I haven't seen enough of the relationship between Faith and Fred, or Fred and Bosco, to know how to stay IC with this chapter, but I gave it my best shot. My apologies for anything that goes too OOC.

To everyone who has reviewed, thank you. The feedback is much appreciated.

Hospitals always got on her nerves, with the ordered chaos of doctors, nurses, visitors, and a mismatched assortment of people who barely had any clue what they were doing. The sharp tang of disinfectant, mingled with the occasional whiff of stale sweat as a harried-looking nurse swept past, made her wrinkle her nose with every few breaths. Even the dried blood covering her hands and uniform had a smell, a slightly pungent odour that kept her mind anchored firmly at a place far from the waiting room and claustrophobic crush of blue uniforms crammed into too small a space. The scene played over and over, stuck on a continuous track, never stopping. Like an annoying broken record screeching out Jimmi Hendrix, she kept hearing Malloy's pleading voice, begging her to tell his family the one thing that she didn't say nearly enough to her own family. The flood of sorrowful tears had long since stopped, but the streaks on her cheeks and the shattered expression remained in her eyes. It was one thing to see an officer's body being lifted carefully and respectfully into an ambulance on the news. It was quite another to be the one at the dying officer's side, to be the one holding his hand, trying to stop the bleeding, urging him to hang on and stay awake. It was something else entirely and she would wish no such thing on anyone. Being there when Malloy drew his last breath, steadfast despite every ounce of her heart screaming at her to run as fast as she could, to get away from the gut-wrenching scene, had required all the strength she could muster. At least Bosco was there, at least someone had spoken softly to her unhearing ears, when it was all over. The paramedics had no words or time for her. But her partner eased her away from the body, drawn her out of the daze that had fallen over her as she knelt beside Malloy's lifeless form, her head bowed as she screamed endlessly in the blessed privacy of her mind.

Her hat was clenched in her fingers, turned so the picture resting behind the clear plastic inside was visible. She studied the faces captured in the image, the smiling faces of Fred and the kids, posing in Central Park. It was not an old picture, but neither new enough to reflect Charlie's recent growth spurt or Emily's longer hair. The emotions that surrounded the time the picture had been taken were happy ones, and she sought to reclaim even a piece of those emotions. Something, anything, to remind her that she was the lucky one, to still be alive and healthy. There was so much to live for, anyway. Fred. The kids. Herself. The Job. To hell with The Job. Her family was ultimately more important than The Job could ever be. Her family was all she really had. And Bosco. There was always Bosco and his sometimes ribald sense of humour and occasional flash of temper. At work, he was the one she knew she could count on in a pinch. Steady like a rock, although he would be the last one to admit it.

She brushed her fingertips across the picture inside her hat, knowing that she should call, knowing that reports of "an officer from the Fifty-Fifth Precinct shot and killed" would be splashed all over the news stations. No names would be released until the family was notified, which was taking a surprisingly long time. She knew she should call Fred to allay the fears that she knew he would be having, but she couldn't make herself move from the hard plastic chair she had been sitting in for nearly two hours. She hadn't moved hardly at all since arriving in the ambulance with Malloy's body. Bosco had led the way in the RMP, siren wailing, making sure that there was no impediment to the bus and its grave burden. No one had approached her, or said anything to her. It was all too clear to the veteran staff what was running through the heart and mind of the blood-covered officer hunched in a chair in the corner. Grief, guilt, anger, doubt. They had seen similar things too many times before.

Andy O'Shea had locked himself in a bathroom down the hall and no one had been able to convince him to come out. Lieutenant Swersky would knock on the door at intervals and say something that she couldn't hear. The end result was always the same. He would walk away, shaking his head sadly. Half the department had gathered in the waiting room, standing around silently until the arrival of Malloy's family. It was the tradition that was followed any time an officer was wounded or killed. She had been amongst the sea of dark blue uniforms many times before, too many times before. Only this time, it affected her in a vastly deeper way.

"Faith?"

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, tentatively squeezing. She looked up to see her partner gazing down at her, clearly worried at her silence and self-imposed isolation. He had a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

He didn't look convinced. "You want some coffee?"

Faith looked briefly at the Styrofoam cup and felt her stomach revolt at the idea of hospital coffee. Or any coffee, for that matter. She shook her head.

"You okay?" Bosco asked again, setting the cup down on the nearby table. "You haven't left this chair in over two hours."

"I'm fine," she lied. "Really. I'm, I'm just thinking."

"Swersky thinks you should go home."

She shook her head again, adamantly this time. "No."

"Faith." Bosco sat down in the chair on her left side. "There's nothing to see here. Malloy's family will be here soon anyway."

"I, I can't go home. I owe it to him to stay."

