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gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 04:55 am
gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 04:55 am
Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Sixteen
Title: Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Sixteen
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 1,112
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Mentions of drug use and violence.
Chapter Sixteen
They’re on their way to a meeting with Brown, taking a convoluted route that should make it look coincidental that they’re running into her, when their walk is disrupted.
They’re passing by a church yard and see Gwen, of all people, playing with the children from the church daycare, and where Gwen is, Costello himself is sure to be close by. Especially when his girlfriend is wearing stockings and an ass-hugging skirt with a low-cut blouse, all probably chosen with him in mind, for some fucked-up reason Sean will never understand.
“Avoid him,” Queenan breathes, because they haven’t seen him yet but both know he can’t be far. Sean’s not stupid; he’s not going to go looking for a cold-blooded murderer with a hard-on for killing him.
Instead, they keep walking, and when they turn the corner of the church, Costello is lurking by the wall, along with French. Sean can’t figure out the relationship between those two. They seem like friends sometimes, brothers others, something else entirely at some moments. It’s hard to pin down, and that sends a growl of frustration through his chest. If they could figure it out, maybe they’d have an easier time pinning either of them.
“Frank,” Queenan says genially, probably because they can’t exactly pretend not to see him like they’re children on a playground, “I thought I’d never see you.”
“Charlie.” His eyes are bloodshot. Cocaine, Sean’s guessing. If the man couldn’t afford the purest shit, his nose would be rotting off with cancer. Sean would like that result. Those eyes fix on Sean, but he doesn’t exactly acknowledge him, just looks like he smells something vile. “I thought you were convinced of my innocence.”
“You haven’t been innocent since elementary school,” Queenan says. Sean’s keeping his mouth shut, because even he knows when it could end badly for him to do otherwise.
“Is that permanent record the pederast always talked about something that gets passed on?” Costello asks. “I thought that was, ah, an urban rumor.”
“It’s too bad I can’t arrest you for the things you did back then,” Queenan says. “That alone could get you put away for a very long time. Cherry bombs in the boys’ restrooms, Frank?”
Costello laughs, a sick sound that usually means someone’s going to die. “It made an unholy mess. Perfect for that unholy place. It’s just too bad I couldn’t get one into the principal’s office.”
“I know I asked if you were a cop,” French says to Sean, his voice that same slight rasp it’s always been.
“I know you did, too. You were emphatic about the question.” There’s a lump where Sean’s collarbone healed from it; he could have gotten French arrested for that, but that would have blown his cover, and that conviction wouldn’t be nearly enough to be worth it.
“Not a lot of people lie to me.”
“I’m not a lot of people.”
Costello turns to French. “Why are you wasting your breath on that walking prick?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t put you away, Frank,” Sean says, and regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. Costello’s eyes narrow, taking on the hard look of a fighting dog, vicious and ready to snap.
“You’re barely worth stepping on,” he growls. “You couldn’t touch me.”
“Frances.” French touches his arm. “Gwen.”
Costello keeps staring for a moment before his shoulders relax. “Be seeing you, boys,” he says pleasantly, and he and French leave for the front of the church.
Queenan waits until they’re well away to hiss at Sean, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“It slipped out, I’m sorry,” Sean says. “I’ll try to shut up next time. It was fucking stupid, I know.”
“I don’t need a dead cop, Sean, and I especially don’t need to explain you to Elizabeth or Patrick.” Queenan turns onto a trail that leads under the bridge. “Watch what you say to him, or you won’t be able to say anything. Hell, I’d have to explain your death to Robert, did you consider that?”
That shouldn’t make Sean’s chest freeze like it does. “Captain, I fucked up,” he says. “I know. It won’t happen again.”
“Are you staying armed every time you’re out?”
“I’m making doubly certain after that,” Sean assures him. “Believe me, Costello’s very low on my list of people it’s safe to piss off. French is even lower.”
Queenan shakes his head. “Antagonizing Costello,” he mutters to himself. “I’m glad you were better at keeping your mouth shut when you were undercover, or you would be dead, Sean.”
“I had a much better developed sense of self-preservation,” Sean says dryly. “It’s wasted some since I’m not pumped with adrenaline every hour of every day.”
Queenan relaxes, ever so slightly. “I know how that is. But don’t do that again, and if you’re alone, keep your hand on your gun and walk away without saying a word. I don’t think he’d do anything—he’d know we’d know who did it—but be safe, Sean. Be smart.”
Then they can see Brown, down past some shrubs, and she ignores them entirely as she looks out over the water. They stop once they get there and go through the routine of frisking her. When she turns, Sean sees the bruise on her cheek, fresh and angry.
“What happened?” Queenan asks.
“I got in an argument with the wrong end of an arm,” she deadpans. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Captain.”
“If you’re in danger,” Queenan begins.
“You should see the other guy.” She touches the bruise, rougher than she should with how new it is, but she doesn’t flinch. “He’s not in the hospital, but it was close. I’m getting Nicastro’s personal attention.”
Sean ignores Queenan’s look. “Personal attention can be dangerous.”
“I know, but it can also help get him down, and that’s my goal.”
When she doesn’t say more, Sean asks, “What do you have for us today?”
The entirety of her progress boils down to having met Nicastro and being asked, not gently, about being a cop. After, she strides off, her shoulders held tight and mouth pressed in a hard line. Anyone would be an idiot to intercept her, especially with how her arms are so tense they’re bulging. All part of the act—if she gets asked about talking to the cops, she can bullshit something that much more easily. Or maybe it’s not part of the act with her, but it helps.
Sean once again tells himself he’s an idiot. He’s not one of the undercovers anymore; he’s their protector, and if he’s an idiot, they might be at risk.
