoe?"
She strode in, leaving him to close the door with a sarcastic, "Sure you can come in."
"Hello, Sam," she said calmly, standing in front of him, hands on her hips.
"Hi, Zoe."
"Sleep well last night?"
"Yeah, fine," he answered, a little nervously, because he's known Zoe for a while and her interrogation techniques could rival Jerry's.
"That's good. So how are things with Andy?"
"They're fine," he replied and her tone was making it clear it wasn't small talk, "Listen, why exactly are you here?"
"You wanna know what I found when I opened my door last night at 10?"
Sam gulped, knowing where this was going and he really began to get nervous. "Oliver?"
"Yes, Oliver. And Andy. A sobbing, exhausted Andy. Care to explain?" she asked as if she was speaking to Izzy and not a grown man.
Sam went silent.
"Damn it, Sam. I'd met Andy all of twice before you got shot. But she was pure light. Everyone could see that. When you were in your coma, she never left your side for more than 15 minutes. You should've seen her while you were in surgery, you would've thought her entire world was on the line. Because it was, Sam! You are that to her. And the poor girl is killing herself trying to make this all work – you, the job, the house, her dad. Would it kill you to smile? Say thank you? Remind her that you love her? God, Sam. Any other woman would've walked out the door by now, and the one that doesn't, you kick her out!"
"What? You think this has been easy for me?! I might never walk again, I might never do my job again. Everything in my life is being turned upside down. So forgive me for not holding her hand and asking her how she's feeling everyday. I'm kind of dealing with my own shit."
"Cruel and selfish were definitely not two words I would have associated with the old Sam Swarek. And don't give me that crap. You don't think her entire world has been turned upside down. I've seen your films. People way worse off than you come back from that chair. I've seen kids that have an end date on their lives be more positive than you. You with the second chance at life."
"I'm not the old Sam Swarek!" he bellowed. "And great for all those people. I guess I'm just not one of them."
"You listen to me, Sam, and you listen good. If you don't shape up, not only will you never get out of this chair, but you will lose the best thing that ever walked into your life. That bruise on her face? That was you, while you were having a nightmare. She pulled her stitches yesterday and she wouldn't even tell me how she fell. All the while still making excuses for your sorry ass. And the damage you can't see is probably much more serious. She doesn't sleep, she's barely eating, her clothes just hang on her now. She's making herself sick trying to make everything perfect and you don't give a damn. I would understand if she didn't come back. Hell, I'd probably support her."
"Maybe she shouldn't. She deserves someone better than this," he gestured to his wheelchair, "I can't give her what she needs anymore."
"Maybe she does. She sure as hell deserves a better Sam Swarek than the one in front of me. But she chose you. She stayed with you. What she needs? That's you. Even if no one else understands it."
"Wait…stitches? When did Andy get stitches?"
Zoe's mouth dropped open slightly in disbelief. "You didn't know?"
"No…"
"She tried to throw herself in front of you, because you couldn't see the shooter, but she was too late and the bullet grazed her side before lodging itself near your spine. She was shot too, Sam."
"She…but she never said anything."
"Because you've made it so easy to share," Zoe remarked sarcastically.
Sam felt like his blood had turned to ice. "I told her she didn't have my back. I basically said she was the reason I got shot. I pulled her stitches, when she tried to help me, I shoved her hands off my chair and she fell back."
"Fix it, Sam. I don't even know if that's possible. But you have to do something."
"Zo, what…I don't even know how to start."
Zoe felt bad for a moment, but then she thought of Andy and just shook her head. "Better start thinking." And with that she turned to leave, then turned back and slapped him upside the head before actually walking out.
5pm.
Sam heard another knock on the door, and he hoped hat this visitor would distract him from the fact that he had no freaking clue how to make this up to Andy. He opened the door and there she was.
"Andy."
"I just need to get some of my stuff and I'll be out of your way again."
"Andy, wait. Just…don't go. Let me…explain."
"I think you explained it all pretty well last night," she shot back, the wounds still raw.
"Andy, please," he asked her, pure desperation leaking from every syllable and Andy stopped, but didn't turn around. "Yesterday? It was hell, Andy. Pure hell. I thought I could do this on my own. But…"
"So what, you need me now?" she asked harshly, not seeing Sam visibly wince. It wasn't enough to dull the hot flames of anger burning in the pit of her stomach.
"What? No. That's not what this is. I do need you. But not because you help me do basic things I should be able to do myself – cook and shower and change," his tone was bitter as he talked about his injury, "I need you because you tell me you love me. Because you encourage me after physio, and even after what probably has to have been the most miserable month of your life, you still try and make me smile."
She rested her hand on the back of the couch, her back still turned away from him. She closed her eyes and her other fist clenched, not sure if she was desperately trying to keep everything in, or everyone out.
"I've been such an ass, Andy. God, you must hate me. I'm pretty sure I'd hate me. I'm pretty sure I hate me now, actually."
"I don't hate you," she admittedly quietly.
"I'm so sorry. I am. The words…they don't seem like anything, but I mean it. I'm sorry."
She finally turned around and the hollowness of her cheeks, the emptiness of her eyes, it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. She seemed small and fragile and he wasn't sure if he'd already fragmented the woman trying to be his rock.
"I've just been trying to help you. I mean, it's my fault you're in that chair anyways," her voice was raw and pained, "Fuck, Sam. You think you feel helpless? You have the power to move your legs. I sat by your bed and waited for you to wake up, I hold you during your nightmares and just pray they'll end. I'm so sick of feeling so damn helpless."
