Author: Sarahlee
Email: [email protected]
Category: Action /Adventure /Angst
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Third Watch characters - the ultimate bummer.
Spoilers: Events though season three.

Summery: Bosco endures one of the worst days of his life.

A/N: To my loyal reviewers: Yes, I am going to finish my other fic, I want it to have the best possible ending for you guys and it takes time. I have been working hard on it, and in the mean time, typed out this one. I hope you like it! Review and make my day :)

**********

It's funny how you remember different days of your life; the way they are permanently burned into your memory, how you can recall each smell, sight, taste and sound perfectly, as though you are reliving them.

Some are special days: birthdays, Christmases, picnics, parties, fun stuff like that. But then, you have the awful days - the days you wish would go away and stop haunting you. Like the day your mom died, the day you had a car accident, or the day your dad beat you within an inch of your life. Those days.

I have days I have never forgotten, like my seventh birthday, the one when I got that new bike from Ma. I can still see that shiny red paint and the happy smile on her face as she gave it to me. And the day my Ma saved up and took me and my little brother Mikey to the zoo. I think I was ten and he was eight. We spent the whole day watching the animals, in pure bliss. Oh, and I never forgot the day I graduated from the Police Academy. I remember putting on my freshly starched, new uniform, adjusting my hat in the small locker room mirror. I was a cop, finally. My Ma could be proud of me. That day was great.

Then I have those bad days that I try hard to forget, but I still remember. They still nag at the back of my mind, the days my dad came home drunk and beat my mom. The first time I was shot. The day that Bobby, the paramedic, died. The day Glen Hobart held a gun to my head. The day that Faith told me about her cancer-I can still see that look on her face. I remember the day I got hit by a stupid exploding dye bag...yeah, that's right, a dye bag. I had a panic attack; I can still feel my chest tightening, my breath being cut off. I honestly thought I was having a heart attack and was going to die. It scared the living daylights out of me. I don't want to remember any of this stuff, but it stays with you, reminding you that bad stuff happens, and it will happen again.

And then there was That Day. I don't know what else to call it, I don't remember the dates or anything, so to me it's: That Day. But I remember every detail of it like it just happened.

****

That Day started out just like any other day: I woke up this morning around 11, rolled out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed. Routine. I ate a bowl-full of Froot Loops, I like them nice and soggy, don't ask me why... and yes, even though I'm a grown man, I still eat Froot Loops. I always have.

Later, I drive to the Station House 55 - where I work - in my beautiful Mustang, my pride and joy. There are no parking spaces left, so I have to park on the grass that lines the lot. Well, actually it isn't grass, its snow. Thick, deep, icy snow. It's the dead of winter here in New York City and really, really frigid cold out. I start to get pissed off at having to park in the snow, but then I realize the parking spaces aren't much better. At least six inches of snow had fallen during the night.

I find my partner, Faith Yokas, in the locker room with about twenty other cops. They are all on my shift, the Third Watch. Most of them are already dressed and leaving for the roll call room. Faith is ready, of course, and standing to the side with her navy NYPD hat in her hands.

She notices me and gives me a quick half-frown as she smoothes her ponytail out in the mirror. "You'd better hurry, Bosco, or you're going to be late...again."

I pretend not to notice the way she emphasized 'again'. So, maybe I've been late a few times before. What's the big deal?

I tear off my many layers of clothes hurriedly. My hat, scarf, gloves, coat, sweater, and shirt make a lumpy pile on the bench next to me, leaving me dressed in my undershirt and pants. Geez, it's cold enough in here to freeze the balls off a brass monkey! I can feel goose bumps pop out all over my arms.

Faith just sighs at me and begins to throw my clothes into my locker. She must realize that I won't have enough time to get dressed and put them away. I supposed I should thank her... "Thanks," I throw over my shoulder.

I reach for my Kevlar vest, pull it on over my head and adjust the Velcro straps. The same kind of vest that had saved my life more then once-I had learned to trust it by now. It was heavy and uncomfortable at first, but you get used to it real quick. You have to.

Then I have the strangest feeling. A cold, icy shudder zips through my body, and for a fleeting second, I lose all trust I have in that vest. It's like a forewarning or something - a premonition of some sort, I guess. Weird.

