Requiem

By Sarahlee

Spoilers: Selected events through season five finale.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything. Seriously.

Author's Note: I know that this story can be a trifle AU, and events/conversations are slightly off. However, I used a bit of creative license and played with things a bit. This is what 16 hours of sitting around on a set produced, so bear with me. I'd also like to say that this is just how I perceive the characters' complex and idiosyncratic relationship.

In view of the fact that this is rather different from anything I've written previously, I'd really love to hear any and all thoughts!

Sincere regard goes to Joey, my chi.

"'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, Which being unrestrained, a heart is broken."

The Spanish Curate (act II, sc. 5, Song)

----------------

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me."

A childish rhyme, sing-song and saccharine. It bleeds irony. Poetic license misrepresenting reality; it produces aesthetic satisfaction but little else otherwise.

The well-known verse is about as far from the truth as anything you've ever heard. But people still chant it, teach it, hark back to it with a petty, selfish hope that it's somehow accurate – that their words, or the words spoken to them, will not affect and devastate; a preservation instinct.

You've found the truth out the hard way. You know now what hideous damage can be caused by mere words – irrevocable, atrocious, loathsome damage. Far worse than stick and stone could ever do.

Words can kill.

The tongue is as deadly and sharp as a two-edged sword. What's worse, it kills bloodlessly.

Words, used the wrong way, are a cruel means to an end, a channeling of frustration, a verbal purging. And they don't come back. You can't take them back. Ever. You can never retrieve them, or fully repair the damage once done – like nails in a fence; once hammered in, they always leave a gaping – reminding – hole.

Words can kill.

----------------

Just a few days ago, he'd stormed past, a blaze of color, his face carrying none of it. To the untrained eye, he was on another one of his missions. And he was, you could tell. However, you saw right past the bravado and the toughness to the ironic desperation. You saw the pain of harrowing emptiness, the devastating shock of emotional trauma – hinting at the tragic card that life had dealt him.

It was the lack of color in his voice, and the words his eyes didn't speak anymore that worried you the most. He had aged overnight, trading the eager bounce in his step for a subtle dragging of his feet. All this you noticed, caught within seconds – but from a distance.

You dared not bother him; he looked as though on the threshold of some inexplicit place of psychosis. That, and the fact that you were barely on speaking terms again. Leave well enough alone, you figured, for both your sakes – for the better.

So you asked someone, though you're not sure who exactly, now that you think of it. Not that it mattered.

Inquiry lent you a why, but not reason.

His brother's dead, you had been told coolly, informatively.

Just like that.

Funny how you had just always presupposed that Bosco's brother would live in infamy, perpetually, as the thorn in Bosco's side. Probably because you knew Bosco loved Mikey so much – too much, and if Mikey was gone, well, so was a large part of his older brother.

And that just couldn't happen. You needed Bosco to be Bosco, all of him, all the time. For the sake of your own sanity, for perpetuity, ad infinitum.

Selfish, yes – but subconscious.

Still, Mikey died anyway. Everyone dies, you knew all too well. But this was wrong. Not everyone is supposed to die young; and nobody deserved to die the way that Mikey did.

You heard how Bosco had reacted, informatively again. Somehow, people thought that a blunt play-by-play of events – minus any shred of sentiment – would be easier to stomach.

Not so.

It upset you so terribly you could taste it – sour and rancid and wrong. The bad taste gave heaving rise to indignation.

Were you the only one who actually gave a damn? You liked to think that; it helped you cope. You need to be needed.

Unsurprisingly, you were slammed with guilt. Mostly because you realized – much to your chagrin – that not too long ago, in your anger, in the resentment of the moment, you had taken away your right to comfort your former partner.

It's gone. You wish you could take it back, your horrible words, but they're gone. Like dust in the wind.

"You're a little boy, Bosco," you snarl. He blinks, cringes slightly. You know you've pushed his button, and you feel a rush of elation. Selfish pleasure.

So you continue,

"You're a selfish little boy. I used to feel sorry for you, but now I just want you the hell away from me."

And for what?

"Well, why not?" he agrees sanctimoniously. You want to slap him. "That's the way you handle people. Keep them at a distance as soon as they become a problem."

For what?

All because you couldn't stand to hear the truth from him; because he had hit far too close to home with his brazenly blunt statements.

He was honest – too honest; you were just cruel.

It was the only way to get to him. You were in a bad place. And misery loves company, so goes the saying.

You knew that the only way to beat him down to where you were was to play dirty, sucker punch, hit below the belt.

It had worked before, in any case.

"You don't use your head. You have no sense of discretion. You don't help people out there. You just go around, you arrest everybody."

You're crying, you're sweating, you're soaked in guilt. But he's there, and you can yell at him because he can take it.

You know you have no right to do this to him, but, at this moment, you feel you have all the right in the world. Because he's the reason – for every single, miserable thing.

His chin tips up a fraction; his eyes are lazily softening. He has let slip his tell.

