"Boscorelli?"

A gruff voice snapped me from the robotic trance I'd been in. I yelped as I wrenched my back around to see who had called me, cringing as the pain seared up my spine. I vaguely remembered having been sitting with my back plumb to the wall for the entire night, but that must have been why it was so painfully cramped. Swallowing hard, I made my way off of the cot, facing a tall, sandy-haired C/O. His hands were rested on his belt, his eyes hazy and bored.

"Ya gawt visitors," he announced flatly, obviously not very entertained by the whole situation. I saw years of the job in his bloodshot eyes, and in his premature grey hair. He'd seen it all.

He rattled with a cluster of keys before sliding the door ajar, and preparing to affix cuffs to my wrists in front of me. I looked at him nervously with a silent plea.

"Ya know I gawt ta," he informed, his southern drawl especially explicit. I nodded acceptingly and followed him out the door and down the hall, clanging my wrists together as I looked at the instruments that held them together. As if they thought I was so dangerous, I might attack a C/O in the visiting room. They were such a familiar object, but on me, they were foreign and scary. I swallowed hard again, but this time it wasn't because of pain in my back…it was an attempt to keep down the tears that were stinging at the back of my eyes.

Mid-way, I glanced at the muscular man's arm, catching a glimpse of his plated nametag. It read "Turner", and nothing else. I kept my gaze on him for the better part of the walk, silently wondering what his story was and how a redneck like him had wound up a jaded corrections officer in upstate New York. He didn't notice my staring; just kept walking blindly, knowing the route so well, he could have closed his light-tortured eyes and spared them by walking the hall by heart. But he couldn't do that. He had to supervise me – the dangerous, murderous felon. I chided myself for my bitter thoughts. After all, he probably wondered what a thirteen-year veteran of the NYPD was doing locked up in Malone's medium security prison. But then again, judging by his expressionless face, he really didn't look like he gave a damn.

I wasn't exactly sure who I was expecting as we neared the room. Certainly not...Sully?

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

I watched the C/O stop Bosco as he entered, and tell him something, though I was on the opposite end of the sound-proof glass, and I couldn't hear. Probably something about how he'd need to rush, because he was only allotted like fifteen-minutes of visitation.

I scoffed. Some visitation. We got to look at each other through scratched Plexiglas and talk on a phone for a fraction of a second. What was I supposed to accomplish in such short a time? Tell him I was sorry and wish him the best? Tell him I wished things hadn't turned out the way they had, but to take a deal and say 'hi' to the skels on death row?

I didn't really have anymore time to think of the nothings or negative somethings I could tell him, before he'd taken a seat before me. He looked at me, opening his eyes as wide as they'd permit – which wasn't all that wide, considering his eyelids were heavy and tired. Wouldn't take Einstein to infer that he hadn't gotten any sleep. But something other than the evidence of sleep-deprivation caught my attention. An ugly, purple-black bruise had developed on his jawbone, creating a patch of traumatized, almost-broken skin. Impressions in the discoloration eerily resembled knuckles.

Bosco's lips were moving behind the glass, so I motioned to the telephone beside him, before picking up my own. He looked embarrassed, the start of a shy smile forming on the corners of his mouth. It was short-lived.

"Forget I can't hear you?" I asked trivially. It was a stale attempt to lighten the mood.

"Sorry," he said bitterly, holding the receiver much too close to his lips. His breathing sounded rushed. "Never had to use one from this side before."

I nodded solemnly, and then turned my attention back to his face. The bruise wasn't the only thing that offered hints of his being unwell. His skin was pale and flushed, much like it had been ever since the incident, though it looked only to be worsening. His eyes were still bloodshot, his lips chapped and bloody where it appeared he'd been punched, or had chewed them so nervously that he'd drawn blood. As if that weren't depressing enough, his eyes had never managed to return to their natural piercing blue, but were instead gray and sunken.

"What happened to you, Bosco?" I asked. I didn't intend for my voice to sound accusing. I wasn't questioning his morality, I was referring to the wound he'd accrued on his jaw, but I realized quickly my words sounded different.

He didn't respond angrily, though, like I though he might. In a way, that worried me more. It was as if, since everything, he'd completely lost himself. He wasn't Bosco anymore, he didn't care to stand up for himself, and the only thing left of him was an empty outer shell of the man he used to be. Of the cop he used to be.

