Title: The Right Thing

Part 6: No One Needs To Know

Author's note: Things get a lot worse before they get better.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, sadly.

"I tend to live in the past because most of my life is there." – Herb Caen

My face burns. My throat burns.

Where am I?

The room is slowly de-blurring. Someone is slapping me. In the face.

"Are you in there? Come on, Bosco, wake the fuck up. Bosco! Wake up!"

I blink, and shove my partner's massive hand away from my jaw. "Christ on a crutch, Wolf! I'm fucking awake! Stop hitting me you son of a bitch!"

I glance around, struggling to focus as the place comes into view. Of course, that only makes it even blurrier in my right eye, so I stop concentrating so hard: It's my place. My apartment.

Two more faces are staring me down, shining pen lights into my already-fucked-up eyes. When they quit, I quickly determine their identity.

"Shepherd?"

"Bosco," the medic acknowledges. He's been here since I started at the 7-9, and probably fifteen years before that. He's short and graying and metro. He knows his shit though. Reminds me of Doc Parker, save for the metro part, and oh, he's white. But as far as taking his work as seriously as if every patient has the plague, and running around with a chip on his shoulder about stereotypes, then he's like, his freaking twin.

"Whose the new guy?" I frown and nod my head toward some kid standing timidly off to the side.

Shepherd shrugs, "New guy. Put me with him while Stan takes a few days. By the way, how's your head?"

"My head?" I wrinkle my nose and pain sears through my temple. It's like it knew we were talking about it, and it suddenly remembered that it was supposed to hurt.

"Yeah, you have a nasty head lac. Could probably use a few stitches there."

I shake my head, "No hospital," I turn to Wolf who is standing above me but looking away, avoiding me and all of the random, broken and whole bottles next to me, the opened and unopened letters strewn everywhere, and just the general state of complete disarray.

"You called 911?" I spit.

His eyes flash angrily when he turns, "No, Bosco, I came here and you were unconscious and somehow they just knew to show up!"

I roll my eyes at his sarcasm and shake my head wildly. "Well I'm not goin' to the hospital."

"Does he need to go?" Wolf turns to Shepherd, his eyes expectant.

The paramedic shrugs. "He swallowed aspirin knockoffs and prescription migraine meds with like, a gallon of alcohol, and needs stitches. I'd say he needs to go, Ryan. The question is, will he?"

"He will not!" I shout, sending my skull into a mad war with my brain. I wince.

"Yes, he will. I'll make him," Wolf grabs my arm. "Let's go."

"You can't make me," I argue, trying to weight myself to the floor, but Wolf is much stronger. And I'm fully aware of how childish and unreasonable I'm being. However, to be fair, he should know by now and understand my raging aversion to hospitals and being in them for any length of time.

Begrudgingly, I get to my feet.

"Want us to take him?" the new medic, who's done nothing so far but shine lights against my pupils, has suddenly and unfortunately discovered the reason for the existence of the human voice box.

"I'll drive him," Wolf states. "But thanks for coming."

Shepherd nods, following us out. "Just keep pressure on that," he motions to my head. I roll my eyes.

"I wasn't trying to, you know," I make a lame neck-slicing gesture with my hand. I'm sitting on the edge of a bed in a triage curtain while nurses and doctors rush around outside the automatic doors. St. Mary's Hospital is so packed again, as usual, that patients are lined up on gurneys in the corridor, spreading who-knows-what to who-knows-where. It's like a bad ER episode.

Wolf is standing off to the side, trying to look nonchalant. I glare at him because he realizes how pointless it was to make me come here in the first place. Besides, if I bleed to death, it won't make a difference if I'm in an overwhelmed emergency room or my own apartment. Although, speaking of bleeding, that head lac Shepherd was up in arms about must have clotted because I took the damn gauze off three hours ago.

"Oh, no kidding," Wolf tilts his head sardonically. "What were you trying to do, then, see the tunnel?"

I shake my head not-so-victoriously, "You don't get it."

"What don't I get, Bosco? You swallowed a bunch of pills with a bunch of alcohol. Tell me your not gonna try to explain this!"

"You heard Shep, it was just aspirin. I had a headache. Besides, it's not like they were some narcotics!"

He throws his hands up in feigned surrender, "Oh, okay, then. Well if it's just aspirin, it's alright. Because that's a great combo. Fantastic."

