A/N: Thanks for sticking with me, whether you agree/disagree with this fictional take or the (admittedly) contrived plot devices therein. To reiterate: This is merely one interpretation of Andy's feelings... I won't pretend it's gospel truth, nor will I defend its singular validity. Read what you must, and take away what you will.

Be forewarned: There's a bit of cursing ahead.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own these emotionally deficient knuckleheads, nor do I own the lyrics of Dave Matthews. (It's probably for the best.)

I am no superman,
I have no answers for you
I am no hero; oh, that's for sure
But I do know one thing:
Where you are, is where I belong

One foggy grocery run and a jumble of feelings later, she's stretched out on the living room couch; thick, down blanket wrapped around her shoulders and sweatpants on standby. The non-perishables lay scattered on her counter, and she hazards a quick glance toward the kitchen, wincing at what she finds.

Dental floss, a sleeve of saltines, and a five-pound bag of carrots.

(She has no idea where her head's at. She's reasonably confident she's not a draft pick for Supermarket Sweep, anyway.)

Sighing, she sweeps her hair into a high ponytail. Her hot cocoa sits untouched on her coffee table, marshmallows melting fast against white ceramic. It's a poor attempt at recovery; this nostalgic, adolescent idea that it will all be okay. She probably should have guessed that any hallmarks of her childhood are better left as bygones: As usual, memory bears a price.

Her mind wanders to Sam; to this renewed need to understand why: why they 'started' if they weren't going to see it through properly. If it was all chemical; this intense, animal attraction that stemmed from physical compatibility. If, after everything - storage lockers and sparring mats, the bad and the good - they were going to go their separate ways.

We were messy, she thinks, fingers tracing the seam of the couch cushion. We weren't over.

She didn't walk away from that night unscathed. It's not like she didn't think about it, long days in the warehouse and lonely nights on her lousy twin mattress: You don't have to do anything, I'll do everything.

(It's the honest-to-god only time she saw an earnestness to Sam actions.)

Even now it haunts her: bright, dark eyes and his pleading tone; the urgency in his stride as he bolted after her. Her gaze falls to her fingers, and she curls them involuntarily, remembering the death-grip she had on her shoulder strap.

She knows he meant it: the dinner-making, dog-walking, trust-earning offer.

The problem?

When he said, You won't get rid of me without a fight...?

He meant that too.

Hours later, both her brain and her dinner are fried.

Sending a stack of dishes clattering to the bottom of the sink, she rubs her forehead wearily. The day has left her with a bone-tired ache, complemented only by a dull, radiating pain in her chest.

"You win," she huffs, arching a single eyebrow at the offender: brown rice burned to the bottom of the saucepan. "Universe - 1, Andy McNally - 0. I fold."

Rolling up on her toes, she fumbles for the top shelf of her pantry, fingers grasping at familiar silver foil. One pop of the toaster later, and she sinks onto the kitchen barstool. Decides, with limited conviction, that artificial blueberry will suffice for food and friend tonight.

It's two sharp, insistent raps on the front door that penetrate her reverie.

(And peepholes are there for a reason; seriously, after everything that happened in her apartment? But Mrs. Wellington has been at her door every day since her return; It's lovely to see you, Andrea, and Plants make things homey, don't they? and I baked a few dozen extra cookies - You know Arthur and his diabetes; have to find someone to eat them! In short: She's been sweet and persistent, and Andy has not been in a position to refuse sentimental, maternal gestures.)

Well.

Hindsight, they say, is 20/20.

Yanking the door open, she plasters a smile on her face, hoping her expression is reasonably convincing. And slick move, universe; kick a girl while she's down—

It's not an emerald green housecoat on her doorstep: A dark, bowed head greets her; one well-built forearm braced against the door frame.

The neighborly "hello" dies abruptly on her lips.

(Just as quickly, Nick's in her ear like an offensive coordinator; fourth quarter, fourth quarter, fourth quarter—)

She's vaguely aware of her sharp intake of breath. It's confirmed when Sam's head jerks up, dark eyes flying to meet hers.

"Andy."

(Low and familiar, his voice, this early-morning gravel that is equal parts gentle and rough, and she can't hold his gaze; she can't—)

She's not sure how it happens: when she let go of the knob, maybe, or when her traitorous feet backpedaled into the condo.

Regardless: He interprets the movement as a green light, and surely - if slowly, eyes fixed on her face - follows her inside.

"Sam," she begins quietly. Rubbing her arms briskly, she moves past him to close the door. Takes a moment to breathe before she turns. "What- What are you doing here?"

He huffs out a laugh, loaded and the tiniest bit desperate. His eyes are searching, this speculative gaze that unnerves her.

(Watchful, always. That part hasn't changed.)