"I got caught." He stated plainly, looking down.

I swiped a frustrated hand over my aging face. "No, no, Bosco," I corrected. "What happened to your face?" I motioned to my own jaw, hoping he'd get the drift.

"Nothin'," he lied, not meeting my gaze.

I settled back in my chair. "Come on, Bosco."

He snapped his neck up suddenly, using the meek energy he had left to snap at me. "I got decked Sully! Okay?" he began to lower his voice, guilt raging in his dry, bored eyes. "But don't worry 'bout it. I'm alone now, so, I'm good."

"Alone," I mumbled. I often mumbled the last words that people said, especially when I could relate. I didn't mean to say it aloud.

"What?"

"Nothin'," I covered. "Nothin'. …I was gonna come earlier," I told him, feeling a pang of guilt in my chest. "Ty, too. But they wouldn't let us for two days. Said you were still bein' processed."

He gave me a nod of understanding. "It's fine. Whatever. Whole fuckin' House doesn't need to come visit me. 'Sides, not much to see here." He motioned outside the confines of the short privacy walls on either side of our faces. There was at least a dozen other prisoners beside him, each wearing the same degrading shade of orange. An elderly man sat to the right of me, speaking to who appeared to be his son. As I nosily peeked around the corner to my left, a well-kept young man was making flamboyant gestures on the other side of the glass. There was a wild look in his eyes; a look I'd seen too many times in the eyes of the perps I'd arrested. Turning back to Bosco, it was clear he didn't have that in his. His eyes were dry – the result of a broken spirit – but they were also sane. Bosco didn't belong here.

"Well, maybe Loverboy over here can loan you some makeup," I offered, nodding my head to the young man beside him. I motioned to the bruise on Bosco's cheek. "You don't want your mom to see that."

"Ma? She's here, Sul?" he nearly squeaked. My heart burned at the tone of his voice. There was rarely a time when his voice sounded so fragile. He sounded like a child.

"No, no," I stuttered quickly. "She wanted to come right away, but they wouldn't let her. Only reason I even got in now is 'cause I got the badge. My bet is no civilians for another week, but I ain't brushed up on Corrections for two decades."

He was nodding slowly, processing my words. "Ma," he mumbled, his lip quivering "God." He looked up suddenly, his eyes awakening for a brief second with a flash of concern. It wasn't all the time that I could read Bosco – hell, there were people a lot closer to him than me – but this look of worry was tell-tale. I knew instantly.

"She," I began, shaking my head. I wasn't sure how to explain why his partner wasn't the first one to visit him. Actually, I could do it pretty easily. But I was trying not to break his heart.

"Spit it out, Sul," he pleaded. I stole another quick glance into his lost eyes; so dead, so gray; soulless. I wasn't sure they could become any emptier, so I decided to tell him the truth.

"She tried to come with me today. There was visitation this morning, too, but she didn't make it through the first door before she hit her knees, crying and screaming," he looked at me, expressionless. I realized I was being blunt, but I wasn't about to keep anything from him. He'd loathe me more for that. "Then she started hitting on this guard, but I got her back. She was sayin' how you didn't belong here. That you did it for her and that she should be here, not you. Anyway, guards said she posed a threat. Wouldn't let her in. I'm sorry."

He shrugged and shook his head.

"You screwed up, Bosco," I informed suddenly, immediately regretting my words. They were harsh and accusing. Not my intent, and yet, it was.

He glared at me. "She needed me."

"She needs you more now, Bosco!" I declared, raising my voice. "She needs someone to talk to; someone to be there for her."

"I was there for her," he snarled into the phone. His lips moved angrily.

"No you weren't, Bosco," I continued, too caught up in the moment to realize how little good my words were doing anyone. "You got yourself put away. Taken from her. How was that bein' there for her?"

"Shut-up, Sully," he seethed, settling back into his chair.

I scoffed. "You think this was the right way? The only way? If you'd have just had her press charges and then pursued it, he would have gone to trial and - ."

"Walked," Bosco finished. "He would've walked, Sully. And you know it," he wrinkled his nose. "And…and since when do we do things the right way?"

"Bosco, what I'm saying is that you--"

"Tatiana."

I stopped, completely silenced by his words. "What?" I finally managed, watching him lean close to the glass.