You've hit the proverbial nail on the head, and you know it. It's so wrong, so horrible what you've said and what you intend to say, and even you can't believe your own ears, but it hurts so good to vent.

He can take it.

You can't stop,

"Unless I need you to, apparently! I am your partner, Bosco. You're supposed to have my back. And I do everything for you and you are never there for me, ever! I bail you out all the time. And I'm sick of it!"

You feel sick. You release. You're vomiting words. Disgusting.

But someone else needs to know how much pain you're in. You need a scapegoat.

He needs to know; you'll show him.

He seems unruffled. He refuses to concede; he refuses to show his hurt. But you haven't seen him take a breath yet. You're slaughtering him.

"I'm sick of you! You are just, like, so immature and you are unreliable and you are useless!"

His eyes glaze; his chin tips up a fraction. His Adam's-apple bobs slowly, a restricted, sticky swallow.

Something inside of him just broke. You just dashed him against a wall, shattered him deeply.

You can't stop. You're on-tilt. You're playing recklessly, wildly – uncontrollably ad nauseam.

It hurts so good.

"Do you hear me? You are useless!"

For what?

The regret is burning the back of your throat. You choke on it.

Who the hell did you think you were?

And now you wish that you could rewind time; a few days, a few months. Not that life before was perfect – no stretch of the imagination or lovely memory could come up with that – but life wasn't contaminated by the tragedy of things being forever lost.

You wish hard that he would be fine for a moment, if only to crack a smile or a joke, or tease you mercilessly, or even throw one of his chronic, melodramatic fits, just to shove some of his brand of reality into your miserable world.

You're selfish like that. Not purposely, you know this much, but you want everyone around you to be strong so that when you crumble, you have something, someone, to hold onto.

You need him.

----------------

"I knew we shoulda taken the stairs."

"So I've heard…." You're blasé, tongue-in-cheek – but mostly just bored. To death. "Famous last words."

It's nearly pitch-black, save an iridescent glow emanating from the series of buttons littering the wall, but you can feel him glowering at you – he has been for the last however long you've been stuck in here. "Here" denoting the small enclosed space that you've began to really despise stepping into as of late. Twice in six months – got to be some kind of World Record, you think.

Damn elevators will, surely, be the end of you. They're like a coffin on a cable. Based on your notable track-record with elevators, you're seriously starting to think they have some sort of tacit vendetta against you.

"You never listen to me, do ya?" He makes a face.

You repress a snort; you don't do an inspiring job. "You sound surprised."

"There was a freakin' tool-belt on the floor, Faith! You didn't think it was here for a reason?" There's a slight agitation in his voice, panic or something like it, but you know it's just the lack of light that's bothering him. He hates the dark – some underlying phobia from his substandard childhood, odds-on.

"Well, now I do. Hindsight's a bitch, huh?"

"Whatever," he says shortly. He's breathing fast. Oh, and down your neck. "You almost finished?"

Bosco is referring to the flashlight in your hands – or, more accurately, what's left of it; it's in two pieces. That, paradoxically, was entirely his doing. When his light didn't switch on right away, he had whacked it against the wall in frustration…and cracked it in half. You, for some curious reason, failed to remember to clip yours on that morning.

Fortunately, that tell-tale tool-belt had a roll of duct tape stashed in it, so you busied yourself with trying to piece back together the brunt of his aggravation. In the dark.

"It's not working…," you sigh bleakly.

"Way to go and destroy your sole light-source, Bos," you'd like to add. You're in a small space – nowhere to run – so you abstain.

"I don't think the duct tape's gonna do the trick."

"If you can't fix it with duck tape…," he says, reaching down, snatching both the roll and flashlight from you, and starts to slather on the tape; around and around with vague desperation, "…you haven't used enough."

The flashlight flickers on. Naturally.

The elevator/sardine can is instantly illuminated, and you're promptly aware of Bosco smiling a sigh of relief.

Well, good for him, but you've both gotten absolutely nowhere in your quest for elevator emancipation.

"What would you do without me, huh?" he asks with more than a touch of impish smugness in his voice.

Good question. You give him a long look as you think of an extensive list.

He's grinning like the proverbial fool. Probably because he is the proverbial fool.

"No comment."

"Oh, com'on, you know you love me…." He pauses; his face brightens expectantly. Puppy. You half-expect him to wag a tail. "Right?"

You halfheartedly roll your eyes; throw him a bone, "Right."

"Duct tape is God's gift to mankind," he remarks informatively, puckishly. "You should know that."

"I thought you were."

"No," he mischievously corrects, cocking his head under vaguely (here it comes), "…womankind."

Good lord.

"Okay, MacGyver," you sass flippantly. "So what you gonna do next? Pull a paperclip and some gum out of your shoe, build a bomb, and just blow the door open?"

He frowns. Pensively? You're not quite sure – you've never seen pensive before. Probably lost – literally – in thought.

