A/N: I recently watched the finale of season three (after refusing to watch it for a month because I didn't want to see Vinny die again) and – uhm, no. Definitely not what I wanted to see. I really appreciate Jamie's crisis of faith as a reaction to Vinny's death, but… that was all? Was the killer ever identified? And no tears at all? Well… I think you can guess what this story will be about. Kind of.
A/N2: I know, I know, A/Ns aren't meant to complain about things (especially not about such a wonderfully great show), but I realized there's no forum about Vinny, so… yeah, better not make this longer than the first one. Just… I hope you enjoy reading!
"It's okay, Jamie… it's okay."
"Come on, Vinny, fight! Fight!" His fingers shook as he frantically tried to stop the blood flooding out of his partner. It was everywhere, hot and dark against Vinny's face. Jamie knew he had only seconds left. The street around him was already filled with blood, it was soaking through his uniform, under his skin… "Vinny, please." He tasted iron on his tongue but Vinny was still smiling.
That braggy, easygoing smile of his.
"I told you… I told you this is…"
"No!" One of Jamie's blood-smeared hands moved up over his partner's mouth. "Don't you dare saying that. Fight!" Vinny's face was slick and cold with sweat, so cold against the hot blood around. Jamie dug his fingers deeper into his partner's skin. He didn't know why he knew it, but if Vinny ended that sentence, he would die.
"Vinny, please. Please don't…" more blood filled Jamie's mouth and made him choke. Was he hit, too? Where was the shooter? Where was the damn bus?
Another mouthful of blood cramped him down, and as Jamie fell to the side retching he felt his hand sliding off Vinny's lips.
"… the end."
"No!"
Jamie woke up as he had fallen down in his dream, throwing up slime and blood. Just that it wasn't Vinny's blood, and it wasn't Vinny's skin that was soaked in cold sweat at three in the morning.
Shivering with cold and exhaustion Jamie stood up and went into the bathroom. He didn't need to turn the lights on – he knew what had happened. It was the knuckles of his right hand, pressed into his mouth so he wouldn't scream in his nightmare. Instead he had bit it.
Cleaning the wound, showering, walking to the living room to sleep another hour before the fear of another nightmare would shake him up completely. Strange how fast this had become a routine.
Jamie didn't bother changing the damp sheets – next night it would be the same, and the night after, as it had been since Vinny had died in his arms two weeks ago.
Quarter to four Jamie stood up and brewed coffee, stronger than he had ever drunk it, even in Harvard. In three hours he could go the bathroom again, then dress and drive – behave like a proper member of society.
As if he cared for society's opinion anymore.
As if his partner wasn't dead, and his killer still not identified.
As if there wasn't someone to pay for Vinny Cruz' death.
And Jamie would find him.