InsaneJournal

Who: Boyd (Rick and Rosalie)
What: Narrative: A move to the suburbs
Where: The house of Rick's sister, Liz (and her husband, Trent)
When: Immediately post this, before Shane returns with Rosalie's things to the hospital
Warnings: None

She'd slept the first half of the ride to the suburbs.

The medical transport was warm and closed in, and she was glad to be getting out of the hospital (glad, too, not to be going to an asylum). Rosalie had ridden in the front seat, beside the driver, and Rick had gone ahead in his work car, and Boyd had gotten to sleep and think as the scenery passed by the two square windows at the back of the ambulance-like vehicle. She had no idea how Rick had convinced Rosalie to come, but the fact that he had made Boyd feel infinitely better. Her most recent conversation with Vaughn had scrambled everything in her mind, confused it, and she didn't know what to do anymore; at least with Rosalie out of Bellum Letale, it would give her time to think, time where she didn't have to worry about Vaughn killing the defenseless woman.

She also knew there was something going on with the Family, and she could only guess that they somehow thought she'd retrieved the money that was currently in Vaughn's possession. She knew Vaughn's ability, knew the woman could be anyone she chose to be. That meant that 'Ainslie' had likely found the Giancoma fortune and retrieved it from somewhere, and she'd likely been watched doing it. If that was the case, the only reason she was still alive was because they were hoping she'd lead them to the cash. The cash she didn't have. It meant Rick was barely trustworthy at best, but Boyd didn't care. Even if he was betraying her (and not the Family), it meant there would be no doubt that Rosalie wasn't involved. If Rick killed her? Well, Boyd really didn't care about that either right now. Rock bottom looked like the suburbs they were driving past, and she wasn't even afraid of the ghosts around her stretcher.

When the transport stopped, they wheeled her into a brownstone in the suburbs. It was too stories, and the entrance was cramped tight, and it smelled like a home. The woman who embraced Rick at the door looked older than Rick, but she had the same distinctive red hair, and Boyd closed her eyes to avoid introductions. She could hear the laughter of children, boys, coming from the back of the house as the paramedics moved her through it, and within minutes she was settled into a second-story bedroom toward the back of the house. She asked them to close the door, and she looked out the window at the backyard below. She felt numb and tired, and she heard someone enter and look in on her without saying anything. The door didn't close again, and when she turned she saw that it had been left open just a crack; she didn't care.

They hadn't left her medicines, or she would have taken as many as were needed to sleep for days on end; instead, she crawled into the bed and closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. She could hear Rosalie's voice, Rick's voice, but she couldn't make out any words.

She figured it was better that way.