"It's not a bad idea, actually," he remarks with a shrug and a degree of sincerity, "the paperclip thing. We could pick the lock."

He shines his newly-patched flashlight at the elevator buttons and motions to the keyhole imbedded in the red, service push-button. Plug in a key, and you've got liftoff. Or, at the very least, an assistance signal to the main circuit. Should work, even though the emergency phone, the more obvious option, doesn't – without rhyme or reason, sure enough.

"Oh," you muse. Nod. "Okay."

A lengthy second of silence. Bosco squats down and peers at the keyhole, squinting a bit.

"I'm scared," you blurt out in a low murmur.

"Of what?" He looks at you like you've popped an entire bottle of crazy pills; his face is a theatrical mask of incomprehension, a giant question mark – so very Bosco. His expressions are always so over-the-top and affected. You wonder where he gets it from.

You struggle to remain deadpan; your lips tremble as you fight the ebullient smile threatening to forfeit your game-face.

"It sounds like a good idea. So, I'm agreeing with you. That scares me."

"Bite me," he growls, but he's not angry in the least bit. Amused, yes, and probably basking in your backhanded compliment. Damn, fucking puppy.

"Down, boy. I'm joking."

"Ohhhhhh." He plays along, goes with it. He's cocky and smug now as he slowly drawls out, "Ha…ha…."

"Courtesy laugh?"

"You wish."

Bosco fishes around in his back pocket for something – something small and "paperclip-y," you assume. Like he carries anything around but his ego….

You wordlessly hand him a bobby-pin from your hair.

"Thanks," he says distractedly and holds the pin up to the light, appraising his ticket out of the sardine can.

"Well, have at it." You motion vaguely at the switch. "All those years of juvenile delinquency have to have made you some sort of expert at this."

"All what years?" he spits out quickly, a bit incredulously, throwing an offended expression that falls flat of believable. He knows you – you're just playing. "I'm spotless. Never've even got a speeding ticket."

"Sure." You throw him a long look. "You drive a Mustang. Obviously, they never caught you."

He bobs his head twice, mouth set in a straight – but entirely unconvincing – line. "Damn straight."

"Uh-huh."

You watch curiously as he maneuvers that pin with the finesse and confidence of a polished thief.

You don't bother to ask.

Less than two minutes of skillfully fiddling around pass before you hear a faint alarm peal.

"Oh!" He's up on his feet in a second, arms in the air like he has just scored the Superbowl-winning touchdown – as happy as the day is long. "Oh-ho!"

He's positively infectious, and you smile at him – half at how ridiculous he looks/is.

He smacks the wall with the palm side of his hand and continues on with his comic nonsensicality, "And it's Boscorelli versus the lock, and who wins? Huh, huh?"

He smirks as he air-elbows you. He is ridiculous, but so charismatic – his saving grace most days. He's an enigma. He's difficult to handle; somehow easy for you to love.

"You win," you agree simply, a small smile warping your lips. Some things never change.

----------------

You needed him. But you had left him be.

Well, for a day, that is.

After 24 hours of "leaving well enough alone," you'd had it. You didn't want to impose on his grief, or rile whatever bad feelings he may have harbored against you for the sake of your own guilt-complex, but it had to be done.

As proud as you are, you do try to make an effort to be loyal – even if only to inadequately reciprocate.

So, now you stand, for what could be considered an eternity, your back flush against the wall adjacent to his door, staring at the faded paint, thinking that, perhaps if you stare at it long enough, it will melt. Melt the barrier between you and your closest friend, your unlikely confidant, your lifeline to reality amidst the turmoil of life.

In spite of what you would think, he is the only thing that is predictable in your life. And you like it that way, because no matter how messed-up or crazy your life is, you can always fall back on trusty ol' Bosco to be whatever it is that Bosco is.

But you kind of fucked that up.

Or did he?

You really, really would like to blame him for the estrangement between you both, but that damn, arrogant "Saint Faith" speech he made never allows you to in your heart. Because you know it's true. Outwardly, however, you never have a problem.

Pride is a bitch.

You're still furious at him for his dead-nuts-on evaluation of you. Even you don't know yourself that well.

More harrowing than the actual words spoken, the vulnerability he slapped you with leaves you naked. You hate it. And every word sticks with you, every damn syllable.

Because of this, he wins.

----------------

"God, you're such a child, Bosco – not to mention an ass."

You roll your eyes and tip your head against the headrest. You know he'll never take offence. Not to any of the snide comments and name-calling you could dish out, at any rate.

No, it's quite the opposite, really. He loves it. He lives for the daily roust – or roast, as it seems to be more often than not.

Today he's on a roll. He has had too much coffee or too little running around -- come to think of it, probably a bit of both. So he's antsy. To amuse himself -- or maybe to pass the time, or fill empty air-space, or perhaps just because he's Bosco -- he provokes you in only the way that Bosco can: wryly, smugly, cheekily, blatantly.

