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gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 05:37 am
gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 05:37 am
Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Twenty-Seven
Title: Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 2,162
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Discussion of torture, mention of sexual assault, and discussion of being severely underweight.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Queenan is in a meeting with Phillips when Sean’s desk phone rings on Thursday. He picks it up, glad for the excuse to turn away from files, and says, “Dignam.”
“Sergeant, there’s a woman downstairs asking for Captain Queenan.”
“Thanks, Darlene.” Sean hangs up and stands, leaving his office.
Unless they’re press, there aren’t a lot of people who just come to see Queenan. Their department isn’t homicide or anything else that would require witnesses to come to them on a regular basis. Press also usually calls ahead.
When he gets there, he scans the waiting area as he asks the desk sergeant, “Who’s here to see Captain Queenan?” There’s a man with his hands shoved in his pockets, a woman clutching her purse, a couple of people in suits who carry themselves like press and a woman in a skirt suit who looks like a lawyer, and a woman who looks like she got lost on the way to a Boston PD precinct or homeless shelter, too skinny and bruised, her nose clearly broken and unset, her greasy, lank hair hanging down past her shoulders.
“The beat-up one,” the sergeant says, and Sean walks over to her.
“You’re here to see Captain Queenan?”
She looks up at him, something sparking in her eyes, and he freezes. “Who are you?” Her voice is stronger than it should be when she looks the way she does, hoarse but with power behind it.
“Sergeant Dignam, I work with him in Undercover. Come upstairs, Lori.”
A ghost of a smile crosses her face, and she stands, swaying slightly before she steadies. “You’re the one who was supposed to come to the meet with him.”
“Yeah.” He leads her past the desk and to the elevator, keeping a close eye in case she starts to fall. “He’s going to fucking flip when he comes into his office.”
“What, just because it’s been almost five months?”
“That weight loss kept you from being arrested. We circulated fliers for Acardi with a photo attached.”
“I have a pretty solid case for you,” she said. “Not the one we were after, but a case. Get an ADA and I’ll give them a huge report. Take down at least five or six guys. Maybe not Nicastro, though.”
“Right now, I think Queenan’s going to be more interested in getting you a hospital.”
“I’ll take a hot meal first.”
They don’t talk much more until they get to Queenan’s office, where he grabs a chair for her and leans up against the desk himself. “What happened?”
“Nicastro caught on, or thought he did, but he didn’t want to kill a woman.” She shrugs and holds up her hand, wrapped in a bandage, then gestures to her face. “His guys. I meant it about that meal.”
Christ, five months, held by Nicastro’s goons, Christ knows what happened in that time. “Start with a soda. You want Coke?”
“Sprite would be better.”
He closes the door behind him. There’s a machine in the break room, and he buys the Sprite, taking a moment to think. He really should just get her to a hospital, have Queenan meet them, but he doesn’t think she’d go willingly. And if she’s acting like this after five months when who the fuck knows what happened, she has the willpower to butt heads with him over it long enough for Queenan to get back, anyway.
Fuck, does Queenan know how to pick his undercovers.
She’s still alone when he gets back to the office, no sign of Queenan, and he hands her the can of soda before taking his position again. She watches him for a moment, her eyes sharp and burning in her too-thin face, before saying, “So I’m Lori Hardison, and I’d really like it if you stopped trying to look intimidating.”
“It’s my default,” but he grabs a chair anyway and sits facing her, consciously changing his body language to come across as relaxed. “Sean Dignam. When did they grab you?”
“About three hours before I was supposed to meet Queenan. And you, apparently.” She sips her soda, and the look that crosses her face is nothing short of orgasmic.
“I’m guessing you didn’t get a lot of soda.”
“I didn’t get a lot of anything.” She sips again. “How long is he gonna be? I don’t know you.”
“Should be any minute. I worked Costello’s crew for almost five years. Two of his guys got life sentences over the summer. We’ve been looking for you. I thought you were dead.”
“Queenan didn’t?”
“He doesn’t give up on his guys.”
The man himself walks into his office then and stops dead for a moment before he closes the door. “Hardison, when did you get here?”
