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k2daisy

April 2010

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k2daisy: (Bosco in Blue)
[personal profile] k2daisy
Title: Five People Bosco Pulled Over But Didn’t Give a Ticket To
Fandom: Third Watch
Summary: See the title.
Rating: Gen, PG-13.
Notes: [livejournal.com profile] barkley asked for this one here. This is my first attempt at fanfic in a long, long while. It felt good. Probably could have used a beta, though. Maybe next time.



One.

Bosco almost bounces in his seat when he gets back into the squad car.

“You’re awfully peppy today,” Faith says with not-so-mild irritation. Today is not a day she feels adequately equipped to deal with a hyper Bosco. Not even a little. “What, did you get laid last night? Wait!” she interjects, throwing up a hand. “Forget I asked. I don’t want to know.”

He flips his ticket book closed with a flourish, and shoots her a look as he starts up the engine. “What, I can’t be in a good mood?”

“A good mood? You—you’re in a good mood? You?”

“Hey, don’t make it sound like it never happens.”

“But it doesn’t. What gives?”

He drums his fingers on the wheel to an imaginary song heard only in his head, oblivious to the growing annoyance in her tone. “Nothing. I’m just---“ He slides a glance over to his partner, grimaces, and stops his incessant tapping. “Forget it.”

Faith feels a little badly now that he’s deflated. “No, c’mon.” She sits up, gives him her full attention. “What put you in a good mood, Bosco?”

He eyes her warily for a beat before letting a victorious grin cross his face. Bastard. He sucked her in again. “I got laid last night.”

“I told you I didn’t want to know! God, Bos---show some discretion, please.”

He ignores her as usual. “Oh, Jesus, Faith, this girl was unbelievable. Long, long legs, breasts like I can’t even tell you, and ohh, man, she wanted to go on all night. She practically ripped my clothes off while we were still on the elevator up to her place. Oh, and then her mouth, oh my God, her mouth…”

“Bosco, seriously. Shut up. I had a horrible night, Charlie had the stomach flu, Em needed 12 dozen cookies for a bake sale she failed to tell me about until the last minute, and Fred was on a tear about the gas bill getting mailed late. I have a headache so bad it would make you want to rip your fingernails out one by one. I do not want to listen to you crow about your sexual exploits with some random woman that you will never see again.”

“Oh, I’ve already seen her again,” he says smugly.

Faith looks at him, then makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. “The car we just stopped.”

“Yep.”

“There’s no ticket in your book, is there, Bos?”

“Nope.”

“We need to make a quota, Bos.”

“The day’s young. There’ll be plenty of other idiots who’ll cross our paths before the shift is over.”

Faith sighs and makes a face at her window, watching the world pass by for a few blocks. Dawning awareness slides her attention back to the ticket book on the bench seat between them, then back up at Bosco’s profile. He’s back to drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, his head flung back and his eyes intent on the road in front of them, but there’s something about his cockiness that feels forced. It’s sick, she thinks, that he has so many levels of cockiness she’s learned to tell them apart. But she’s not sure who’s more sick, him for having them or her for knowing them.

“So, Bosco,” she says in a friendly, curious tone, the one she uses on suspects and her children and husband equally, the one that relaxes them just enough before she nails them for their transgressions, “I gotta ask you. Did you let your new girlfriend out of a ticket out of the goodness of your heart, or—“

“Yeah, of course,” he interrupts, and she knows she’s found the crack in his armor.

“—or because you were too embarrassed to tell her you forgot her name?” she finishes, watching with satisfaction as his chin comes down and he deflates for real this time.

There’s a long silence in the car. “I’m not in a good mood anymore,” he informs her with a petulant exhale.

No, but she is. Her headache is even starting to fade. Today might end up a good day, after all.



Two.

It’s been two years, but Bosco still gets a sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach when they get put on the john run. He doesn’t let it show, of course; he still makes rude comments to the hookers as they shoo them off the corners, and he still give the johns they catch one withering look of open disgust before they let them go. But the irritation he used to feel when they were assigned this futile task has long been replaced by a greasy unease. He hates that even more.

Everything leaves a mark, he remembers saying to Faith that night. Sometimes he wishes the marks were on the outside; he thinks he’d deal better with a puckered scar across his skin than the raw scrapes of unrelenting hurt in his head and his heart.

He shakes his head to dispel the foolish images of whimsy. He’s not a whiny baby, and he’s not gonna start being one now. He starts to get out of the car, but Faith stops him with a hand on his arm.

“We’re not those guys,” she says quietly, and it kills him a little bit inside to realize she knows what he was thinking. “We’re both better cops than that.”

He snorts and shakes off her hand, but he does it more gently than usual. When he bends down to the window of the stopped car and looks at the hooker wiping her mouth in the passenger seat, and he takes in how round her eyes are, just like Shaquana’s were that night, he doesn’t even have to look up at Faith before she hauls the john out from behind the driver’s seat and slaps the cuffs on him. They both know the asshole will be released before they even finish the paperwork on him, but it’s worth the trouble. Maybe they’re not better cops, maybe they’ll never be able to do right by that girl, but it’s the first time in two years he can’t feel the mark she left.



Three.

He’s still arguing in his head with Faith as he walks up the driver’s side of the gypsy cab. That’s the excuse he tells himself afterward, why he didn’t register the cab number until it was too late. He doesn’t tell himself he didn’t notice because he didn’t care; Maurice Boscorelli is a lot of things, but he’s not self-deluded. He knows who he is, and why he is.

Even when he realizes what’s going on, he doesn’t skip a beat in his patter. He won’t let this man have the satisfaction. “Hey, pal, you miss that stop sign right up there? Guess you did – maybe you should consider getting your sight checked. License and registration for now, you can get your eyesight fixed on your own time.”

