Hi there! I'm kind of new to posting fanfiction, I mean, I've been writing it for years and years and years, but I just thought I'd start posting. This little drabble was just something that came to me while I was watching Third Watch with my dad one day. It's not very good, and I kind of actually hate it, but I wrote it in the middle of the night a few weeks ago and I'm a sucker for repetition, so maybe, just maybe, someone out there likes it? lol.

This is nowhere near my best, but I kind of like to read over it. There's probably a ton of mistakes, so please feel free to point them out. Whenever I write drabbles, they're usually very rambly and very repetitive! just a heads up! {"like always" is repeated twenty-four times! yikes!}

Anyway, thanks for reading, sorry about the length and the quality, as I've said, I wrote this in the middle of the night. ;p

Like always, he propped himself up against the bricked exterior wall of the House despite his overwhelming fatigue and the stubborn twelve-degree chill and the knowing that she, like always, would ignore him. But still, he would stay. Today, tomorrow, yesterday, a month from now, three years from now, it was just as ingrained into his routine as sleeping, or even breathing.

Like always, his head slumped back against the unforgiving structure and his eyes wandered to the left, waiting for a flash of those familiar, dark blond locks. He could see her in his head already. An exhausted face connected to a thin body, clothed in her usual trouser-and-blouse attire; detective attire. Maybe she'd be wearing her NYPD jacket on top, or maybe it'd be draped over her arm, or maybe she wouldn't have it at all. It was, after all, from the 55. She'd walk out looking slightly forlorn, slightly angry. He could tell detective work wasn't what it had been played up to be for her. Six years she'd been a detective and six years she'd been miserable. He knew his partner.

Like always, his thoughts stabbed at his memories. His first day in 55-David with Faith passed by. What a disaster that had been; he had never been one to make a positive first impression. Then followed countless memories of the good times; Faith was his best friend, his only friend. She understood him. She knew what made him tick, what calmed him down, what he liked, what he hated; she took the time to weasel things out of him. She cared, or he thought she did.

Like always, the bad followed the good. Their many fights, angry words exchanged between partners, injuries, the ear shattering sound of a gunshot followed by a speeding silver bullet, the fallouts, the hospital trips; one after the other like a bad movie. It took nothing short of a tragedy to get them back together, for them to realize how much they needed each other. That's what he needed; a tragedy. He knew he needed Faith; she needed to realize that she still needed him, she needed to need him.

Like always, he nodded to each of his fellow cops as they exited the building. And like always, they nodded back, a look of pity painted across their faces. He knew they knew and he knew she knew too, how could she not?

Like always, he ran over a list of questions to ask her if she chose to acknowledge him. How are Emily and Charlie? Em should be graduating from college soon, right? How are you? We should catch up. How about dinner or coffee? Do you remember that one timeā€¦? And when none of those suited his fancy, he'd result to begging. Please talk to me, Faith. Please tell me we can fix this, fix me. Please Faith, please, please, please. I can't do this anymore.

Like always, the questions and pleas turned into accusatory statements that fitted his mood much better. How could you leave me behind? How could you forget about me like a piece of garbage? Thirteen years in the same squad and suddenly you up and leave! After all I've done for you! I took four bullets for you, Faith! Four bullets and you take a detective job!

Like always, his fingers flitted to his bandaged cheek. It had been six years, but the gruesome scars were too horrible for even him to deal with. Sixty-three stitches, three surgeries, and a nasty exit wound wrapped up into one pretty eye-catching package of terror. Maybe he wouldn't have cared if Faith's daughter hadn't reacted the way she did all those years ago, maybe he wouldn't have thought of himself as the world's newest monster. But he did and he couldn't change that now.

Like always, he tilted his left wrist up towards his face, closing his bad eye. The digital, segmented numbers glared at him: 11:52. If tonight was a good night, Faith would be out in eight minutes, he told himself. Eight minutes until he saw her face, eight minutes until she decided whether to break his heart once again, or mend it.

Like always, he bounced on his toes in eager anticipation, edging every other thought out of his busy head. He fought to focus on forming complete sentences, practiced sentences, to hit her with as she came out of the precinct house. Like always, however, their fallout kept washing up on the shore of his mind. Her pale, tired blue eyes pleaded with him, begged him to accept her apology. He wasn't having it. He was who he was and he didn't forgive. She had betrayed him, she had broken his trust that was so hard to earn. He was hurt and disgusted and bewildered that she, of all people, would go behind his back like that. "I saved your life and you do this to me?" The words had left his mouth before he thought about the effect they would trigger.

Like always, he shook his head in an attempt to force the memories out, to wipe the slate clean. He crossed his ankles and pressed his back into the wall. His fingers drummed against his folded forearms. His skin was blue and nearly frostbitten, but he was determined to stick to that wall like glue. He was determined to catch her.

Like always, his wrist watch began beeping erratically. It was midnight. Throwing caution to the wind, Bosco turned off the wall and grabbed the curved piece of metal that served as the handle of the heavy, glass door. His eyes half closed, he could make out the familiar, dark blond hair and exhausted frame. Her husband, Detective Miller, strode beside her. He tried not to focus on her face as he pulled the door open just as she reached a hand out to push it from the inside.

Like always, Miller said the first word. "I didn't know the house had its own doorman! Thanks Boscorelli." Always the same, sarcastic remark. He ignored it and, like always, focused his attention on Faith. Like always, she shot him a sad smile and continued walking without even a second glance.

Like always, his heart dropped to his feet and his entire body froze over, like the weather had become his entity. Like always, he gave it one last try, "Faith!" he called. Like always, she lifted a hand in a backwards half-wave and his stomach dropped too. His feet dragged along the dirty sidewalk as he trudged to his beaten, drained '65 Mustang. Like always, he sat in the driver's seat for a few minutes, allowing himself to recover from yet another disappointment.

But as he started the rusty vehicle and pulled away from the curb, he knew he'd get another chance tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and next month, and next year, and six years from now, because like always, he'd wait for her to waltz out of the precinct house at exactly midnight on a good day and just as she's leaving, he'd catch her hand and beg her to help him fix them, fix him.

But for now, he'd drive home like always; interior car lights on, stereo humming, and wistfulness still heavy in his chest as he fought to reassure is hopeless heart that one day, they'd be best friends again and he'd be happy.