He smirks.

You don't even need to turn your head to know the sphinx-like half-smile is plastered across his face. Routine.

You sigh; you try not to smile. You go along with it; you play the game -- his game. You call it "cat and mouse." What with the way he smirks the whole time, he looks like the Cheshire cat, in any case.

You can't look at him, or you know he'll win: Cheshire cat: 1, mouse: 0, game over. His bait is his smile -- his cheesy one, ironically.

But you look at him, nevertheless, just because something about that infamous Boscorelli smirk amuses you – never fails.

Yep, right on schedule. It's terribly cliché, but his eyes really are gleaming with mirth.

You bite your lower lip to keep a straight face.

"Oh yeah?" He doesn't bother to hide the enjoyment in his voice. And he bobs his head twice – his tell. You've played life enough with him to spot even his most infinitesimal tell.

Here it comes.

"Well, I'm rubber, and you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you."

Oh. My. God.

You take ten long seconds to stare at him, giving him what he calls your "you didn't…" face.

"Ha!" He points at you, he got you. His face will split in half if he smiles any bigger, you haven't a doubt.

He has definitely had too much coffee. And you need to find him a perp to chase. Fast.

"Bosco…," you groan, roll your eyes. But the groan breaks midway when you latch onto his laughter and join him. He's infectious.

"I win," he chuckles triumphantly; takes a long swig of coffee.

He always does.

----------------

The door doesn't melt. Reality bites. And so you knock.

Once, two, three. Short, trapped, vulnerable raps.

You take a step back and hang your head, stuff your hands deep within your jean pockets. You know it's your tell, but you do it anyway.

You can hear his feet against the floorboards, slapping like he is barefoot. A stuttering pause, and you know he looked through the peephole. Only to see you.

And the pause drags out indefinitely, each second beating you with shame. Your cheeks flush warm from discomfiture.

Although even while you know – just know – that he tipped his head back and sighed deeply before he unbolted the lock, and notwithstanding how it humiliates you that one of his notorious sighs was directed at you, you stay.

Again, pride. Or maybe your stubborn streak.

Despite you, the door opens.

Yep, barefoot, think your downcast eyes and you almost smile. He is consistently predictable, even when his own life is a disaster.

You look up, forcing the fakest of plastic half-smiles. But you know it is for aesthetic purposes only, seeing that you both know full-well that it is as forced as your relationship is at the moment.

He looks at you jadedly – eyes you is more like it. It's not something you are used to…yet. It kills you. You try not to wince.

You try to pinpoint the exact moment when you'd ceased amity and became casually indifferent. Your memory fails you.

"Hi," you whisper, choke out.

Your hands shove deeper into your pockets, and you rock your weight back to your heels.

Damn tells.

He leans heavily against the doorframe, like he is too worn-out to stand. And he looks fine besides that – eyes aren't red from crying, face isn't drawn, no tell-all black circles of sleepless nights; he looks fine. Superficially, you are sure; because gone are the playful blue flecks in his eyes; they look positively black, inhospitable. And he is slouching.

He sighs, clears his throat. "What?"

You're of a mind to cry. When had a simple "hey" turned into an unwelcoming "what"?

You blink the stinging out of your eyes. It isn't your place to cry – you don't get to cry.

You find yourself talking; the sound of your own voice catches you unaware. You struggle to say what you consider necessary. You need good words, but you come up short – casual; nonchalant almost. "I, uh…I wanted to see how you were doin'."

He ducks his head. You know that one – it's what he always does when he feels awkward, but when his eyes meet yours again, he just looks hurt.

Hurt. By you?

You hope to God not. But hope never outweighs fact. Even you, the queen of denial, know this. You feel your throat tighten.

"How am I doin'." His voice is breathy, offended, and not a repeat question. He doesn't waver the slightest, not his eyes, not his voice. "My little brother is hacked-up in pieces in the morgue – that's how I'm doin'."

So blunt; so Bosco.

Your stomach is heavy with emotion. It takes a lot of willpower to keep from being sick. It is not your place to be sick; it's his.

You just stare at him, gripped. You feel your fingernails dig into your palms. Everything about this moment is tangible. It's cacophonous as it slaps your every sense. You feel his eyes clawing at you, you taste the bitter blood between you both, you smell the fear that he refuses to bare, you hear the silence as it screams of infidelities, you see the hysterical need in him.

The look in his eyes scares you. The way he never loses eye contact unnerves you.

He wants something from you. But obviously not the paltry, offhand condolences you have to offer.

Something more.

----------------

"Bad one," you say dolefully, although, if truth be told, not because you mean it, but because you need to fill the silence with something – anything.

You're staring at a burning building. Three dead, two of them kids – four adults en route to Mercy. The bucket boys are finishing up; no more police work to do until later. Maybe an hour – two, if the third floor takes flame. Dead time.