“Twenty minutes ago. I stole a car, and Sergeant Dignam here met me in the lobby.” She holds up the soda. “He got me sugar.”
“You look like you could use it.” Queenan sits behind his desk and leans forward. “What happened?”
She repeats her explanation, then continues with, “So they took me to a basement in Easthampton. I spent a lot of time chained to a chair or a bed, and a fuck of a lot of time with them trying to make me say I’m a cop.” She smiles thinly. “Very creative ways, and some not-so-creative ways too. They still don’t know for sure that I’m a cop, or I think I’d actually be dead. I’d really like a hot meal.”
“You can get one in a hospital,” Queenan says. “We’ll do a thorough debriefing after you get checked out.”
“Come on, Captain, I survived this long, just get me a good sandwich or something. Hardboiled eggs and cold rice were nothing compared to hot pastrami.”
“She really liked that first sip of Sprite,” Sean puts in.
“I still like the Sprite,” she corrects.
“How did you get out?”
“They only had one guy in with me this morning. I don’t know why, since it was usually two in the mornings. Skinny little bastard. He unchained me from the bed and was hauling me to the chair for the today’s first round of, ‘Are you a cop, Acardi?’ Elbow to the nose, knee to the balls, and I got out. His car was a junker, made it was easy to hotwire, and I came here.” She shrugs, then winces. “It seemed safer than any other option. And Captain, I’m not going to a fucking hospital unless you station a cop outside the room.”
“That wasn’t even a question. Two troopers will be there, and Sergeant Dignam will stay nearby today.”
“Yeah, it means I don’t have to do the paperwork for your resurrection,” explains Sean.
“I’ll have Darlene fax the stations that we picked up Acardi,” Queenan says, shooting him a reproving look. “But you need to go.”
She sighs. “I want that pastrami after I get checked out.”
“I’ll bring it myself,” Queenan promises.
She gets to her feet. “Then I’ll go to the hospital.”
Queenan sits in the back with her, and he’s on his phone while Sean drives. He calls Darlene first, then has the car Hardison arrived in taken as evidence after she describes it. By the time he’s done with that, they’re in the half-circle in front of the ER. Queenan helps Hardison out so Sean can go park.
Queenan’s string-pulling involves things like “assaulted cop” and “undercover officer held prisoner” and a lot of badge-flashing and calling Sean and Hardison by their ranks, which means they call him ‘Captain’, and it all works; Hardison gets taken off to a room in the ER, and Sean and Queenan linger just outside while she changes into a gown before rejoining her and using a plastic clothing bag the hospital provides to hold her evidentiary clothing.
It’s not until a nurse has started an IV and gotten a preliminary report, leaving behind a promise that a doctor will be in ‘soon’, that Queenan asks Hardison directly.
“Were you ever sexually assaulted?”
“Come on, Captain, Nicastro’s a good Catholic,” and that part is dry, a smirk joining it. “He wouldn’t allow that. Beating the hell out of me, yeah, but no rape.”
Queenan relaxes. Sean asks, “Always men doing it?”
“Yeah. I’d worked with some of them before, and I have names for all of them.” She touches her finger to her temple. “And what they look like.”
“If you hadn’t gotten made,” Sean mutters.
“How did that happen?” Queenan asks.
Hardison gives them a considering look. “Can I use that as a bargaining tool for that pastrami?”
Before either of them can answer, there’s a rap on the door, and then a doctor comes in, a man about five-eleven but unassuming-looking. Bland, radiating calm and reassurance, and Sean doesn’t see Hardison tighten up at all. “Ms. Hardison—”
“Trooper Hardison,” Queenan corrects.
“Apologies, Trooper. I’m Dr. Zapata.” He grabs a stool.
“Call me Lori,” she says.
“Lori. And you two are…”
“My captain and my sergeant. Captain promised me a pastrami sandwich when we’re done here, so can we get moving? I’m starving.”
“Did we get a weight on you?” Zapata flips through her chart.
“I didn’t mean that literally,” she grumbles.
“You look like you are,” Sean informs her.