Of course, I don't give that stupid feeling any credence and write it off to a draft in the room. But in that one, brief second I knew something was wrong. I can't get that off of my mind.

"Bosco?" Faith has finished putting away my clothes and is now staring at me curiously. I guess I must have some blank stare on my face or something, at least that's what she tells me after I snap out of it.

Faith takes off for roll call and then I glance at the clock and realize I have less then three minutes left before Sergeant Christopher awards me another disciplinary. I most certainly don't want another one of those, not from him, anyway. I quickly scramble into the rest of my uniform and half-walk, half-run down the hall to the roll call room.

Swersky barely notices me as I slip into the nearest empty seat. I think he's gotten used to the usual Boscorelli entrance - me running in, out of breath, with less then 30 seconds to spare. I am pleased with myself, though, for avoiding another reprimand. I'm sure that jag-off, Christopher, wanted to tell me a thing or two though, and he glares at me the whole damn roll call as if I'd killed his mother or somethin'. I just grin smugly at him, because hey, they can't yell at you if you didn't do anything wrong.

Fifteen minutes later, I realize that I have paid a little to much attention to the glowering Christopher and I haven't heard much of what the Lieutenant had briefed us on. Usually nothing much worth listening too anyway. I guess Faith will tell me if I need to know anything

Lucky for me, Faith is in a relatively good mood today and she isn't snapping at me anymore like yesterday. Heck, she even let me drive on her day. She calls in our 10-98 and we take off to rid the city of crime.

I am so ready to kick some ass.

**********

The next hour or so we spend running our engine, parked to the side of North 18th St., patiently waiting for our first call. Faith insisted on stopping for coffee, so I found the nearest 7-11. The coffee here is cheap and I'd rather pay 64 cents then the four dollars they charge at those fancy-schmancy coffee shops. Unfortunately, the price of the coffee really reflects on the taste.

"Gross!" I sputter after I've downed the first sip. Although it was warm enough for my liking, it tasted like the coffee had been filtered through a dirty gym sock. I roll my window down and splash out the remainder of the so-called 'coffee' onto the frozen sidewalk. "Ugh, that was so nasty."

Faith just rolls her eyes at me, like I'm one of her kids. I hate it when she does that. Yeah, I know I can be a little "less mature" then she is sometimes, but damn, I don't want to be all serious and boring or nothin' - too many high-and-mighty pricks out there already. Faith needs to learn to live a little; she spends way too much time in "mommy mode".

I guess her coffee is okay, because she keeps sipping away at it. "I can't believe you're actually drinkin' that stuff." I mutter to her, disgusted. The nasty gym sock-taste still lingers in my mouth.

"Yeah, well, it isn't that bad. I've had worse." She purposely takes another long sip, as if trying to prove her point. Okay, I get it; so she can obviously handle the sock coffee, maybe she even likes it. I really don't care.

The radio on the dash sputters some static before the dispatcher's loud, scratchy voice blares out. "Central to 55-David, we have reports of a domestic dispute at 1217 Monroe."

55-David; that's us. We must be the closest cruiser to the call and the address is only two blocks up the street. Damn, I hate Domestics. They are such a waste of my time. Faith knows I hate them - she does too, but not as much as I do; I'm sure of that.

See, what she doesn't know is that I can't stand to see guys beating up their women. Reminds me too much of my own family, what used to happen when I was a kid. My dad was a flaming drunk and would come home almost every night, reeking' like a whisky still, and take out his frustrations on my Ma. Sometimes he took out after my brother and me, but mostly he just liked to hit Ma.

Mikey and me stopped trying to protect her after a while, but only after our father locked me in a pitch-black closet for a whole night for hitting him back. At the time, Mikey was too little to do anything, so I tried to help. Imagine that: an eleven year old taking on a drunken, full-grown man...bad idea. I still have a scar on my forehead from the beer bottle that he launched at my head that night. I still have problems with the dark too. I get freaked out whenever it's too dark and I can't see anything, my mind taking me back to that night and the total helpless feelings of panic haunt me.

It was a long time ago, but I hate thinking about it, you know, drudges up bad feelings. So, obviously Domestics aren't my favorite part of the job. I guess you'd think that I took up the job to help keep that stuff from happening, but the truth is far from that and much more selfish.

