A/N: Guys, I said I wasn't going to do it. I wanted to take a break from Sam and Andy, enjoy the episodes as they air, and focus on Oliver and Sam as we know and love them... And then I watched 3x01. And this happened. Like, immediately.

Andy POV

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.

Conceivably, she should be relaxed.

Shower. Glass of wine. Reinstatement, for crying out loud.

All told, things are looking on the up-and-up: A cold case was solved, a family was reunited, and that goofy cardboard cut-out of Chris is going to be division fodder for months.

(Possibly years. "White pants" isn't exactly dust in the wind.)

She has her job, and she a reason to smile.

Tightening the knot of her pajama pants, she tries to convince herself that the day was a rousing success: She had a nice, independent evening at the Penny, catching up with her friends. Now she can enjoy herself in the apartment, which – dust bunnies aside, the downside of cross-province extreme sports – is actually pretty great.

Life is good.

Mostly good.

Almost all good.

(Except for the small part where Sam basically hates her.)

Which is ridiculous. Really.

It's hard not to be frustrated. She's no fan of time and space; he of all people should know that. She didn't take that distance lightly, didn't eagerly write off his absence. Three months, god, after he was tortured and nearly killed - It's unthinkable. She's well aware of how differently it could have ended, and if he thinks she didn't miss him every single day...

(Sure, sometimes she acts impulsively, rash even, but her decisions are formed with the best intentions. And she isn't going to regret staying away from him, not when she has her job back. She might not have gotten it otherwise; lord knows how hard it was to stay away from him.)

In short: He's being a baby.

Everything about him today was infuriating, from his stupid, pouty face to his wrinkled brow, peppered with frown lines. From his aggressive stance to his adolescent scowl, and the sunglasses he refused to remove. Somehow - and she's not sure which superpower he invoked - his eyebrows became bushier and his eyes became meaner, she would swear it. He looked at her like he was really and truly unimpressed: In layman's terms, exactly how he looked at her during those first six months at 15.

Sometimes she really, really hates him. She does.

(Except for the part where she doesn't hate him. Not even close.)

Insert requisite Julia Stiles monologue.

Despite the blame she readily heaps on him, she would be lying if she said his hallway confession didn't stir something in her. Because his eyes went from mean to downright impassive, and that–

(It's possible the eyes are the hardest part, because when he looks at her… Well, she might be used to seeing something else.)

Why? What do you want?

(She can't admit how that cut her, his harsh words when she asked him where he was going, as if everything they had gone through, two years and change...)

She's left to ponder time and space with a glass of pinot and a backlog of mail.

Two sharp knocks on the door interrupt her reverie. She left the rookies at the Penny, so unless this is one of her new neighbors, keen on figuring out why a girl moves in simply to disappear–

She heads for the door, perplexed.

More than one surprise today, she acknowledges as she opens the door.

Grasping the solid weight of the wood oar, currently aimed at her face, she finds Sam on the other end. Backpack slung over his shoulder and rolling suitcase in hand, he drops her luggage almost immediately, not keen on exchanging pleasantries. He had kept her things in his truck, okay, but now he's going to leave without a word?

He feints as if to move past her, and just like that, she raises a hand, stopping him.

"Sam, please just stay..."

Her tone is pleading, becoming more forceful as he tries to slide past her.

"Please, stay."

(This could go one hundred different ways, but she's not taking the "It was what it was" route, that's for damn sure. Even if he wants to make this difficult.)

"Look... Sam, don't. Just hear me out. I'm sorry; I know I said yes, I meant yes. Look, I thought about you every day; I-I missed you every single day. I don't know if what I did was the right thing, but I did it."

Looking at him now, she knows how much she wants this. How much she hopes he wants it, too.

"C'mon, we finally have the chance to actually start over. Not even start over, but to start."

Let's start together, please, she thinks silently.

Exactly half a beat of silence, then–

"Kay."

Okay?

Somehow, she didn't expect it to be so easy.

(But no, he's turning on his heel and is making his way to the couch, so maybe...)

Is it that easy?

She follows in his wake, unsure how to deal with this rapidfire turn of events. He is seated now, eyes fixed on her condo floor, but he doesn't appear as composed, as unaffected as usual. The restless drumming of his fingers is evidence enough.

(She can only imagine how she looks.)

Everything about this scenario is bizarre: It's strange, seeing him here. In street clothes. On her couch. She's caught up in the moment, wondering why his appearance and reactions have thrown her so far off the mark–

She realizes abruptly that she still has the paddle in hand.

