I watch him as he stepped toward the door. For a second, I felt confident things would be okay. But in the next, I was again overburdened with the sickening sense that whoever was pounding furiously on the door hadn't come to deliver good news.

"Bosco…don't…" I pleaded, pulling myself to my feet and wiping away stray tears.

He whirled around, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "What do you want me to do, then, Faith? You tell me not to answer it, but you don't tell me what to do!"

I just shook my head and looked down at the floor. Whoever it was, would have to be deaf to have not figured out we were inside; with Bosco's yelling and all.

"Shut up, then, at least! You--"

He stared at me for a few minutes, unresponsive, before throwing his hands up again in defeat. "Fuck it," he muttered, approaching the door.

----------------------------------------- //

Bosco had left me there, standing before my locker, gazing at a perplexed Ty, who was gawking at me with a look demanding of answers. There was little I could do to look less confounded myself, and we probably stared at each other – our expressions mirror images – and didn't say a word.

Finally Ty spoke up. I'm certain his father's logic had been pretty well-implemented into his head before Tyrone had died, because he never missed a beat.

"Sully if they find---"

"I know…" I mumbled slowly. The words seemed to roll from my tongue like beads of water; I hardly heard myself speaking. Guess I was still taking in the news.

I knew what Davis was thinking. And it was pretty ironic. It was getting more and more difficult for me to recall the nervous rookie I'd trained six years earlier; the one concerned of dirty cops and defending oblivious civilians from our shortcuts and street justice. Somewhere over the years, we'd transformed him.

He wasn't going to see eye-to-eye with Walker's family. It was like Ty to be sympathetic, but forgiving in such a situation? Perhaps six years ago, but not anymore. I guess like the rest of us, he saw that Walker's actions made him deserving.

"I'm gonna catch up with him, Sul," he informed me and headed to the door. "I'm gonna see… if there's anything I can do…" He seemed to hesitate with his words, as if didn't really think there was much he could do.

I didn't really see a light at the end of this tunnel, either. Faith escaping a murder charge had been miracle enough. And Bosco had far used up too many of his in the past.

I wanted to object as Ty pulled open the door. I wanted him to wait; didn't want him to get involved. The more he knew, the worse for us. But simultaneously, I knew, that neither of us could ever abandon those two, or turn our backs on them.

So I just stood there, still gazing ahead blindly at nothing much in particular, and waved him out. I wasn't sure exactly what he thought he could do.

All I could think about was Chevchenko. And the gun he'd never fired at me.

---------------------------------------------------------------- //

I took the steps two-by-two as I jogged up the steps. After leaving Sully, I'd scanned the House upstairs and down looking for Bosco, and when I'd finally found no sign, I had consulted with Swersky. He'd told me how Bos had sprung from the locker room looking confused and ill, then shouted a blur of words, and recklessly marched out.

He'd immediately called and told Lieu he didn't want to leave Faith alone. He kept saying her – she was the reason … but he forgot about himself … and how it had taken such a toll on him, too.

Panting and eager to talk to him, I banged loudly on his door, listening to the copper door knob rattling in protest. I silently prayed he was home; that I hadn't only imagined seeing his cobalt Mustang parked haphazardly outside by the curb.

I stopped in mid-knock as I proceeded to rap on the door for the third time. I was growing more impatient by every passing minute. The discord I heard from the inside wasn't making me feel any better.

"Open the door….it's me…" I called out, but I was pretty sure I couldn't be heard over the raised voices coming from inside.

I could hear Bosco yelling loudly, saying something about not knowing what to do. Faith's voice was lower, and it seemed to quiver with every inaudible word.

Finally the locks flicked and the door swung open. I was greeted by Bosco, his head down, the pungent odor of household chemicals breezing from his clothes and into by my face. I scrunched up my nose.

"What the hell to do you want?" he barked, letting the door swing into the wall of his apartment.

I stood, my eyes wide at his angry welcome, and waited for him to look up.

"Ty…" I heard Faith whimper, letting out a breath and rushing over to the door.

Bosco snapped his head up. "Davis? Oh," he shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. Come in…."

I pushed my way past him as he shut the door behind me. I chuckled despite the situation, as I overheard Faith slap him and scold, "You idiot!"

"Like you thought it was him, Detective."

I turned in time to see Faith glaring at him. "Like saying 'What the hell do you want?' to the cops who could've been holding a warrant would've been a good idea," she mumbled.

"Screw them."

"You won't be sayin' that when you're in a five-by-ten."

"I won't be in one." Bosco said flatly. Faith just rolled her eyes and then turned to me.

Her face was much more relaxed than it had been when Bosco first opened the door. It was as if years of stress and worry had been wiped clean away when she realized it was me knocking. Bosco shared an equally relieved expression; weary, pale and drained, but still relieved.