I signed up 'cause if I weren't a cop, I know I'd be a drug dealer or in jail for something, and I was scared to death of that.

Faith points out the building as we drive up, a shabby, rundown old place. I park quickly by the curb. Not a great parking job at all, but I'm a cop and can park however the hell I want. Faith doesn't seem to notice the uneven slant of the car; she is very used to my methods.

I hop out of the car and follow her into the ramshackle building. The door creaks noisily as she pushes it open and the strong scent of, well, I don't actually know what it is, but whatever it is - it smells like body odor and dog pee. I try to hold my breath but it's too strong and I can taste almost it as I breathe through my mouth, all thick and muggy.

Great, my day is just chock-full of wonderful stuff - sock coffee, B.O., and dog pee. Yuck.

We jog up the stars pretty quick. Faith isn't quite as fast as me, but she's a girl and I'm in much better shape. We can hear yelling coming from down the dim hall, the smell of doggie pee now replaced with the lovely scent of wet mold.

Faith marches right up to the puke-green painted door containing the noisy shrieks and pounds on it with her fist. "Police!" she yells, but they must not have heard, because they keep right on at it.

Actually, now that I think about it, there's only one voice - a man's.

I was right... another wife-beater. Should I be surprised?

Faith's fist pounds again, this time a little louder. Com'on people, just open the damn door... I roll my eyes, annoyed. I'm ready to give this jag-off a piece of my mind.

Nope, nothing changes; the guy is still loudly cussing someone out, hollering four letter words. I move my right hand to my gun, out of habit, I guess. This time I yell - maybe my voice will carry better, "Hey! Open up! Police!"

Nothing. Okay, jag-off, three strikes and you're out.

I move back and nod at Faith as she steps to the side of the door with her gun drawn.

Now here's one part of the job I like - kicking in doors. Don't ask me why, I just love the feeling of my foot hitting the door, the sound of the lock popping open, and the rush I get because I'm allowed to do it; no wait, I'm supposed to do it. Yep, mighty cool.

I swing my foot back and kick that ugly green door with a vicious strike. This time was just as fun, and the wood even splintered a little. Nice.

"Police!" Faith yells again as she moves in, her gun lowered now.

The surprised look of the man standing in the center of the room is great. Priceless, really. I try not to chuckle at the deer-in-headlights, blank stare and open mouth combo. His wide eyes narrow a second later when he realizes who the hell just busted his door down.

"Yeah, and we would be the police," I remark snidely and point to my badge, keeping my gun leveled on the sucker. "See the badge? We come when you beat your woman, or when you just make too much damn noise. Today you did both, so two of us came. You got the two-for-one deal, buddy - you should be proud of your sorry self."

Poor Wife-beater-guy looks confused. How can he be confused? I spelled it out for him, plain and simple. He probably fried his brain on drugs. I shake my head in disgust. I wonder how many times I'd have to shoot up to do that much damage...

I don't let my thoughts linger on him though, and I quickly assess the situation while Faith gets behind the guy and points her gun at him.

A woman is in the corner, her eyes are black and blue with dark bruises and her face is bleeding from a cut on her forehead. I move across the room to help her out. "You okay, Ma'am?" I ask.

She looks up at me and I freeze in my tracks, surprised and disturbed at the same time. God, she looks just like Ma... For a second, I could have sworn it was her. My mind whirls, threatening horrible memories and graphic images. I struggle against a flashback, blinking my eyes a few times and shaking my head.

The lady is sobbing into her hand now, and her flowered dress was ripped in a few places, exposing her chest a bit. I avert my gaze, instead looking up into her eyes. They are deep blue - same as Ma's.

Damn, it is getting harder to ward off those bad memories. My heart is pounding in my chest and I'm starting to sweat. Please stop, I beg silently. I don't need another panic attack. Not now.

I hold my breath for a few seconds in an effort to calm the crazy beating of my heart as I keep up a constant patter of encouragement in my head. Okay, you're fine. Just need to take care of business here. Calm down, Boscorelli, and do your job, I tell myself.

I really am hating this right now.

"Hey, are you alright?" I hear myself ask the frightened lady again - my training automatically kicking back in. "You okay?"