You think in statistics when you're preoccupied. You forget some of your heart when you use your head too much -- Fred says that. Your husband knows you well. It's true.

"It's sad, huh?" you reiterate, compulsively. You feel like you're talking to yourself – or worse, the brick wall your partner is leaning against.

Dead air. It's Bosco's brand of punishment. He's passive-aggressive occasionally, aggressive-aggressive the rest.

He doesn't move when he speaks, doesn't bat an eyelash,

"Tragic."

His arms are crossed across his chest and his head is cocked slightly away from you.

Typical, you think spitefully, and how mature of him. Temper-tantrum, minus the kicking and screaming.

You glare, drilling a hole in the side of his face. Well, at least you try to. It usually works, but this time he's pissed as you've ever seen him. Your own mouth is frowning, but his is a taught line.

"You're mad at me." How plainspoken of you.

It's never a question with Bosco. You always know where you stand. No mistaking it – he's an open book.

"Nope."

He doesn't mince words. He keeps his eyes ahead, pretends to ignore your being there. His answers are only polite – obligatory. You aren't surprised.

"Liar."

His head finally snaps around; he finally looks at you. His features are hard, irritated.

You've overstepped your bounds. You should have known. But, hey, he's acknowledging you, and that was kind of the whole point of the dig.

You raise your brow, daring him.

"I thought that was your job," he spits.

Ouch.

It's your turn now. That's how you fight – you take turns. You up the ante. Try to one-up one another. Vicious cycle.

"Oh, please," you snort. You look daggers at him, condemningly. "Get off your high horse!"

You fluster for a suitable one-up insult. Nothing. So you use your favorite – an oldie but a goodie, "Sometimes you're such an ass, Bosco."

He always flinches. He hates being called an ass.

"Yeah? You still lied. To me." He plows his finger into his chest, emphasizing just who you've crossed. His eyes snap like firecrackers.

You get it. Some things never change, namely your fights.

"You told me the boss swapped us around because Sullivan was getting too old to run, not because you couldn't stand bein' with me! You made me feel sorry for him! And you made me ride with that rookie, Gusler, for three days!"

He hates riding with rookies about as much as he hates being called an ass.

"Damn, Faith, you're my partner. C'mon!"

He's flinging his arms up in the air like he does when he's agitated. Oh, and pacing, too. Comical melodrama. If you weren't so irked right now, you'd have to laugh at him.

But he's riled up, and it's not just one of his daily outbursts. Not to say it's out of the ordinary, mind you. You've seen this before, too. You've seen (survived) years of Bosco.

You know precisely what to expect. Only a few more mean-spirited gibes at him until he gets right in your face; maybe points that finger at you.

"What, was I supposed to just tell you? That you drive me crazy?" You mock a tête-à-tête, habitually derisive, "Good morning to you, too, Bosco. Oh, and by the way…you're a pill."

You've got him cornered, you think.

Not so fast.

He stops. He thinks. A first.

"Yeah." His tone of voice has softened ten-fold and he nods. His eyes are wider, like he has just realized what you just said, what he answered with. "I can take it. If you've got a problem, tell me – don't go sneaking behind my back just so I find out from damn Swersky what really went down."

He throws you for a loop; you're inclined to be shocked. But it's Bosco – shock comes with the territory.

You open your mouth to argue, but you stop.

You stop. You think.

He's right, you know. You're still mad, in spite of the fact that his eyes are begging your pride to back down. He really wants you to realize that you need to be as loyal as he is. He really wants you to be as honest as he is. You know that if you strayed, like now, he'd take you back in a second, and it's what he's proposing. In his own way, of course – his own very "Bosco-esque" way.

And those eyes. Even you have a heart.

You don't know exactly how he does it sometimes.

"Okay." You shrug dispassionately. "I'm sorry."

Impassive, understated; pride's a bitch. But you mean it and he knows you do.

He nods, and he's pleased as hell, but only you can tell so – he had to make a great effort not to smirk – another one of his tells. He really needs to work on his poker face.

"Good. Then we're okay?"

You nod back, sigh. You surrender.

"Back on tomorrow?"

Nod, again.

"You really don't like ridin' with me?" he asks, more curious than really sincere, like he can't believe anyone would have a hard time handling him. He knows the truth; he's just being factious.

Damn, he's like a fucking puppy. He plays hard, barks hard, and bites harder, but always comes back with his tail wagging. The "you know you love me" eyes don't help, either. He has them down to a science.

"You're a pain in the neck, Bosco. A regular type-A, three-ring-circus on crack. You know that?"

He nods, smiles, ducks his head. He's disarming.

And abruptly, you're compelled to exercise your fidelity. It's that damn smirk. It'll be the death of you, you're sure.

"I'm sure I am some days, too, though, huh?" You roll your eyes and simper.

He knows this is hard for you.

He thinks for a moment, and you can see that he's enjoying this. Another one of his games, you suppose.

Forget the smirk, he'll be the death of you.