I just stare at him, my eyes glazed. What am I supposed to say? I could repeat over and over again that I wasn't trying to off myself and he won't believe me. I'm not really even sure that I believe myself. Part of me can only think how much easier things would be if I just hadn't woken up at all.

I watch him spin around and walk toward the doors. "I'm finding a doctor," he announces.

"Good luck with that," I call.

Three days later

"Wedding's next week," I hear Wolf announce from the kitchen, almost excitedly, which is confusing given his previous complete lack of interest in attending. I roll my eyes, only because I know he can't see me.

"Don't remind me," I groan.

I hear him laugh and he walks slowly into view. "You're being pretty miserable about something you RSVP'D to," he studies me for a second and then shrugs. "I thought you liked Davis, anyway."

My head pounds. Again. It's been pounding at least once every hour for three days. That's how long it's been since my Bayer-Excedrin-Alcohol-induced head injury, or 'me trying to off myself' as Wolf calls it. St. Mary's had given me three sutures and hooked me up to a banana bag for four hours, then sent me on my way, but only after I'd convinced Wolf to convince them that I didn't need psych to come downstairs. I didn't need the department asking questions. It's bad enough that every year the lieutenant says to me, 'Still hittin' the target with those eyes?' And I remind him that I have 20/20 corrected vision, but I leave out all the details. When it comes down to it though, fortunately (or unfortunately?) for me, the 7-9 doesn't ask very many questions. If they did, I would have probably been out of there a long time ago. And Wolf is always available to corroborate my lies, despite how much he feels like he should instead be dragging me to therapy and AlAnon; although I tried the AA thing a couple years ago at his insistence and it didn't go too well.

I press on my temples, "It's not about Davis. I just..." I sigh, wishing he'd just dismiss the topic, but I know it's not like him to be flippant. "I don't want to deal with the past. Or Monroe."

He nods and I get the feeling that he gets the feeling I be all for changing the subject. At least for another eight days.

"You're going to work, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I say glibly. "And don't try to talk me out of it," I shake my head, almost in disgust at his persuasiveness. Sometimes I feel like if he really put his mind to it, he could convince me right off of a cliff. "You already made me call in twice. Do you know how long it's been since I took a day off?"

"Yeah, I do, that's exactly the point," he declares. "No offense or anything, but the department could manage without you for one more day, Bosco."

I grin and scoff, "But the question is," I say, ignoring the splitting pain in my head as I rise to my feet to meet him. "Can you?"

"I would live," he declares, folding his arms.

I can tell how much he wants me to stay, to sleep, to rest, to heal, to take it easy. But he's also my enabler and he wouldn't be himself if he didn't cave. As much as he knows what I need – professional help, an intervention, whitecoats, etcetera – what I want will always triumph because apparently me being marginally happy does something for him that is better than the agony he'll go through trying to get me healthy. And believe me, I don't fight him on this one.

So I stare him down for a few seconds as if my entirely livelihood will be forever repressed if I am talked into another sick day, and soon enough he tosses his hands up and gives in.

"Fine," he says. "Let's go to work."

"Oh Christ," Wolf's disgusted voice echoes out sharply. "Fuck!" The comments only get worse. I'm not quite to the entrance of the corner store yet, but I have a pretty good idea what's in there with my partner. I half-collide into him at the door as he flees, hobbling on one foot, struggling to pull of his shoe.

"The hell, Wolf?!" I rub the shoulder he just slammed into on his hurried way out. I glare in his direction and then, answerless, head to the grim display inside. The body is twisted, half-concealed behind a shallow counter. There's at least a dozen bullet holes, but I see no casings.

My only reaction is to shake my head and turn back toward the exit. I reach deep into my pocket, retrieving cigarettes and a lighter. Wolf's back is facing me as I step outside onto the sidewalk, fumbling with the box in my hand.

"You stepped in it, didn't you?" I deadpan. I can't help it if all I can think of is how long we're gonna have to stand and guard the scene, or at best, interview witnesses like glorified news anchors with guns. I can't help it if all I can think is what a complete inconvenience it all is, that if this guy just hadn't gotten himself shot, I wouldn't have to canvas for the next four hours.

Wolf glances up, his face ablaze with guilt and disgust. "The blood was everywhere, Bosco. Before I even saw it!"

