Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing: Andy/Sam; Andy/Luke
Category: Romance, Drama, Angst
Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue or its characters.

Synopsis: AU; McSwarek/McCallaghan. There is one love, one passion and one heart, that reality and duty can never take away and time can never dull. Warning: hints of sex, marital infidelity & emotional angst.

Author's Note: I've always wanted Andy to have the best of both worlds, so this is my little take on what might potentially happen if she gets married to Luke. This is potentially one of the darkest pieces I've ever done, although I don't yet have a clear direction of where I want to take this or how I want it to end. There are hints of sex, marital infidelity and a lot of emotional angst, so if you can't handle any of that, step away now. Would love to hear what you all think!

The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.

~ Blaise Pascal, Pensées ~

PROLOGUE

Seven years ago…

The fading light of the distant sunset was blurred by the drizzles of water that came pouring down. It was a beautiful, photographic moment; the streaks of color bouncing of the reflective lights of the rain that was slowly and gently bearing down on the city. The clouds were languidly darkening, the cool white of the day blending into shades of gray with the coming night.

In the midst of the rising darkness, the lights of the house shone out like a beacon in the wilderness, a luminous glow amidst the growing bleakness that seemed to engulf the city. The illumination from the other buildings along the street seemed to pale in comparison with the brilliance emanating from this one, and he was drawn to it, like a moth to a flame.

It was the light at the end of his dark tunnel of night.

He kept watch on the house as its occupants went about their lives, ignorant of his presence. He imagined the laughter that seemed to flow out of the happy smiles on their faces, the permeating joy that he reckoned the house would be teeming with.

They were packing, he knew; it was evident in the boxes he could see piled up high and how the shelves were bare. The move had been all she could talk about for days, and each time she happily sought his opinion, he had gritted his teeth and offered suitable advice. She didn't know how each question she asked killed him off a little inside, and she didn't know how much of his happiness she was taking away with each jubilant grin she shot him.

She didn't know how many pieces she shattered his heart into, this morning when she said her vows.

He should be happy for her, he supposed. Love something and set it free and all that sentimental, self-sacrificial nonsense that romance writers love to harp upon, blah blah blah. Yet, he could not help but feel the bitterness rising up in him as the image of her, ethereally breathtaking and beautifully elegant in that white gown, walking down the aisle, imprinted itself in his mind.

The rain droplets blinded him, but he was grateful for the water that intermingled with the silent tears that streamed across his cheeks and branded his heart. He wanted the moisture to wash away the memories of the day, wanted the rain to diminish the deluge of pain, hurt and searing loss that threatened to overwhelm his already fragile heart.

She was gone, though not yet physically, but even that was an eventuality he had to face up to. He tortured himself, every night, every evening after work, following her home and watching play house with a man he would so desperately love to hate, observing as they prepared for a life together that didn't include him, all the while wishing it was he that she was planning her future with instead.

But none of that would now come to pass; still he persisted, each evening a bittersweet torture to let himself delve into the what-if's and the might-have-beens; with each renewed stab of longing and regret, he managed to convince himself that he was still alive, that she hadn't taken all that was left of him and abandoned him to die with a broken heart.

The pain only served to remind him that he was but a hollow, empty shell, drifting from one day to another without purpose, without aim, without a final destination.

He remained in his position, concealed by the low hanging branches of a tree on the opposite street, allowing himself to be reminded what he had lost, although he supposed that one could not lose what one never really had. The fleeting glimpses he caught of the couple – in a passionate embrace, in innocent conversation – were the little scenes he consoled himself with, convinced that as long as she was happy, so too, he could be.

When at last, he deigned to turn away, tearing his eyes away from the scene that he so perversely wanted to hang on to, if only so he could burn the picture of that perfect wedded bliss into his memory and pretend that he was a part of it, it began to pour.