He shrugs his yes. "Just Tuesdays."

"Tuesdays are my day off…," you state quizzically, trailing off and frowning.

"I know." He winks; smirks.

God….

He always wins.

----------------

"I'm so sorry, Bos."

So lame; so something you'd say.

You were never that great with words, but when you say something, you mean it. And you mean what you're right now – lame as it is –, every word. You are sorry, or something much more, but you don't know how to even begin to put it into words. So, lame will have to suffice.

"You're sorry," he all-but-scoffs, throwing his head back.

You hate how he repeats everything you say. Somehow, when he parrots back, you sound absolutely ridiculous.

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment. You can see brightness lying against the lower rim of his eyes, and he has stopped breathing. He blinks rapidly. You know this one, too – he is trying to nip an emotional tirade in the bud.

For your sake, or his?

You dare not hope it is for you.

To you, hope is feeble, unrealistic to entertain – a pipe-dream. It has never done you any favors.

Bosco knows. Hope hates him, too. He prefers luck. Though you seriously doubt that he is feeling any kind of luck right now, except the hard kind.

"Everybody's sorry," he spits out softly.

"Yes, they are," you think ruefully, "but not as sorry as I am."

The space between you both erupts in silence.

You don't know what to say – if you should say anything at all. He has just disregarded you, passed you off as just another one of the nameless 'everybodyies.'.

"I'm not just like everybody – not just 'anybody,'" you think, upset, stung.

You're a thousand different types of indignant. But your cheeks burn shamefully, betraying you. You said nearly the same thing to him once. Denial never outweighs facts, either, unfortunately.

You sniff, roll your eyes toward the ceiling to avoid eye-contact. "I – I just didn't want to be dumping my stuff on anybody."

"It's me, Faith," he reminds you. Sad that he has to do that: remind you. His eyes are burning a legion of hurt and questions.

You've betrayed his dyed-in-the-wool allegiance – the one thing he works so hard at. The thought makes you feel dreadful, filthy. He's a lot of things – bad things at times –, but disloyal he's not. Never.

You can't bear to look at him, but you have to. He's oozing pain; his unashamed hurt is as obvious as your indifference.

"It's me." He shakes his head incredulously, speaks to you with such raw conviction, with such utter betrayal in his unwavering voice, "I'm not anybody."

Burning cheeks. Damn tells.

You take a deep breath, come up for air.

"Can I – ?" you start to say, not even knowing how you'll finish your sentence. But he does.

"No."

He shakes his head dully, purses his lips in a grimaced line, staring fiercely at you right in the eye. He means it. But there is no contempt, just intense pain.

You're slaughtering him.

One way or another, nothing you say or do comes across the way you intend it to – you always backfire.

"You can't help. You can't do anything. You can't be there for me. You've made that pretty clear."

There is no emotion in his voice; his tone is as flat and dead and raw as his inky eyes.

Though you had anticipated it, tried to prepare yourself for it, you somehow never expected that to come from him. The comprehension of his bleeding resentment is as bad as the expectation beforehand, but it hurts so dreadfully.

You know now: you are – have become – to him, only another one of the indefinite 'everybodies.' Or, God forbid, less.

What have you done?

You want to weep. You want to grab him and hug him. He used to come to you and you alone for comfort, now he barely opens the door – and probably only does that out of obligation.

He can't stop shaking. You're not sure that you're ready for this sort of thing.

"I just – everything's all wrong." His voice is higher, panicky. The strain of his voice, hoarse from emotion, makes you want to cringe.

He wants to say it, whatever it is he has been trying to say, but he can't seem to spit the words out. You've heard ten long minutes of incoherent words, distress about his failures, about what he isn't and wasn't and doesn't think he can be – but it's all disoriented and as lost as he is.

It's a strange thing – Bosco not being able to articulate lucidly. You hate it.

He keeps whimpering "they were falling," over and over, like a hideously scratched record; but he's the one who's falling.

"I'm not good at this, Faith. I don't know…I just…," he trails off as his voice splinters and hitches in his heaving chest.

He tries. God help him, he tries.

His breathing is rapid; you can feel every shuddering intake ripping through him . It sends a tinge of fear through your blood.

You're not sure whether you can do this right.

He has come to you and you alone for comfort. He's overwrought and weary and completely discomfited that he's falling – falling to his death – but he latches onto something: You. He bares his soul to you.

His life lies bleeding in your hands.

You realize that you're the only one. All he has got.

He's leaning his head against your shoulder, clutching onto your jacket with trembling fingers, choking back another round of those stifled, tragic sobs of heartache. You grab his shoulders firmly, with resolve that you'll never let him go.

His eyes pull up slowly, meeting you with such unfathomable sadness and desperation. His tears fall; he falls.

You don't know what you're doing. You hope you can catch him.

"It's okay, Bos; it's okay. Take a deep breath," you murmur consolingly, conveying your support through your indefatigable eye-contact, "and I swear, everything will be all right."