She nods her head a few times, and I help her up off the floor. Her hand in mine feels so small and fragile, sort of like the way she must be feeling right now. I grab my shoulder radio and order for an ambulance, "Central this is 55-David, uh, requesting a bus at this location."

"10-4, 55-David," it squawks back, the dispatchers voice scratchy.

Faith has been talking to the guy for a few minutes, reading him his rights and stuff, but I must have been totally zoning her out because I didn't hear one word of it. She has him in cuffs now; I assume he will be charged for this mess considering what the poor woman looks like. What, with all her bruises and cuts it is obvious who had been the aggressor - pretty cut and dried for a domestic. This one will be quick, fortunately for me.

And everything would have been fine, gone really smooth, we would have brought them both in nice and easy and been back out on the streets within a half-hour. I would have been able to put this all aside, easy.

We weren't counting on one thing, though.

Mr. Wife-beater here decides to get smart on us. He must have picked up on the fact that I want to get this over as soon as possible, maybe he sees the panic I am feeling right now - I don't know. Whatever it is, he decides to react.

So he rears back, and before I know it Wife-beater kicks my left leg hard and then spits right in my face - a big, slimy wad of saliva.

Oh...gross. I feel like vomiting.

I wipe my face on my upper-arm sleeve and the wetness soaks through the fabric, a cold, disgusting glob of his mucus discharge. I hesitate for a second as I struggle to ignore the vileness. My stomach is rebelling against my efforts to retain my breakfast. Oh, shit. Oh, man. Don't throw up...don't throw up... I swallow hard and take a deep breath.

I wait a few seconds and after the initial totally disgusted feelings wear off a bit, I get really, really mad. On the verge of livid, I think. My hands curl into fists and I can feel my adrenalin rush.

Okay, now here comes the big choice: Do I hit the guy and try to kill him, or just wipe off the spit and book the guy? Ha! If you thought for one second I'd even consider option number two, you're out of your mind.

I lay into the guy, my clenched fist nearly drilling a hole right through his gut, then I knee him right where it counts. He doubles over in agony, but I haven't even gotten started yet.

"That's for beating your wife, you jag-off!" I scream at him. I am so mad at this sucker right now; I really think I could kill him.

Faith is trying to pull me away, but like I said before, I'm a lot stronger then her. I nail him in the face and push him so violently that he falls onto his back on the floor. His head makes a loud "klunk" as it smacks against the ground and he yelps in pain when he lands on his cuffed hands - very satisfying, but not satisfying enough.

I start boxing his ears and punching his face, pounding again and again. My vision starts blurring into a haze of pent-up fury and my heartbeat pulses even faster as images of my past swim before me. I think I've lost touch with reality for a moment as it morphs into the terrible past. The woman is my mother, the man is... My stomach revolts again.

Frozen snapshots of his battered wife and my Ma's bruised face stream through my head and I can't stop beating him, trying to get revenge for all those nights... Punch after punch fall, my clenched fists are starting to ache from the force, but the only thing I can see, hear and feel is my father's face, laughing at me.

"Bosco! Stop it!" Faith finally manages to get a good grasp on my collar and yanks me back as hard as she can. She really didn't need to pull that hard because she caught me off-balance and my feet immediately shoot out from underneath me, making me land hard on my bottom and bringing me quickly back to the present.

I shake my head, dispersing the rest of the horrifying, blurry haze to wherever it came from. My hands are shaking and my chest is heaving from the effort and the impending panic attack. I glance up at Faith, still in a rage but almost embarrassed at what I just did. I'm grateful that she stopped me, though - I was starting to scare myself.

On the other hand, I can't let on that I am kind of relieved, so I get up on to my feet and kick the guy really hard in his side. He doubles into a fetal position and moans.

"And that's for spittin' on me," I bend over and yell right in his sniveling face. I think I made my point.

The guy looks like he's going to cry. I worked him over real good. He'll think twice before laying a hand on his wife again... or so I'd like to believe. He'll probably forget this by tomorrow. Bastard.

Faith hauls him up to his feet and scowls at me, shaking her head disapprovingly. That face means I'm going to get another lecture later. I just glare back at her.

Great. My day sucks so far.

Remind me why I became a cop again?

**********

TBC... Tell me what you think...please?