The cabbie doesn’t respond, but Bosco didn’t expect him to. He just hands over the cards in silence. Bosco wants to take a step back, so he’s in the guy’s blind spot where he can hide for a minute, but he can’t do that. He’s never been able to do that, not since he was a little boy.

But when it comes time to hand the man his ticket, he hesitates. The silence between them since his patter died is choking him, squeezing the air out of his lungs in a way that makes his eyes water. He wants to rail at the cabbie, to pull him out of the car and beat him senseless against the dirty curb, but he won’t ever stoop to his level. It’s the only thing he knows about himself to be good.

Instead, he hands the cards back to the cabbie, and when the man finally, finally looks up at him and stares him in the face, he makes a grand display of tearing the ticket in half. The cabbie just blinks, and turns back on the engine and drives away, as silent in the end as he was in the beginning.

“You’re welcome, Dad,” Bosco says to the empty spot on the street. “Anytime.”



Four.

He always wakes up when he starts falling backward onto the street. It’s the same dream he always has, the stupid rookie mistake of not checking for a weapon before he walks up to the window, the blast of the .38 connecting to his chest – never his face, thank God, he couldn’t handle that – and the thump of the round hitting his vest. Funny, in the dream, the Kevlar never heats up and burns his flesh like it did the time he really did get shot in it. No, there's just a thump and the momentum pushes him to the ground, but he never gets there. He never dies, instead, he’s in the process of dying the whole time.

He doesn’t see that as any better. He told Faith once he’d rather go quick, give him a bullet to the head that he never saw coming, no time for goodbyes or regrets or anything. Just boom, over, done. Then one day he was wearing his mentor’s brains all over his cheek and uniform, and he thought, okay, maybe not.

But the slow fall in his dream doesn’t feel like a better alternative, either. He wishes idly he could call Faith and ask her which she would prefer; he doesn’t remember what she had said when they talked about it the first time. He probably didn’t even ask her, now that he thinks about it. And that would be why she didn’t partner with him anymore, he finishes ruefully. He knows he deserves her cold shoulder, that what he’s done to her is unforgivable, that if he were Fred he would have thrown himself out the window without any regret, but he still hates it. Every day he’s on the street alone, without her backing him up, feels like a little death.

She survived her shooting, but he’s not so sure he will.



Five.

It’s his least favorite type of pull-over these days, a car of giggling girls. Used to be he’d get at least one phone number out of it, but he doesn’t think they’re fooled by the big bandaid on his face anymore than he is. But he’s got to show his new partner how to do these things right, so he takes the lead on the driver’s side while the rookie takes the passenger window.

The driver is pretty in that wholesome way, the kind his Ma thinks he should like but whom he never does. She smiles and giggles when she hands over her license and registration, but he doesn’t let her catch his eye. He doesn’t have to look at the birthdate to know he’s got milk in his fridge older than her.

He’s wondering exactly when he turned into Sully when a familiar voice from the back seat grabs his attention. “Um, hi, Bosco,” the girl says, and he smiles a little at her assured tone. Sounds just like her mother.

“Hey, Emily,” he replies. They exchange genuine smiles, and he thinks she’s grown to look like her mother now, too. He stops from saying anything else when he realizes the whole car and the rookie are watching him a little too intently.

“Don’t. He’s like an uncle,” he hears her whisper defensively, and stops writing the ticket, suddenly feeling a thousand years old. He avoids looking at anyone but the wholesome driver as he hands back her cards and tells her to have a nice day.

He’s almost back at the RMP when he hears her call his name again. She’s gotten out of the back seat, taller and leaner than he remembers. Her curls bounce cheerily against her bright scarf as she jogs toward him.

“Thank you,” she says breathlessly. “And I’m sorr—“

“It’s nothing,” he cuts her off with a wave. She gives him a soft smile. “So, how’s your mom?”

“She’s good. Still a detective – just got transferred back to the 5-5.” Emily huffs a breath, the cold air curling away from her mouth toward his. The intimacy has him take a step back. “Listen, why don’t you come over for dinner sometime? I know Mom misses you, she talks about you all the time still.”

“Yeah?” He finds that hard to believe.

“Yeah.” Emily’s smile widens as she slips her hand into his. He’s amazed at how small it still feels against his, exactly as small as it felt the night Fred had his heart attack. She put on a brave front then, more so than Faith who completely fell apart, but Bosco remembers the way her thin fingers shook in his palm. Mother and daughter were always more alike than either wanted to admit. “I miss you, too, Bosco.”

He looks at her as she pulls her hand away, leaving a folded piece of paper in his. She’s still the little girl he watched grow up from a distance, not quite her family but not quite a stranger. As much as he thought Fred was a lazy jackass leeching off his wife, he always liked knowing there was this little family unit over there, four people who stuck by each other through everything and didn’t crap all over each other. He thinks sometimes he took Faith’s divorce harder than she did, but he knows his hurt will never match Emily’s.

“So you’ll call?” Emily asks, watching him with her little-girl eyes, as hopeful and untroubled as he wishes they could all still be.

“Yeah,” he promises, and he’s pretty sure he’ll keep it. He tucks the phone number in his breast pocket, steeling himself not to shrink away from her when she gives him a brief hug. By the time she’s back in the car and driving away, his heart has stopped hammering in his chest.

“She give you her number?” the rookie asks with a little awe in his tone. Musta heard all the tales about his wild days.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, that old familiar bluster picking his chin up and setting his fingers to tapping on the steering wheel. He slaps the pocket on his chest with a cocky thump. “I still got it.”

Bet your ass he did.

END

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