To your surprise, he glances down and emits a short, strangled laugh. His gaze runs back to yours; he's lost, he runs back to you.

The blue of his eyes is so vivid against his bloodshot whites.

"People say that stuff all the time," he whispers huskily.

You know it's the truth and abruptly feel deficient. You're never enough. You're remorseful, so sorry – you want to be enough.

He blinks. A tear rolls languidly out the corner of his eye.

"But, thing is, I believe you."

Bosco has never been one to be disloyal, even if he can't stand a person – which, apparently, right now, is you.

Perhaps his loyalty will outweigh his hard feelings?

Hope? No, just a thought based on facts, past events, past behavior.

You wait. Maybe he's always predictable.

"I don't need you. Or your pity. I just need you to leave me alone."

Like a slap to the face. He might as well have. You'd take sticks and stones over words any day of the week, and twice on Sunday. Come what may, physical wounds healed, whereas emotional ones remained.

You can literally feel yourself slipping, falling, failing.

But "Saint Faith" picks you up and gives you quick-tempered resentment. She's good, and you know it – too good. This time you really wish she would just leave you alone. You need to be as openly human as possible, for both your sakes.

But you're still piqued.

The bastard.

No, you know that isn't fair. As much as he is a bastard, you are just as much a bitch. You equal each other, strangely.

----------------

"Rough day, Bos?"

His body-language is the only thing you needed to see to deduce this. Slouching – no, more like slumping – vaguely, his right hand clutched onto the handle of his locker, left one a tight wad in his lap. He stares into – through – his locker as though there's something in there of great importance. Skeletons, or ghosts, no doubt. He has got enough of both to fill far more than a locker.

He nods, twice. As per usual. His bottom lip finds its way between his teeth for a split-second.

You know. Nobody said it was easy. However, nobody said that it could be so hard on a person.

"I just – I don't know how people can be so…vicious." He sounds like he has never seen anything horrible before. "Like animals, right?"

You frown.

It had been a bad day, sure, but not one for the record books. Where is this coming from? The bank robbery from earlier? The cut-and-dried murder two hours afterward? The violent disturbance that evening? Nothing unusually awful, or of any memorable value, so to speak.

Maybe he's tired. You're not – you're wired. You're wired and you're in a strange mood. You're sardonic. Defense-mechanism, perhaps. You don't dwell on things that you can't change, that you wish you hadn't seen, that you wish had never happened – you try to avoid and try to disregard via gallows humor.

"Get married." You roll your eyes as you open your locker. "You'll learn."

"What?" He sounds disbelieving. Not of the trueness of what you said – there's no way he could rebut it, he's not married – but rather that you said it at all.

Why? You're confused. It's not like he's never heard his line of conversation before.

But you don't take the time to figure it out. Whatever. You're aloof – wry, for some reason. Who knows why?

It all takes its toll on you, too – you're just not in the mood to deal with it tonight.

"It's not like the movies, Bosco – all kisses and flowers and love and unlimited sex. Marriage is the ultimate emotional abuse. You wake up one morning and realize you've gotten on the wrong wagon – there's no white horse – instead, you're hitched to an ass."

There's some strange look on his face. You can't read it – or him, for that matter. It bothers you. You can't play the game comfortably if he's finally wizened up and gotten pokerfaced.

Where the hell are his tells when you actually need them?

"You've got a great family, Faith; a good life," he tells you simply, like you should know it. You do…most of the time. "Don't complain about it, not today."

Not today.

Today was hard. Not for you, so much – you were preoccupied. Fred had yelled at you this morning – had called you things, had called you on things. So you were distant and preoccupied for the rest of the day. When you use your head too much, you lose some of your heart, your empathy, you know.

Bosco, on the other hand, must have actually – for once – turned on his emotions.

Figures.

Fine. Game on.

"I'm not complaining." You have no idea why you hastened to justify, grabbed at your cards. "I'm just—"

He cuts you off, waves a hand at you dismissively like you're being preposterous and you need to listen to him. Him and his abundant opinions. God, as though he could tell you anything about life – he doesn't have one.

"You say things, and – and you complain, about, you know, things that most people dream about; damn castles in the sky."

He's irritated, but somehow melancholy. But he's in the game. He has got a good hand, you're sure. "You want me to agree with you because you want me to feel sorry for you." He lets you digest his opinion, continues brusquely, "I don't."

Burning cheeks. Righteous anger – maybe the most appropriate adjective, seeing that you're apparently "a saint" and all.

Your turn.

"Feel sorry for me? You think I want you to feel sorry for me? You'd like to think that, huh? Makes you feel like I need you – or – or your supreme guidance. Makes you feel more like a man."

You upped the ante.

"Com'on." He's cavalier. You seethe. "You bitch about Fred, you complain about how hard it is to do everything and be everything to everyone. At least you have someone. You have no right to complain. And you know I'm not saying anything that you don't already know, Faith."