"Fuck," I mutter, inhaling deeply on the cigarette I've managed to light. "Crime Scene's gonna have our asses."

"The hell was I supposed to do?" he snaps defensively. "We have to clear the scene. Imagine if someone was still in there. Then we'd be getting shit for that, too. You can't fucking win, Bosco."

"I know," I shrug, my voice lacking any tangible emotion. I take another exaggeratedly-long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs. It reminds me of how 'bad my lungs sound' according to the doctor last time I was there. Oh and that he'd really wanted 'to take some chest films', but I had adamantly and probably unpleasantly refused. Besides, I'd been in for, by every definition, a suicide attempt and not a check-up. I couldn't even kill myself now, the hell did it matter if I did it in thirty years? I shake my head at my thoughts and sort of laugh coldly. "I don't really care, anyway," I continue, "I'm just saying, you know, they'll be pissed."

"Well screw them," Wolf barks, struggling to pull his shoe back on. It's still slick with blood, only now, that's all over his hand too.

"Amen," I nod astutely, staring ahead as I survey the sidewalk, street and the growing crowd lingering a few dozen yards away. Then, like clockwork, more join them. Their like carpenter ants, actually. They see the yellow tape and one-by-one in shocked succession they all gravitate toward the scene. Then the cars show up. More RMPs, some unmarkeds, and CSU. I take a sharp breath to prepare myself for dealing with the living public. I think it would be much easier with the dead. Hell, sometimes I feel like I can relate better to them anyway.

Wolf follows the direction of my eyes and groans, "Here come the fish," he sighs.

I nod toward a Channel 6 News truck, "And the sharks."

"Son of a bitch," he mutters, having given up on his shoe and smeared the blood on his uniform. "We have any water in the squad?"

"Unless you put some there, no."

"Fuck! I can't win," he stares at the red, sticky mess that have become his hands. "The trunk?"

"Extra guns, ammo, and armor. If I were you I'd run my ass to the nearest john and practically bathe in their sink."

He stares back blankly, "And you're going to, what, do this on your own? In your state?"

I ignore the 'in your state' part because I know it'll only make me angry. Instead I just motion around us, "It look like we're lacking any law enforcement here?"

He shrugs "Fine, okay," and turns around, marching down the block, muttering something about getting HIV.

I shake my head, trying not to grin, since I realize that could be a possibility. A soft, familiar voice interrupts me. I turn, meeting her face-to-face.

"Medics didn't step in the blood," she says. "Shoes don't match."

"No kidding. Wolf did. Medics hardly went passed the front door," I scoff, rolling my eyes. "I could've told them the guy was dead already."

"Sensitivity, Bosco. I don't know what we'd do without you around," she tilts her head with sarcasm and glares disapprovingly at the cigarette I hold.

"Me either," I declare. "Probably, what? Stay married, happy,—"

She bites her lip, "That's not what I meant."

I sneer, "Because there are so many other ways to mean that, right, Faith?"

She looks at me rather stunned, which I find retarded because she knows how I am and so acting surprised by my response isn't really fooling either one of us.

"Look, Bosco, give me a break, I'm trying...to be civil."

I laugh dryly and scan the scene unfolding in front of me on the street: the bright, flashing lights – the ones I see so much it's hard not to even when I close my eyes – and the flurry of uniforms rushing to contain the area with neon tape, while I stand here inhaling smoke. I'll feel bad later, for what I tell her, because she seems genuine and looks tired, but right now I'm just angry – so frustrated with circumstance – that I don't really care.

So I take one last drag, toss the cigarette down and smother it with my shoe. "Well," I say, my voice ridden with contempt. "Try harder."

Six years, ~5 months earlier

June 13, 2005:

"So how long have you been here? At the 7-9?"

My new partner looks up, eyes wide, from his plate of grease-laden fries. It's as if he figured that because I haven't said anything all shift, I must not be capable of actually speaking. But he's twenty-five. What was I expecting?

His hesitation isn't normal, and it irritates me. My own French fries are wallowing in their own pool of oil and I compare it to my grief and pain: stagnant and unhealthy.

"It's really not a difficult question…Ryan," I almost sneer, squinting at his nameplate. My right eye instantly blurs and I stop trying to focus.

He shrugs, "It's just that you haven't said anything to me since 3:00 today."