"Don't tell me I didn't do things the right way. Chevchenko never pulled his gun, did he, Sul?" he grinned bitterly. "Didn't think so."

With that, he settled back into his seat, trying to regain a better hold of the telephone, although it was difficult without free hands. I just stared at him, completely unprepared to be inundated with two-year old memories that I'd vowed to forget. I shuddered.

"You been to court?" I asked, my voice low and guttural. I was still battling the haunting recollections as they intruded.

He sighed. "Yesterday."

"And? What's the bail?"

"Bail?" he scoffed. "Judge said he couldn't set bail for someone charged with a felony, let alone someone he 'deemed a dangerous hazard to our society'."

"Didn't take your years on the street into consideration?" I asked sadly.

"Not sure I wanted him to."

"When's the trial?"

"June 27th, I think," he told me, squinting as he tried to remember.

We were silent for a moment; both seemingly trying to read what was going on in the other's mind. I was unsuccessful in my attempt. I'm sure there was too much going on in his brain for even a renowned psychic to try to decipher. I gave up.

"They're moving me," he stated suddenly. "Over in Seneca. Five Points."

"Five Points?" I questioned, furrowing my eyebrows. "Maximum security? That necessary?"

"Apparently they think I'm pretty dangerous, Sul."

"You haven't even been convicted," I defended, trying to grasp the judge's rationality. I found none. I silently wondered if Bosco's case had ever even been presented fairly, or if he'd been implied a vengeful rogue cop.

He shrugged. "Four months. Guess they figure I could escape from here in that length of time," he lowered his voice to a bitter whisper. He was still trying to keep up that façade – that one front he always wore. It was pretty worn down, but he was milking it for whatever it had left that might make him at least look more resolute. I could see through it though, and he was falling apart.

I wasn't sure he'd make the four months until his trial. Whatever happened to the Sixth Amendment?

I saw the corrections officer motioning for Bosco that his time was up. He turned back to me, his mouth caught open in a small "o", but more as if it were mirroring the terror inside of him. The terror of me – someone he never thought he'd need – leaving. The last person anywhere near him that he knew. And it scared me to leave him, too. I could only promise him one thing.

"I'll be back, Bosco," I croaked into the phone. "I'll bring your mom by tomorrow, okay? If she's ready."

He nodded appreciatively, but eyed me, warning me not to stop on that note.

"Faith," I sighed. "I don't know. I don't think she'll be here tomorrow, Bos."

Shrugging, he held his hand up in a slight wave and went to hang up the phone. I motioned for him to pick it up again.

"Wait," I said slowly, rising to my feet. "Just…uh…take it one day at a time, okay?"

His face suddenly went whiter, if that was at all possible, and he looked like he might vomit or cry – or both – at any second. He gasped. "I'm workin' on the next ten minutes."

With that, I followed his lead as he hung up the phone, and then I watched the C/O guide him away. He didn't look back.

"That's the spirit," I mumbled softly to him, though he was long gone. Our last few words sounded painfully familiar, though I'm not exactly sure why. Shaking it off, I hoisted myself to my feet, turned and headed for an exit.

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

Turner led me back to my cell, completely silent. I inwardly willed him to speak. Personally, I found his profound southern drawl creepy, but I longed for the concrete stillness to be broken. Things were so quiet, and cold. It was a strange silence that I just wasn't used to, and the thought of having to become accustomed to it scared the shit out of me.

The cell door clanged shut after I entered; a routine sound that my ears hardly raised question at. The only difference was that I was normally the one closing it, not watching it from the other side as metal met metal and it locked. I peered through the bars. The hall was exceptionally quiet for this time of day, and a chill in the air made the atmosphere all the more unfriendly.

"They're bringin' ya to Five Points, Boscorelli," Turner finally said.

"So I heard," I replied, looking down at my feet. A reminder of my ominous near future wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear him say.

"Don't give 'em any hard time over there, ya hear?"

I scoffed, sliding myself onto the stiff cot and ignoring my back as it throbbed at the prospect of laying on something so uncomfortable. That's me...a troublemaker.

"I don't belong here," I called softly, catching him as he turned on a heavy heel to leave.

He sighed deeply, his heritage prominent even in the breath he drew. "Yeah, probably not."

His answer left me silent, if not completely hopeless. I leaned against the cement wall and closed my eyes, listening to his footsteps as he plodded his way in the opposite direction.

\\