"It's not your fault. How could it be? I'd be dead if it weren't for you. I know you were just trying to help. And I know I didn't exactly make it easy," she snorted, "And I never said thank you. Hell, I didn't even know you got too. What kind of boyfriend…what kind of person does that make me?"
"One who was dealing with bigger problems."
She was confused. She was angry. Blinding rage, not so much. But mistreated, used, frustrated, disappointed, abandoned – yes. Yet here she was defending him. But she was too emotional to care about the fact that this conversation was the furthest thing from rational.
"That doesn't make it right."
"No, it doesn't. You don't know how hard these past few weeks have been for me, Sam."
"Well, it hasn't exactly been a piece of cake for me either," he added defensively.
"Don't. I don't know what's worse. Not seeing you smile or being treated like I don't even exist. I haven't eaten or slept properly in weeks. I've been killing myself for you and you threw me out," the last three words were spoken with more venom than he'd ever heard from her.
"Andy –"
"I have nightmares too, Sam. I still get scared walking home sometimes. I have images burned into my mind, things you don't even remember. I still can't work the streets. I haven't seen my friends outside of work in ages. I sneak in visits to the doctor for my stitches while you're in physio. I held your sister as she sobbed in the hospital waiting room. I say by your bedside every day. I do all the housework. I'm trying so damn hard, Sam! You can be such a bully, and I still make excuses for you. Maybe it's a good thing you threw me out, because I'm not sure I can take it anymore.
His eyes widened and he pleaded, "I just need to get out of this chair –"
Her hand slammed the top of the hard back of the sofa that it had previously been resting on, and her voice rose in pitch and volume. "Damn it, Sam! It's not about the chair. It never was! How many times have I told you I don't care! It's about you and me and I just can't give anymore. There's nothing left. If I haven't done enough to show you that I'll love you through it, I don't know what else to do."
Hot, angry tears escaped her eyes. "When was the last time you told me you loved me?"
He fell silent.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Andy, I do," he told her, the words sincere but they both knew it wasn't enough, "I love you."
"It's not good enough anymore, Sam. I obviously can't be what you need," and she made a motion to leave when he moved in front of her.
"Please, don't leave," he was begging, desperate, and pleading, all things he swore he'd never be. "I don't…I don't know how to do this without you. I swear, Andy," his voice cracked on her name, "I swear I'll be better. It'll be better. Not like before. Please, Andy."
Her eyes met his. She looked into his dark orbs and she saw him lying on that warehouse floor, she saw him in that hospital bed. She saw his pain at physio, she saw his bitterness at her being able to do her job. And for once, the optimist couldn't find an ounce of hope.
"I thought…I thought I could be strong enough for the both of us. At least until you could be strong enough for yourself. I just can't anymore. I don't have a reason to wake up anymore, Sam."
His breath caught at her confession. "You have me."
"Do I?"
Two words shouldn't be able to hold that much weight. A weight that settled between them like an active bomb.
"Yes, yes you do. You always will. I'm so angry inside. I feel mangled and disabled and broken. And I think of not being able to stand as I wait for you to walk down the aisle. You deserve so much more than me. I don't know if I can ever make this up to you, Andy. I don't know if I can fix what I've destroyed. But I want to. You took a bullet for me, Andy. And knowing that you…that there's that depth…I don't know. It's terrifying. I don't know if I could live with myself if your move had worked. Because you're the reason I wake up in the morning. You're the face I see when I go to physio and it feels like I've been set on fire. You're the reason I survived the shooting. And," his voice lowered to a hoarse whisper," You're probably the reason I haven't killed myself."
Her tears gave way to full out sobbing and she barely managed to get to the other side of the couch and sit, her head in her hands.
He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up onto his feet. Fire raced up his veins and he almost choked on the pain, swearing that his lower body had been filled with lead. And he shuffled his foot forward, biting his cheek against the pain and drawing blood. Then another step. And another step. Tiny, but huge. She felt the couch dip as he sat down, she felt his arms around her and when she looked up, her jaw dropped open and she let out a choked gasp as she saw his wheelchair too far away for him to have wheeled up. His legs still shook, but he figured he deserved the pain for what he put her through. He pulled her close and she rested her forehead against the side of his neck, the tears continuing to trail down her face.
"I love you, I'm sorry. Don't leave," he whispered over and over.
It took merely one second in his arms for her to fall apart again. But as her tears began to slow, she looked up at him through wet eyelashes.
"If you do this again, I'm not sure I'll survive it," she warned quietly.
He took her face in his hands and hesitantly kissed away the last tears. "If you leave, I'm not sure I will either."
She leaned into his touch, but was still tense, despite the soothing circles he was rubbing on her back. "Listen, Andy. I can't promise I won't make a mistake again. And it won't be easy. And I'll probably have some asshole moments every now and then. But I will never let it get this far. Ever. We won't come back here."
Andy nodded, "I can't forgive you. Not now. But I can't stay angry either. No matter what though, Sam. You need to know that I don't care if you're in the chair or not. I'll love you all the same. And I'm pretty sure I'll always love you. But I won't be your punching back. Don't make me break my own heart."
A/N Whoo. That was pretty long. I MOVE IN TOMORROW. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. Terrified. So I'm writing angst pretty well…Reviews make my day :) as you can see, I'm not above guilt tripping. Stay tuned for an epilogue.