Stupid.

(Suddenly, souvenirs seem less and less like a thing she should actively seek on vacations. You know, in case a good-looking, brooding senior officer delivers one to her apartment again. She is nothing if not a casualty of inopportune moments.)

Relinquishing the oar, she takes a breath and sinks onto the couch cushion next to him. She spares a thought for their posturing: They've sat side by side in a cruiser all day, laid side by side in bed before. Conceivably, they should not be this uneasy. Shoulder to shoulder. Perfectly normal, right?

(Ugh, except she's having terrible flashbacks of her first winter formal: Her dad, bustling around the apartment, trying to find a camera while Jimmy Patterson sat awkwardly on the sofa and she plucked at her corsage. To be fair, though: Dismissing the ill-conceived updo and prismatic eye shadow of yesteryear, tonight may actually be worse.)

She swallows thickly, mind whirring. He's close. Closer than he's been in three long months, warm skin bleeding through the cotton of his shirt to her bare shoulder. If he thinks his presence doesn't affect her…

What did he even mean, 'okay'?

(At the top of her Christmas list this year: A Swarek-McNally dictionary. Foreign agents are less cryptic.)

Biting her lip, she feels the intensity of his gaze on her. Her rafting lessons come to mind with startling clarity: You're supposed to extend the paddle when someone's drowning, right? Have them grab on.

They're silent for several moments, and she's wracking her brain, floundering as she considers…

Hindsight: The "Table Topics" cube at the gift shop? Much better souvenir than the paddle.

She's never had a problem talking before.

Then again, she's never had Sam Swarek in her living room.

"So, how do we start?"

His eyes lighten marginally, and he raises his eyebrows, considering.

(She swears they're doomed to the longest silences in history, and she's still at a loss for words.)

His lips twitch infinitesimally before he sets his jaw. His head swivels, gaze flickering between her eyes and her lips as he leans in. He moves with a slowness that before the Alpine, she couldn't have dreamed he'd possessed, and now–

And now.

Angling her head, she meets him.

He moves slowly, and she exhales, the tightness in her chest abating.

Three months can't erase how good, how right this feels.

The tension in the room lessens considerably when she pulls away.

"That," she says softly, touching her lips. "That seems like a pretty good start."

His face tugs into a dry half-smile, eyes crinkled around the edges like he is humoring her. "That right?"

She shrugs, feigning indifference for show. "Well, I can't be sure." With a quiet hum, she meets his gaze. "We should probably try again. You know, just to confirm."

Sam nods once, slowly, his eyes dark with amusement. "Work out the mechanics."

Reaching for her, he threads a hand through her wet hair. His lips meet hers carefully, the kiss deepening as he presses her back into the couch. Smiling against his mouth, she circles his neck with her arms.

His hands drift to her hips, and she brings one hand to his cheek, thumbing the line of his jaw.

"Glad you stayed," she mumbles against his lips. Her words get lost as he cups the back of her head, sliding his mouth down the column of her throat.

It takes the brush of his fingers against the waistband of her pajamas to jerk her from reverie. Suddenly aware of the fact that she's been living out of a suitcase – and as such, her clean laundry supply is basically nonexistent – she stiffens beneath him.

(There are few things she's regretting more than the ratty, stretched out pair of underwear she is currently wearing, dug from the recesses of her top drawer. Not fit for company. Not fit for anything but the trash, if she's being honest.)

He notices the tension in her body and pulls back immediately. "Something the matter?"

Her hand flies to her forehead, eyes shut and nose scrunched in embarrassment. "Yes. No. Ugh. Sorry, I'm just…"

She opens her eyes to find him staring at her blankly, forehead wrinkled. Heaving a sigh, she pushes his shoulders with the flat of her palm, forcing him to sit up.

"I just wasn't expecting company, and it's possible that I'm wearing some old…er, um, undergarments? As in, not my usual stash, which you were holding on to."

His lips twitch suspiciously, eyebrows drawn in amusement. "You know, there are easier ways to get a guy's attention..."

Rolling her eyes, she gestures to the luggage. "I'm talking about my suitcase. All my good pairs were in my suitcase." Flushing, she nods at the oar. "Cut me a little slack, I did just return from vacation."

(She tries to keep the petulance out of her voice, but his all-too-pleased expression is making it difficult.)

"And you're worried… What?" Sam sweeps his eyes over her, tugging at the drawstring of her pants with his left hand. "I'm not gonna like what I see?"