He's gone you one better. You don't believe it.

He played his cards set down his hand. His hand is reveled manifestly on your face: a royal flush.

Burning cheeks.

His palms are turned up – non-offensive. He shrugs, looks at you like: duh, you're ridiculous to try to win. He doesn't even want to play this time, and yet he's winning. "Okay?"

He's tired. Of games? No, never. This present game? Probably.

He wants you to fold. You should, really. He has you, hands down.

But you don't. You go all-in.

"How dare you?" you snarl, spit. "You think you know me, don't you? You don't know me from Adam."

You're breathing hard, like you're waiting – waiting to go in for the kill.

People are animals. You. You are "like animals, right?" – minus the question mark; no question here. You feel beastly.

That one painting – that "Dogs Playing Poker" one – flashes in your eyes. It so suits the moment .

You think, for an ephemeral second, that you should throw in the towel – throw down your cards, shake hands, and walk like a civilized human being. You shouldn't play games when you're like this. Animalistic behavior and mind games just don't work.

But he just shrugs; he was expecting you to say that. He was expecting it, and it pisses you off.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," he sighs, shuts his locker, stands dejectedly. His head hangs.

You never were a gracious loser.

"You're so holier-than-thou, Bosco. Must be nice. You've got everything figured out, don't you? Your life is perfect. Or lack of it."

A muscle jumps along his jaw.

You're mockingly sarcastic: ironic remarks intended to wound. But, paradoxically, you feel like you're talking to yourself.

("I'm rubber, you're glue.")

"You're alone."

("Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.")

He didn't need reminding, but you said it anyway. You invited him. He stares at you, his eyes grimace vaguely, disbelieving. You've hit the nail on the damn head, again.

Round two? Play again? One more round – you can win, you know it.

He ignores your offer for a rematch. Not today.

As he leaves, he throws you one last look – he's hard-faced, angry, frustrated, hurt, peeved, disgusted – all emotions that you really wanted to see rendered by your last remark. Selfish pleasure.

But there's something else. You're shocked to see sympathy in his eyes. Sympathy.

You feel rage burn the back of your throat.

"Like he is capable of such an emotion you think," you justify. "He's a child. A pathetic, needy, immature child."

You slam your locker shut in infuriation. You take a minute, breathing heavily and clenching your fists. You count your losses. You feel like vomiting.

Sure, you got the last word.

But he won.

Surprise, surprise.

----------------

"I just – if there's anything you need…."

God, as much as you deny affiliation, you sure sound a hell of a lot like just 'everybody' – like you're reading or reciting a cheesy, well-known pamphlet: 101 Things to Say to Appear Empathetic.

He sighs. He's tired.

You know he's tired of your games. Your beat-around-the-bush, dodge-the-bullet, blame games.

"What makes you think you can give me anything I need?" he asks brusquely.

Tit-for-tat.

You bite your lip. He blinks; a shadow of umbrage passes over his features.

And then he waits. For what? You don't know, don't really want to know.

But inherently, you know: He wants you to be as he always is – flawed. Flawed, but okay with it. He wants you to admit it. He wants an apology, a resignation of pride, something.

"You didn't do anything wrong," "Saint Faith" tells you defensively. "He's just upset."

But you're no Saint, and even you know it at times.

"Okay," you whisper quietly. You nod your head acquiescently before opening your mouth again.

He waits.

This is where you need to insert something selfless, something admitting of imperfection.

"I'm sorry…"

He raises his brow, ever so slightly.

At that, you feel your chest hitch. He thinks you are going to express regret or act contrite. He thinks "Saint Faith" has taken the night off. He thinks it is only the two of you.

He just called your bluff. And it scares you – half to death.

"…about your brother," you finish lamely. "I really am, Bos."

He looks so very disappointed for a fleeting second, and you caught it. And you saw a flicker of annoyance amidst the sludge of disenchantment. He is annoyed with you – at you.

He covers well, ducks his head, but you know him like the back of your hand. He has a right to be disappointed, displeased – even you are disappointed with yourself.

He nods mutely, mouth pressing into line that resembles a crestfallen smile, and moves to close the door, to replace the barrier between you.

"So am I," he murmurs. His eyes mist; soften lazily. His chin tips up a fraction. He's only just holding himself together.

You know he's not talking about his brother anymore, and suddenly you feel despicable, vile – like you need to wash your very soul. You've putrefied yourself in your selfishness and pride; completely cut off your nose to spite your face.

You set yourself up for rejection constantly – you know this. You do not know, however, when you made it an art.

You're stunned to no words.

Before the door shuts, you see he has already turned his back on you.

And your heart breaks.

You stand against the wall once more. The paint on the door stays thick and mocking between you and him.

Nothing melted tonight. Not the door, not the rift, not the bad blood, or your pride.

Nothing melted, but your heart broke.

You lost.

You always lose.

Finis