I stare, "The hell's your point?"

He motions to his watch, "It's 9:34. We've literally rode our first shift almost completely in silence."

Silently, I do feel bad. He seems like a good kid, and an even better cop. He's not exactly a rookie, and that's not why I've been giving him the silent treatment. It's just my internal hell that's made it damned near impossible to even interact with people I don't know. And the fact that my first day in Bedstuy I was presented with a "new partner", as if he were some kind of trophy, just left me wanting to vomit.

"I'm sure I've said something to you today."

"Yeah," he nods, remembering, and I notice a sarcastic, almost wise glint in his eye. "You did. That domestic earlier? You told me to the 'stay the hell out of the way, kid'.

And you called me a 'jagoff'. Do you remember what for? Because, see, I forgot…Boscorelli."

He bites a mutant fry with pleased finality and grins, as though he's beaten me at my own game. But if only it was a game.

"Look, Ryan," I scour my insides for any remaining decency that hasn't already been dissolved or calcified by an inherent, excessive loathing for a certain Captain Miller, thirteen years on the job, and my recent nicotine addiction. "I've been a jerk, I know. It's not about you…"

"You don't have to like me," he replies. "It's fine, really. My FTO didn't. He was so glad to hear you were coming on so he didn't have to 'deal with me anymore'."

"Four years on the force, why were you still with your TO?" I inquire, actually curious so that I forget my own anger momentarily.

He shrugs, "We just sort of stayed partners after probation. The 7-9 wasn't really a big choice for transfers. No one wanted to come here, they just sent in rookies. So it was rookies with rookies. Out in the field I mean, at least I didn't have myself backing me up four months out of the academy, you know? When all hell breaks loose and bullets fly, you don't want someone who knows jack shit as much as you backing you up. That's why the 7-9 has so many God damned 10-13's. It's really not the worst place in the city, it's just the fucking blind leading the blind. Guess what I'm trying to say is, if you got to say with your TO you were considered lucky. But I'd be lying if I said I liked riding shotgun listening to his holier-than-though I-was-on-the-streets-when-you-were-nothing-but-a-dirty-thought-in-your-parent's head speeches." He shakes his head, "Fuck that," he finishes.

I nod. "I guess I know what you mean. I didn't really want to come here either. Reassignment..."

"Yeah, after the 5-5…"

I snap my head up sharply and he seems to apologize silently, so I dismiss the sensitive topic.

"So, your TO," I change the subject. "Why didn't he like you?"

"He had a stick up his ass?" He scoffs. "No, I don't really know. Same reason you don't, I guess. No reason."

We both nearly laugh, "I don't not like you, Ryan," I shake my head. "I mean, I don't even know you. Not yet, anyway. But I have a lot of demons in here." I pat my chest and look at him genuinely until he nods.

"I get it," he says softy. "You know, I know why."

"You do?"


"Sure. 7-9 is like…well, people talk. You get a story goin' and you'll feel like you're in fucking high school again. But it's not my business, so…" he trails off.

I swallow a huge gulp of soda, imagining how much I wish it were alcohol instead. The hell does he know already, anyway?

"More Coke?" I glance up abruptly at a small, delicate hand that has boldly stolen my mostly-empty, partially-melted glass of soda.

"Sure," I shrug. The girl is young and she smiles sweetly and turns to leave. "It's diet, though," I call, my tone slightly less friendly than I intended.

"Amber," Ryan says suddenly.

"What?" I ask, turning my attention back to him.

"Her name's Amber."

"So?"

"You could be a little nicer, that's all."

"When she comes over here, I'll tell her she's fucking hot, is that nice enough for you?"

Ryan just grins, "Whatever. But you should know she is sixteen."

"And you've known her how long?"

"I've been coming here four years, since I started. Besides, why bother with the Diet? Clearly the tobacco and the alcohol are enough to self-destruct. Look like you could use the 100 calories, anyway."

"You a fucking shrink?" I ask.

He throws his hands up in defense, "Sorry," he mumbles. And I wonder if it's really that obvious. I mean, even to someone I've known just over six hours.

It's Bosco," I correct, annoyed. I look past him toward Amber, then past her out into the darkness of Bedford-Stuyvesant. "Nobody calls me Boscorelli."

"Fine," he acquiesces. "And it's Wolf. No one calls me Ryan."

