Author's Note: This was written around December 2009, courtesy of a prompt from a writing community. It is un-beta-ed, and I take full responsibility for any errors. There is no implied pairing. Spoilers through CSI:NY 4x11 "Child's Play."
Prompt: "Drunkenness is temporary suicide." - Bertrand Russell
He drank because suicide wasn't an option; even though he'd lapsed, he'd been raised Catholic. The last place he'd taken the kid- Ruben, he thinks, as the liquor slides down his now-numb throat- had been to get his bicycle blessed at the local Catholic church. The priest had sprinkled it with holy water, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, solemnly standing over the bike while Ruben stood proud, wearing his helmet and smiling widely. He'd placed a hand on his shoulder then, smiling down at him. If he'd had a son, this is what it would have been like. He would have taken him to the park to toss a ball around, and he would have taught him to shoot hoops at the age of two, throwing folded socks into the laundry basket from three feet away. He would have been a good father, taking him to the Blessing of the Bikes when he was ten, letting him ride ahead of him on the walk home, but not so far that he could get lost or hurt.
That was what he'd done; he'd tried to be a father figure to a kid who, by no fault of his own, had been abandoned by the guy who'd kicked in half the DNA to create him. One moment, that's all it took, and boom. Ruben Sandoval. He'd told him to ride home after the gunshot, only a block and a half away, and he'd stayed behind to deal with the shopkeeper and her brother, chasing the perp and radioing as Ollie Barnes escaped down, down into the subway.
Ruben hadn't made it home; he drank to his memory, replaying in his mind the devastation on Rikki's face when Danny had stood outside her door. He'd told her that he wished he could tell her that Ruben was fine, but he couldn't, the sobs and frantic anger and self-hatred stirring in his head until all he could see was the need to destroy something, to destroy his own life because he'd destroyed Ruben's and Rikki's by his misplaced compassion, his action, his choice to be an NYPD officer instead of fulfilling his responsibility to Ruben and Rikki, ensuring that Ruben arrived home safely.
The alcohol had stopped biting after the fourth shot. He'd picked up a bottle of the most potent stuff he could find without even looking at the label. Entering the liquor store, his expression was one of a man needing to drown himself in a bottle. Not for the moment, not for the night, but until this goddamn pain and self-loathing vanished. His irresponsibility had killed a kid. It didn't matter that he hadn't loaded the gun or held the gun or pulled the trigger; Ruben was still dead because of him because nobody but Danny Messer was supposed to bring him to the Blessing of the Bikes and get him home safely.
Alcohol on an empty stomach was even stronger. He couldn't eat, didn't want to eat. Maybe he could just waste away like this. Taking his service weapon wasn't an option; he didn't want Mac or Stella to see him like this, to examine his apartment. He didn't want Don Flack to knock on his door and find him lying in a pool of blood with the nameplate of Ruben's bike clenched in his fist, in the late stages of rigor, the blood settling so that they'd know he hadn't been moved, that he'd taken his life by his own hand. Alcohol was easier, part of his brain had long ago decided.
He drinks enough that he doesn't remember anything until the next headache, the next morning. He sleeps late, downs four aspirin and two cups of coffee, and heads to work. He mooches a piece of leftover pizza because Lindsay keeps looking at him with a mixture of pity and disgust when his stomach growls loudly and echoes through the Trace Lab. He clocks out on time, takes the subway home, and does it all over again.