"Dunno," he says after a long pause. He scratches the back of his neck, this casual tick that's a dead giveaway - He's not as cool and collected as he pretends to be. "Seemed like a good first step after sitting in the parking lot for twenty minutes, but uh. Maybe that's wishful thinking."

"Got the skinny from Nash," he continues after a moment. "Gave me the whole lowdown this afternoon. Heard you kicked some serious ass on the task force."

(File that under compliments she was not expecting.)

"Thanks," she manages, genuine surprise to her tone. It seems superfluous to say now, but since he's making an effort at general courtesy, she could contribute: "It just materialized. I, um, had five minutes to decide, and they... Well. You know."

"Yeah," he says with a wry smile. "Yeah, I know."

(It's the world's worst game of chess; opponents who know each other's tells but have no advancing strategy.)

They stand there, locked in stalemate.

She keeps her cards close to her chest.

Waits for his move.

"I don't know what to do, Andy," he offers slowly.

His eyes bounce around the room before settling on her. It's not nervous, the movement, but it's definitely unnerved. "I don't know how to do this— You were gone for seven months, and now you're back, and I can't—"

His eyes close, and he swallows forcibly.

Two, then three seconds pass.

"This," he continues emphatically, gesturing between them. "Whatever this is, beating around the bush and not saying anything at the park... I thought it was the right way to play it, but I just spent six hours in the D's office wondering what happens next and at what point I became such a goddamn overthinker."

His words slice through her, painful emotion bubbling - clawing - in her throat.

"Nash finally kicked me out," he says wryly, rubbing his jaw. His voice drops to a low rumble, and she sees it in his eyes: the defeat.

"Andy—"

He looks at her, through her, eyes heavy with something she can't identify.

"I'm not looking for answers tonight. I just think... Things are shaking up at 15, and maybe it's better if we take care of this before you're back on active duty—"

(And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you strike a nerve.)

"Take care of this?" she interjects, voice eerily calm. "Take care of what, exactly?"

She feels her temper flare at his words, implications more than anything else, insinuations about her ability to cooperate professionally. The anger spikes before she can rein it in.

"Andy."

(His voice is sober, and she hates it: Hates the pounding of her head and the thumping in her heart; hates what her name on his lips does to her.)

"What do you want me to do, Sam? Was I supposed to run into your arms and hit 'play,' tell you how happy I was to hear you say you loved me; brush away every shitty thing that you made me feel... Everything I second-guessed about myself in the aftermath?"

(Possibly she has not worked through the residual anger quite as well as she hoped. Gloves might be coming off.)

The next words come out in a rush, everything felt but unspoken: mental dissections of their relationship that left her tossing and turning for weeks.

"It took my hand around a bomb—" She breaks off, unable to put the sentiment to words. "How does that look to you, Sam? Genuine or not, it felt convenient, hedging your bets or something stupid like that, and I—"

She catches the subtle hardening of his eyes, the flex of a clenched jaw. "It was more than that, Andy. You know that, and I know that—"

"I don't know anything, Sam," she chokes out, throwing her hands in the air. Losing some of her heat, she fumbles for a chair and sinks into the cushion. Wills the tear ducts to subsume any moisture.

(Just like that, the anger disappears, replaced by something else entirely.)

When she speaks again, her voice is barely more than a whisper. "I don't know because you don't tell me anything. After Jerry- God, Sam, I wasn't asking for promises and declarations when I followed you into the parking lot. I was asking you to talk to me; I was trying to console a loved one who was grieving. It hurt me that you were hurting; can't you see that?"

"If splitting was in the cards for us; fine," she continues fiercely. "But not like that. Not like that. In the parking lot, in the rain, after the day we had—"

She slumps forward, and this time, she can't suppress the emotion in her voice.

"Without a fight, Sam. Without any kind of fight."

"We were partners. I've seen you fight for kids you've known all of two hours, fight to serve and protect and see justice through, and I loved you for that, Sam. Loved you for that kind of drive, for the person and cop it made you."

She raises her eyes, finally meeting his gaze. "After everything we've been through... you couldn't fight for us?"

The silence that follows is consuming.

(She's vaguely aware of the timer dinging in the kitchen, but her ears register heavy footfalls before anything else.)

"It took me weeks to work it out. Miserable weeks."

He holds her burning gaze, eyes blazing as he moves toward her. And with the flip of a switch, his voice is an octave lower, and there's something unguarded and shaky about the timbre.

"I'm not saying it was right. Christ, I know what I did, Andy."

His face - his voice - softens infinitesimally. "Took me weeks to realize that I'd rather have you; weeks to see the regrets I was racking up by shutting you out. After everything with Jerry—"

Her lip quivers, and she works to suppress the tumult of emotion. "S—"

He pauses, holding up a hand to cut her off. His voice comes tightly, underscored by the pain in his eyes. "I needed to be by myself; I needed to figure that out by myself. And I don't know what it will take; don't know how to fix it... I messed up, Andy."