It’s not happening again.
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 1,112
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Mentions of drug use and violence.
They’re on their way to a meeting with Brown, taking a convoluted route that should make it look coincidental that they’re running into her, when their walk is disrupted.
They’re passing by a church yard and see Gwen, of all people, playing with the children from the church daycare, and where Gwen is, Costello himself is sure to be close by. Especially when his girlfriend is wearing stockings and an ass-hugging skirt with a low-cut blouse, all probably chosen with him in mind, for some fucked-up reason Sean will never understand.
“Avoid him,” Queenan breathes, because they haven’t seen him yet but both know he can’t be far. Sean’s not stupid; he’s not going to go looking for a cold-blooded murderer with a hard-on for killing him.
Instead, they keep walking, and when they turn the corner of the church, Costello is lurking by the wall, along with French. Sean can’t figure out the relationship between those two. They seem like friends sometimes, brothers others, something else entirely at some moments. It’s hard to pin down, and that sends a growl of frustration through his chest. If they could figure it out, maybe they’d have an easier time pinning either of them.
“Frank,” Queenan says genially, probably because they can’t exactly pretend not to see him like they’re children on a playground, “I thought I’d never see you.”
“Charlie.” His eyes are bloodshot. Cocaine, Sean’s guessing. If the man couldn’t afford the purest shit, his nose would be rotting off with cancer. Sean would like that result. Those eyes fix on Sean, but he doesn’t exactly acknowledge him, just looks like he smells something vile. “I thought you were convinced of my innocence.”
“You haven’t been innocent since elementary school,” Queenan says. Sean’s keeping his mouth shut, because even he knows when it could end badly for him to do otherwise.
“Is that permanent record the pederast always talked about something that gets passed on?” Costello asks. “I thought that was, ah, an urban rumor.”
“It’s too bad I can’t arrest you for the things you did back then,” Queenan says. “That alone could get you put away for a very long time. Cherry bombs in the boys’ restrooms, Frank?”
Costello laughs, a sick sound that usually means someone’s going to die. “It made an unholy mess. Perfect for that unholy place. It’s just too bad I couldn’t get one into the principal’s office.”
“I know I asked if you were a cop,” French says to Sean, his voice that same slight rasp it’s always been.
“I know you did, too. You were emphatic about the question.” There’s a lump where Sean’s collarbone healed from it; he could have gotten French arrested for that, but that would have blown his cover, and that conviction wouldn’t be nearly enough to be worth it.
“Not a lot of people lie to me.”
“I’m not a lot of people.”
Costello turns to French. “Why are you wasting your breath on that walking prick?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t put you away, Frank,” Sean says, and regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. Costello’s eyes narrow, taking on the hard look of a fighting dog, vicious and ready to snap.
“You’re barely worth stepping on,” he growls. “You couldn’t touch me.”
“Frances.” French touches his arm. “Gwen.”
Costello keeps staring for a moment before his shoulders relax. “Be seeing you, boys,” he says pleasantly, and he and French leave for the front of the church.
Queenan waits until they’re well away to hiss at Sean, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“It slipped out, I’m sorry,” Sean says. “I’ll try to shut up next time. It was fucking stupid, I know.”
“I don’t need a dead cop, Sean, and I especially don’t need to explain you to Elizabeth or Patrick.” Queenan turns onto a trail that leads under the bridge. “Watch what you say to him, or you won’t be able to say anything. Hell, I’d have to explain your death to Robert, did you consider that?”
That shouldn’t make Sean’s chest freeze like it does. “Captain, I fucked up,” he says. “I know. It won’t happen again.”
“Are you staying armed every time you’re out?”
“I’m making doubly certain after that,” Sean assures him. “Believe me, Costello’s very low on my list of people it’s safe to piss off. French is even lower.”
Queenan shakes his head. “Antagonizing Costello,” he mutters to himself. “I’m glad you were better at keeping your mouth shut when you were undercover, or you would be dead, Sean.”
“I had a much better developed sense of self-preservation,” Sean says dryly. “It’s wasted some since I’m not pumped with adrenaline every hour of every day.”
Queenan relaxes, ever so slightly. “I know how that is. But don’t do that again, and if you’re alone, keep your hand on your gun and walk away without saying a word. I don’t think he’d do anything—he’d know we’d know who did it—but be safe, Sean. Be smart.”
Then they can see Brown, down past some shrubs, and she ignores them entirely as she looks out over the water. They stop once they get there and go through the routine of frisking her. When she turns, Sean sees the bruise on her cheek, fresh and angry.
“What happened?” Queenan asks.
“I got in an argument with the wrong end of an arm,” she deadpans. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Captain.”
“If you’re in danger,” Queenan begins.
“You should see the other guy.” She touches the bruise, rougher than she should with how new it is, but she doesn’t flinch. “He’s not in the hospital, but it was close. I’m getting Nicastro’s personal attention.”
Sean ignores Queenan’s look. “Personal attention can be dangerous.”
“I know, but it can also help get him down, and that’s my goal.”
When she doesn’t say more, Sean asks, “What do you have for us today?”
The entirety of her progress boils down to having met Nicastro and being asked, not gently, about being a cop. After, she strides off, her shoulders held tight and mouth pressed in a hard line. Anyone would be an idiot to intercept her, especially with how her arms are so tense they’re bulging. All part of the act—if she gets asked about talking to the cops, she can bullshit something that much more easily. Or maybe it’s not part of the act with her, but it helps.
Sean once again tells himself he’s an idiot. He’s not one of the undercovers anymore; he’s their protector, and if he’s an idiot, they might be at risk.
It’s not happening again.