He blinks his black eyes and I realize why. "Fine," I mimic astutely. "Wolf."

We eat in silence for several more minutes, only the disgusting sound of our chewing and swallowing is audible. Finally, I speak up. I don't know why. It's definitely not out of politeness or any shit like that. Curiosity maybe.

"Where are you from, Wolf?"

"What do you mean?" he asks between ungodly gulps of his drink.

"Well you're not from the city, I can tell that by your fucking voice."

"I don't have an accent," he declares, his tone almost defensive..

"I know. You don't sound like a New Yorker either. You sound…plain."

The thump of a glass on the table temporarily distracts me from getting an answer.

"Thanks…" I murmur, looking up only slightly. I guess I'm sort of embarrassed about my recent insolence. Amber surprises me by smiling and nodding genuinely.

"Sure," she says, then turns to Wolf. "Where you been?"

"Mandatory 46, 'till I got my new partner here."

The girl nods, naivety in her eyes, but at the same, wisdom.

"I hope he's not an asshole like Vandt was."

Wolf shrugs and looks at me with raised eyebrows.. "I guess we'll find out."

"Vandt?" I ask, as Amber spins around to leave. Our radios crackle.

"My T.O.," Wolf answers. I nod because it all makes sense, but I haven't been paying complete attention. These days my mind is often half-somewhere else.

"Be careful, right," Amber calls, as Wolf places wrinkled dollars into her hand and we sprint past her, leaving our food to cool and drinks to melt.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," Wolf responds. He then tells her he'll be back to take her home after eleven.

She rolls her eyes a little, "If I was going to get raped and murdered on my way home it probably would've happened already."

Wolf mutters our location into the radio and then looks up. "You're probably right."

Amber just smiles and waves us out.

"The hell are her parents?" I ask, once we get into the car. I turn the ignition and don't bother with my seatbelt.

"If you figure that out, be sure to let her know." Wolf says. He puts his seatbelt on.

I nod and speed off.

"She lives with her aunt who I guess works all the time, I don't really know," he shrugs. "I try to give her a ride home when I can, but she usually ends up walking."

We ride in silence for several seconds before he speaks up again.

"South Carolina," he murmurs finally, and almost with a little regret. "Where I'm from."

"No kidding?" I glance to the passenger seat, because I was more expecting him to say Arizona or something, and then back to the road.

He shrugs, "I did almost four years at SC State in—"

"…Psychology?"

"How did you know?"

"Wild guess," I tell him, thinking about how he'd effortlessly sized me up in about three seconds. "How did you get from there to the NYPD?"

"I never finished," he continues. "It was more of my Dad's plan for me."

"He's a shrink?"

Wolf shakes his head, "Psychiatrist, actually. But he knew I could never hack it in med school so he figured that was the next best thing." He sighs, "Anyway, I dropped out six credits short of my degree. I just wasn't going to waste more time on something I didn't want to do. I wanted to be doing this, in a city."

I nod understandingly. "So your dad must be pissed," I add.

"Yeah," he replies with a shaky breath. "Not exactly a headline for him though."

It's when I look over and just barely make out, in the semi-darkness – a chillingly familiar look in his eyes upon his recent words – that my chest tightens and I grip the steering wheel a little bit harder. I recognize the look because I've seen it in my own eyes.

And I realize we might have more in common than I think.

November 15, 2011

"I think you guys look great," Amber announces, appearing before us in a tiny, strapless red dress that lands about six hundred miles above her knees. She's slipping on towering heels and telling us she's ready when we are.

We've spent the last two hours battling with clothes and the inhumanity that makes up our tuxes, which have tried to choke us out several times until Amber figured out how to loosen the collars for us. I complained about everything being too formal, Wolf complained about not knowing anyone except Sully and Faith, and Amber called us both killjoys and said we better at least pretend to be happy for the couple about to be wed since they already have statistics against them.

"You know," Wolf starts, looking at me concerned. It's actually harder to tell when he isn't concerned these days. "If you don't want to do this, you don't really have to."

"I kind of do," I sigh. I feel guilty because I've already promised him that I'll be okay, that I won't drink to excess, or start any fights, or doing anything else to jeopardize whatever is left of my rapidly deteriorating health and sanity.

I feel guilty because I can already sense that promise will be broken.