"I don't know what step one is," he says bluntly. He raises his hands in surrender. "I thought maybe it was saying I love you; thought that could be the first of a bunch of steps..."

"I didn't need you to say it, Sam," she murmurs, shaking her head.

(Hell in a handbasket, this conversation going nothing like she could have anticipated...)

Her pitch rises as she considers the significance; silently willing him to understand. "God, Sam, how many times do people just say those words, without any thought at all?"

"I love you, kiddo," she intones, this low lilt that recalls Tommy. "I'll get better, I promise. And what got better? Not his resolve to stop drinking, not his long hours or sloppy casework... And then everything with Claire: She loves you, honey. Mom just... had to leave for mom, okay?"

"Sam, you showed me," she continues with a hard swallow, throat constricting. "You showed me what you felt, and I thought..."

(His actions had said it all: warm, rough palm seeking hers after shift, fingers lacing tightly. A birthday hat, wildly perched on the side of his head. Knuckles dragging gently through her hair, thumb sweeping across her bare arm as she rested her head in his lap. Cupcakes and flour, ice cream and faded cotton tees; this goofy, affectionate look he'd get when she laughed at one of his jokes. It lit a spark in her body, this sharp thrill in her stomach and warm glow in her bones...)

"I didn't need you to say it," she chokes out. "I knew it. And maybe I was naive or misguided... But after all that, after the promises you made, you still walked away... Walked away with a throwaway line like, Maybe we can be friends?"

"Sam..." she trails off quietly, shaking her head. "If you think I can just say those words... Say 'I love you' after everything we've been through, and then just stop feeling it? Stop and be friends?"

She lifts her chin, searching him out.

"I'm a fixer, Sam. And I couldn't fix my dad drinking or my mom leaving, but that doesn't mean I stopped trying, alright? That's the way I deal with things; it's part of the reason I became a cop. And I follow hunches and leads and god knows I'm not perfect, Sam; you've been witness to a hundred and one screw-ups in the field, but I wanted to do this right. I wanted to do us right."

She sucks in a harsh breath. "If I pushed you too much after Jerry- If I pushed you too far, I'm sorry. But I knew you were hurting, and it hurt me to see you hurting..."

Her eyes remain fixed on him: stiff posture and tense muscles; hard, compact body that's poised to spring.

Both made for running, she acknowledges.

She wonders if, after all this, they'll have any staying power left.

"It could have been you."

His voice reaches her ears, flat and empty.

"I spent the day twisted inside and out, worrying about you; worrying about the drugs in your system, and what if it was something more... Because you're headstrong and stubborn and determined as fuck, and I love that about you Andy, but it drives me crazy... That you can't take five seconds to recuperate, to let your body process what happened. Charging ahead, half-cocked and reckless, is how you end up bleeding out at a crime scene, or in the trunk of some loon's car, and I can't- "

He breaks off, fighting to control his voice. "And what if it were me? What if Nash or Oliver found you in the waiting room and had to break the news... Shit, Andy, I've never had to worry about that before, alright? All those years of UC... They pick the lone wolves on purpose; the cops that aren't leaving families and loved ones behind. And I can't do that in the field; navigate those personal and professional lines in half a second without regretting something; without someone getting hurt."

He lowers his voice marginally. "I couldn't find that balance, Andy. I'm not some relationship savant or boyfriend of the goddamn year, and I don't want you carrying that... Carrying what Nash is carrying." His shoulders tense, jaw flexing. "And I can't carry it; can't see you lowered into six feet of dirt while some stiff waxes poetic about your career and service and..."

"If you don't know how important..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "I didn't say it enough when we were together, and one conversation doesn't change that... I'm sorry, Andy. Sorry for how I acted and how we ended, and I..."

He shrugs helplessly. "I don't know what happens with us. I don't know where we go, rebounding from seven months apart and a heap of shit before that, but I..."

"I know I missed you," he continues softly. His hand finds her knee, warm pressure and the lightest graze of his fingertips. "You're sitting here, and I still miss you, and however this shakes out, I need your help."

It's the most she's ever heard from him in one sitting, this onslaught of feeling and emotion.

It's honesty, finally, that compels her to speak.

"I don't know if I would have come that night - to the Penny, I mean. But I knew how I felt about you, and I knew that it wasn't going away..."

Her voice drops to a whisper, and she chances a glance at him. "It hasn't gone away, Sam."

(It's an acknowledgment, sincere and honest: The hope that exists beneath fragments of painful history and broken promises, everything that has yet to be resolved. It's not a blank slate or unencumbered start, but it's something.)

She doesn't know what comes next.

(It's comforting to know she's not alone.)

He reaches tentatively for her hand, fingers stopping three centimeters shy.

She glances down at their hands. Glances up at his face.

Closes the gap with the brush of her thumb.

Figures, for now, this is an okay start.