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gonerunningaway) wrote2012-04-23 03:20 pm
gonerunningaway) wrote2012-04-23 03:20 pm
Those Who Fear Life, Chapter Nine
Title: Those Who Fear Life, Chapter Nine
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count (this chapter): 618
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Canon character death.
Chapter Nine
Tracksuit, something that won’t let blood through or leave fibers. Booties over his shoes to hide his footprints. Gloves. Dirty gun, not the one he carries for work, not the legally registered one he keeps at home, but one that won’t ever be traced to him in any fucking way.
For a cop, Sullivan has shit locks. He also has a fucking palatial place, something that should’ve tipped off the department. Then again, with Sullivan reviewing cops’ financials and shit, easy to see how this slipped through the cracks. No way a clean cop could afford this, especially not one also paying for law school and without any family once his wife left.
Except, Sean guesses, Sullivan had Costello and Gwen, maybe French. They were his family, seems like, and maybe Gwen still is. The other two are finally gone, their space cleared in a way Sean didn’t prefer but that cleaned South Boston some. He would’ve liked life sentences for them, a needle if they could nail those two on federal charges, but this does the job, too.
He knew when Sullivan was fucking one of the shrinks, Madolyn Madden, when he married her. Whole department knew it, with the way he gloated about it all, especially when he found out that he was having a son. And Sean was at Costigan’s funeral. He saw Madden walk straight past Sullivan, her arms protecting that baby inside her from his poison.
That kid is not Sullivan’s. Sean wonders if he knows it. He wonders more if Sullivan knows the baby is Costigan’s.
Sullivan never was a cop.
He waits just out of sight of the door, behind the end of the kitchen counter. Sullivan’s the only one who could conceivably come in, the only one who would with his wife gone. The Beretta, 92FS, is comfortable in his hand, a good, heavy weight. Almost comforting. Safety’s off, suppressor’s on, ready to fire, and he steps out right after the door opens.
Sullivan’s been fucking grocery shopping. Christ. Responsible for the deaths of three good cops, one of them the best man Sean knew, another a brave kid, and he’s fucking grocery shopping. The fucking balls of the bastard. That all goes through Sean’s mind in the time it takes him to take aim.
“Okay,” Sullivan says, like he knew it was coming, and he probably did. He’s not completely fucking stupid.
It always surprises Sean, the sound a suppressed shot makes. No bang, more of a sharp hissing whistle, and the blood and brain matter spray out the back of Sullivan’s head just before he drops.
He had fucking bagels. Christ. Bagels.
Sean pulls on the beanie, pockets the Beretta, and steps over the body. One of the neighbors will find Sullivan. None of them comment on Sean getting into the elevator. No one’s going to remember his face.
Absolutely no guilt. That’s the thing Sean realizes is wrong about this. No guilt. Like putting down a rabid dog or some shit. It had to be done.
He only takes a few minutes to get rid of the evidence, not that it’s hard. He’s a cop. He knows what to do, how to not get caught.
When he gets back home, he goes for a pop from his fridge. Empty. Then he tries to think when the last time he ate was. Jesus.
He pockets his wallet and goes out to his car. He’ll do some grocery shopping and take food over to Mrs. Queenan’s. They can cook together and talk about the captain, and about Mary, and he’ll finally get to tell her about Costigan and what a strong kid he turned out to be.
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count (this chapter): 618
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Canon character death.
Tracksuit, something that won’t let blood through or leave fibers. Booties over his shoes to hide his footprints. Gloves. Dirty gun, not the one he carries for work, not the legally registered one he keeps at home, but one that won’t ever be traced to him in any fucking way.
For a cop, Sullivan has shit locks. He also has a fucking palatial place, something that should’ve tipped off the department. Then again, with Sullivan reviewing cops’ financials and shit, easy to see how this slipped through the cracks. No way a clean cop could afford this, especially not one also paying for law school and without any family once his wife left.
Except, Sean guesses, Sullivan had Costello and Gwen, maybe French. They were his family, seems like, and maybe Gwen still is. The other two are finally gone, their space cleared in a way Sean didn’t prefer but that cleaned South Boston some. He would’ve liked life sentences for them, a needle if they could nail those two on federal charges, but this does the job, too.
He knew when Sullivan was fucking one of the shrinks, Madolyn Madden, when he married her. Whole department knew it, with the way he gloated about it all, especially when he found out that he was having a son. And Sean was at Costigan’s funeral. He saw Madden walk straight past Sullivan, her arms protecting that baby inside her from his poison.
That kid is not Sullivan’s. Sean wonders if he knows it. He wonders more if Sullivan knows the baby is Costigan’s.
Sullivan never was a cop.
He waits just out of sight of the door, behind the end of the kitchen counter. Sullivan’s the only one who could conceivably come in, the only one who would with his wife gone. The Beretta, 92FS, is comfortable in his hand, a good, heavy weight. Almost comforting. Safety’s off, suppressor’s on, ready to fire, and he steps out right after the door opens.
Sullivan’s been fucking grocery shopping. Christ. Responsible for the deaths of three good cops, one of them the best man Sean knew, another a brave kid, and he’s fucking grocery shopping. The fucking balls of the bastard. That all goes through Sean’s mind in the time it takes him to take aim.
“Okay,” Sullivan says, like he knew it was coming, and he probably did. He’s not completely fucking stupid.
It always surprises Sean, the sound a suppressed shot makes. No bang, more of a sharp hissing whistle, and the blood and brain matter spray out the back of Sullivan’s head just before he drops.
He had fucking bagels. Christ. Bagels.
Sean pulls on the beanie, pockets the Beretta, and steps over the body. One of the neighbors will find Sullivan. None of them comment on Sean getting into the elevator. No one’s going to remember his face.
Absolutely no guilt. That’s the thing Sean realizes is wrong about this. No guilt. Like putting down a rabid dog or some shit. It had to be done.
He only takes a few minutes to get rid of the evidence, not that it’s hard. He’s a cop. He knows what to do, how to not get caught.
When he gets back home, he goes for a pop from his fridge. Empty. Then he tries to think when the last time he ate was. Jesus.
He pockets his wallet and goes out to his car. He’ll do some grocery shopping and take food over to Mrs. Queenan’s. They can cook together and talk about the captain, and about Mary, and he’ll finally get to tell her about Costigan and what a strong kid he turned out to be.
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