He followed Faith's eyes and looked at me knowingly, I guess accepting the fact that our earlier locker room talk – or rather, looks – had given left me with plentiful information. It was most likely his hollow, cold eyes that gave it away - the ones he wore when something had gone terribly wrong; and could never again be fixed. The eyes he wore when he found out Mikey had been murdered; the one's he wore when he first told me what happened to Faith. The ones no longer a piercing, healthy blue, but instead the pair that had faded into a rather seasick shade of grey and drained of vibrancy and happiness; of, well, Bosco.

"Thought you were workin', Ty," he said, trudging into the kitchen. Faith began to follow – looking terrified to be far from his side – but turned on her heel and raced to lock the door. Looking somewhat content the door was secure, she quickly caught up with Bosco who was now scanning the fridge shelves. I rested against the counter.

"Swersky let me take the day off; I wanted to be here in case you guys need anything. You know."

He shrugged dismissively and shook his head. "We don't."

I nodded. Had it been someone else, I might've been a bit taken aback. But I expected such a response from Bosco. He didn't want to need help, but God knows he needed it.

"Bosco," Faith said softly, tugging on his shirt. "Ty's just trying to help…"

"Well he can't!" Bosco snapped, slamming shut the fridge door and standing straight. He glared at me. "You can't help us!"

"I can try," I said, my voice low but defensive.

"How?" he questioned, stepping forward.

"What?"

"How are you going to help?" he demanded. "How?" He didn't give me a chance to answer. "See? You can't help! No. one. can. help."

"Bosco…" Faith warned.

"No, Faith! No! How is he going to help? Huh? He can't! He can't take away what happened to you. He can't change what…what…Walker did to you. And he can't change what I did about it!" His voice was now raised, and Faith was hanging her head, her arms crossed.

"No one," he continued, lowering his voice and stating each word concisely. "No one can change anything."

With that, he backed up toward the counter where Faith was standing, doing her best to hide the tears that were dripping from her eyes. He looked at me, as if challenging a response, but had nothing to say. I just sighed and looked around, then pushed off the counter and stumbled toward the living room, scanning the floor and coffee table for the remote.

"You guys seen the news?" I queried, spotting the control and picking it up. I flicked on the TV, watching the screen slowly light up, then turned up the volume.

"Yeah," Bosco said, his arms now crossed as well. He seemed furious that I'd let him have the last word; that I hadn't challenged his assumption that no one could help them. His face was pursed in a classic still Bosco expression – the so-pissed-off-I-can't-even-frown type expression.

I didn't acknowledge his response, as I was too wrapped up in what I was hearing. I stared ahead at a red-coated news reporter, speaking about a potential suspect in what had now become a "case".

"Davis, we already watched this crap!" Bosco called from the kitchen, him and Faith rushing out join me. She was clutching his arm in spite of his recent outburst, obviously not keen on the idea of walking around even a locked apartment unprotected.

"I don't want to see this again," she whined softly, turning away as the TV panned to a year-old photo of Walker in his uniform.

"See?!" Bosco cried angrily, trying to swat the remote from my hands. "She doesn't want to see this, Ty. Turn it off!"

With my height advantage, I easily kept the remote out of his reach, while concurrently straining my ears to hear a description of this "potential suspect".

"I don't care…" I said slowly, not tearing my eyes from the screen. "You two need to see this."

Save for female and dark-haired, I caught none of the description due to their bickering. What I saw next, however, needed no words. The reporter introduced a sketched, and the screen quickly flashed to it; drawn plainly with dark pencil.

Plain, but strikingly familiar.

"A resident recalls seeing this person sprinting from the scene shortly after seven the previous night," the reported narrated matter-of-factly. She went on to inform the public that this person was not a suspect, but rather a "person of interest". I scoffed inwardly. That, I'm sure, would make them feel much better.

Seven. The ME noted that as the TOD, I remembered hearing earlier on the morning news.

"Son of a bitch…." I mumbled, barely emphasizing any words. I completely trailed off, dropping into a nearby chair. By now, Bosco and Faith had ceased their arguing long enough to follow my concerned gazed.

I was studying the sketch, convincing myself that it wasn't. Couldn't. I gazed up at Faith and Bosco, and I knew how confused I must have looked.

They were too busy, though, scrutinizing the hand-drawn portrait of a young, dark-complexioned woman with an ethnic background, thin black hair falling past her shoulders. Something hung messily from her neck; as if the artist wasn't exactly sure what it was - As if the witness told them they'd seen something flipping around her collar as she ran, but they couldn't put their finger on what it was.

If I'd ever see one, though, I'd of said it was a badge.