"Hey, I didn't say you were going to see anything," she bites back immediately, pulling away from him. "Presumptuous, if you ask me."

He grins, flashing his teeth. "You're the one that asked me to stay, Andy."

She frowns, chewing on her lip while she silently acknowledges his point.

(Not that she'll admit to it.)

Nudging his leg with her foot, she shakes her head. "You're pretty much impossible, you know that?"

Catching her by the ankle, he leans forward. "Impossibly charming, yes."

(She feels the unbidden pull of a smile: It's possible she really, truly missed him, in a way that she only fully comprehends now. In a way that might considerably boost his ego, so she'll keep her mouth shut.)

"Hey," he says, voice softer than it's been all night. "Three months. I'll take you any way I can get you. Couches, pajama pants, and whatever is underneath 'em."

She exhales slowly before disentangling herself from his grasp. Standing, she extends her hand, pulling him into an upright position.

"Collapsible ironing board," she murmurs, linking their fingers as she skates around the coffee table toward her bedroom.

"What?"

Her smile broadens at his quizzical expression, hands moving around his waist. "Collapsible ironing board. That's what's underneath my couch."

An hour later, she adjusts the sheet around her, burrowing into the pillow and silently praising the wonders of memory foam.

"Did you miss me? You can tell me, you know."

He huffs at the ceiling, smirk firmly in place. "Now you're just fishing."

"What?" she asks defensively, the tiny grin on her lips belying her tone. "I told you I missed you."

His eyebrows quirk comically as he reaches over to pinch her hip.

"Oh, you didn't get the memo?" he replies, swiping his tongue across his front teeth. "I was pissed all day because three months was a picnic."

She purses her lips, rolling over onto her side, propping her head up with her elbow. Tracing the planes of his chest with her index finger, she exhales quietly.

Her voice is soft when she speaks again. "I meant what I said earlier. I know… Maybe leaving wasn't the solution, but I can't regret it, Sam."

Pausing, she rolls over, settling in the crook of his elbow. "I don't know if they would have given me my job back otherwise. And whatever you may think… I couldn't risk yours, either."

Lacing her fingers with his, she bites her lip, anticipating his response.

"Oliver wanted you back more than anyone," he says finally, trailing his free hand down her bare arm. With a pointed pause, he strokes the soft skin of her wrist. "Well, maybe not more than anyone..."

After a long moment, he clears his throat. "He has some crackpot idea that I'll be – easier to get along with – if you're around."

(Try as she might, she can't hide that smile.)

"I'm glad you're back," he continues. He brushes his lips across the top of her head, lost in thought. "Sometimes my, uh, concern might make it seem otherwise, but... I know what this job means to you, Andy."

She nods silently, then, "Okay."

"Okay?" he parrots.

"I mean, we have still have a lot to talk about," she explains. "But 'okay' for now."

They lay quietly for several minutes before Sam shakes his head in disbelief.

"So... skydiving?" he questions, chuckling. "What's that about?"

"Conquering fears," she replies with hesitation. Then, with a slight blush, "You know. In the pursuit of being normal."

"Ah, the pursuit of being normal," he drawls. He's teasing, but his tone is affectionate. "What, uh, pursuits might those be?"

"Too many to list," she retorts bossily, sliding an arm across his waist. Hiding a grin, she pulls him closer. "But, um, I'm thinking you could take me to dinner this week, for starters."

His eyes narrow as he gauges how much truth is behind that tone. "You wanna go to dinner?"

She shrugs. "Could be nice, don't you think? Nothing fancy. Just you and me."

"I think we're doing you and me just fine, right here," he says quickly, giving her the once-over with a lazy grin.

"Sam…" she drawls out, laughing.

"Dinner," he muses, wrapping an around her and rubbing his jaw with his free hand. "It's a step up from coffee runs and drinks at the Penny. You sure you're up for that? Dinner sounds like serious business."

"I think you'll find I'm a pretty serious lady," she replies easily. "So, you in?"

He pauses for a moment before relenting. "Alright."

"Yeah?" she prompts, searching his face.

He swallows, throat gone inexplicably dry. "Yeah, Andy." Clearing his throat, he sweeps a hand through her hair. "Yeah, of course."

With a quiet chuckle, he rolls swiftly, hovering above her. "But, uh. I have something you need to do first. Right now. Come here..."

I leave it to greater, more coherent minds to write the story of the traveling Diaz cutout, and Nick and Gail's almost-wedding in Vegas. That needs to happen, folks.