Her partner reached over and took one of her blood-covered hands, his eyes taking in the stains on her jacket and shirt, and the dried crimson on her hands and in her hair. At first glance, it almost looked like she had been shot too. "You should at least clean up."

"Clean up…?" Faith looked down and wondered why she hadn't noticed the blood on her hands. She had forgotten in the flurry of chaos that ensued after the paramedics arrived. Her fingers tightened around Bosco's, the yawning sense of grief and loss threatening to overwhelm her again.

"It's okay," he murmured, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. Without a word, she leaned across the short distance between them to rest her forehead on his chest. It was no use fighting the tears that were leaking slowly down her face. Startled by her vulnerability and the fact she was letting him see it, Bosco bit his lip and hesitantly put his arms round her. He was no good at this, but he'd try.

"I was right there, right there. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too much, I tried, I tried, but I couldn't save him… I tried… he was so scared, and I couldn't help him."

"It's okay." He couldn't think of anything else to say. What could he say that would ease the guilt that she felt? "He didn't die alone."

Faith tried to speak but couldn't find her voice. Her mouth hung open in a silent cry of suffering so deep he couldn't begin to imagine how devastated she must feel. While she had knelt by Malloy's side, held his hand, and did her best to keep him calm and talking, he, Bosco, had stood there and watched, unable to help one bit. His partner took the brunt of the emotional backlash and all he could do was watch. He hated feeling so helpless and unsure. What was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to say, to make her feel better? Was there anything? Or was he supposed to just let her be, leave her to dwell on the what ifs and slowly fall to pieces wondering what she could have done differently when there was nothing else she could have done? No. He couldn't let that happen to her. Not to the one person who really understood him and cared about him. The only thing Bosco was certain of was his partner had done everything in her power for Malloy, and he was going to do everything in his power for her, to help her get through this and still be the woman he relied on every shift.

"Faith!"

Bosco knew that voice. Fred was here. He knew he shouldn't let his partner's husband see him anywhere near Faith, but he wasn't about to leave her alone until he was sure she would be okay.

"Faith!" Fred pushed his way through the crowd of officers and was at his wife's side in a few long strides, steadfastly ignoring Bosco. "I saw it on the news, I had to come down. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice hoarse. She held onto Bosco as though her life depended on it, not trusting her muscles to support her just yet. Her whole body felt rubbery and weak. "I should have called…"

"You weren't hurt?" Fred asked, eyeballing the stains on her uniform.

"No. I, I was," Faith let out a long breath, "I helped them move his body."

Bosco winced inwardly at the lie but said nothing. Whatever made dealing with this easier for her was okay with him. She was still leaning on him like a crutch and he was beginning to feel uncomfortable intruding on what should probably be personal time for the two of them. He knew there was enough tension between them without him adding to it.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"I should, uh, go see if the family is here yet," Bosco said, searching for a way out of staying there whilst the two talked.

Fred looked at him as if only then realising he was there. "What are you doing here?"

"He was checking on me."

"You're okay, though, so he can leave."

Bosco moved to stand up, but Faith had a grip on his sleeve. "Please don't. It's okay."

"You two should talk," he said. "I'll go see if I can coax O'Shea out of the bathroom. He's been in there since they brought Malloy in."

"You'll be okay?"

Funny that she should ask him that, when she was the one who'd had to watch a fellow officer die in front of her. He forced a grin for her sake. "Yeah, I'm all right. You should go home anyway, it's been a long day."

"Why was he here?"

Faith studied the dark, dried crimson caked under her fingernails. "He was making sure I was okay. He was worried."

"I don't like it," Fred stated, covering her hand with both of his. "He's trouble."

"He's not trouble. Things aren't always what they seem."

"That's for damn sure. Come on, we're going home."

"Okay." Faith sighed in wearied resignation. With Bosco chased off by Fred's unexpected appearance, she felt cast adrift, as if her one real support had been stolen away from her. As much as she trusted and confided in Fred, he wasn't there with her every day on the street, seeing and sharing the same things. That was Bosco, and he was the only one who knew what it was like, what she was feeling and thinking, what to say and do to help her get through. It felt like a betrayal of her relationship with Fred, but if she had to choose who she wanted to talk to about work, it would be Bosco. Fred would never fully understand that, she knew it. He resented Bosco, because he thought that the two partners spent too much time together. She couldn't blame him. She would feel the same if their positions were reversed.

"It's not what you think."

"What isn't?"

"Bosco and me. He was there, too, when Malloy died. Neither of us could do anything to help him." The words were like sandpaper being scraped along her throat. She had to force herself to say each one. "I held Malloy's hand and talked to him before he died. I was the last person he saw. And I couldn't do a damn thing for him."

Fred's expression softened and he slid his arm around her shoulders. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's go home."