She gives him a glare that only highlights the bruises on her face and the fact that her cheekbones are trying to cut through the skin on her face.
“Ninety-four pounds,” Zapata says. “And you’re five and a half feet tall?”
“A little over,” she says grudgingly.
“That’s drastically underweight.” Zapata gives her a concerned look, his brow slightly furrowed and mouth held soft. “What’s been going on?”
She blows out a breath. “How much can I say?” she asks Queenan.
“Everything that’s medically relevant.”
She fills the doctor in without naming names, just the bare facts of what happened, and then asks, “Need anything else””
She’s so cold and clinical about it, her voice not wavering, face expressionless, that Sean can’t decide if she’s going to be an excellent witness, or if the jury won’t believe her. He’s also not sure if she’s incredibly well-adapted or incredibly fucked up. A glance at Queenan shows his boss with his arms held loosely over his chest, face neutral too.
“Okay. Do you want them to stay while I examine you?”
“Yes,” she says instantly. “I’m having troopers around as long as I’m here.”
“That might be a while,” Zapata cautions, and stands, taking out his stethoscope.
While he examines her, Sean steps closer to Queenan and, in a low voice, asks, “How fucked up is she?”
“No more than you.” Queenan keeps his eyes on Hardison. “She has an interesting background. Overall, she reminds me a lot of you.”
“Lucky fucking her,” he mutters, and Queenan’s mouth quirks.
By the time Zapata is done, Hardison looks like the adrenaline is wearing off, but manages to make it seem like she’s only lying down because Zapata tells her to before adding, “We’re getting some blood from you, then starting an IV, and you’ll be checked in. Private room, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Sean says, keeping it drier than he’d really like.
Zapata glances at him, one corner of his mouth just pulled up, and closes Hardison’s chart. “After you’re checked in, we’ll get your x-rays and everything done.”
“That sounds like fun. How about that sandwich?”
He hesitates. “If you eat about a quarter of it, slowly, I think you can handle it.”
“Believe me, I don’t think I could handle a whole grinder right now. Captain, you promised me.”
“I did. I’ll be back soon. Keys, Sergeant?”
Sean hands them over. “Fifth row, toward the back.”
“I’ll find it. Don’t leave her at all,” he adds in an undertone. “Go down to x-ray with her if you have to.”
“I know how to watch someone, Captain.”
After Queenan leaves, Sean takes the stool beside Hardison’s bed. “How much did you not tell Zapata?”
“Plenty.”
“Thought so. Any risk of internal bleeding?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing happened today besides what I did to my guard. Oh, and almost burned my fingers when I wired the car. That’s been nine or ten years, so it was kind of a difficult thing.”
He nods and leans back, doing his damnedest not to look intimidating. If that’s the only thing bothering her, he can avoid it. Probably.
She eats the quarter of the hot pastrami sandwich, accompanied by another Sprite, as she’s being taken upstairs by wheelchair, Queenan and Sean crammed into the elevator with her and the orderly, and somehow Sean ends up playing cupholder. At least she can take it, and give it back, when he bitches at her for it. By the time they get upstairs, there’s a little more non-purple color to her face, and Sean figures she’ll survive to be good on the stand as long as she keeps getting pastrami grinders.
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 2,162
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Discussion of torture, mention of sexual assault, and discussion of being severely underweight.
Queenan is in a meeting with Phillips when Sean’s desk phone rings on Thursday. He picks it up, glad for the excuse to turn away from files, and says, “Dignam.”
“Sergeant, there’s a woman downstairs asking for Captain Queenan.”
“Thanks, Darlene.” Sean hangs up and stands, leaving his office.
Unless they’re press, there aren’t a lot of people who just come to see Queenan. Their department isn’t homicide or anything else that would require witnesses to come to them on a regular basis. Press also usually calls ahead.
When he gets there, he scans the waiting area as he asks the desk sergeant, “Who’s here to see Captain Queenan?” There’s a man with his hands shoved in his pockets, a woman clutching her purse, a couple of people in suits who carry themselves like press and a woman in a skirt suit who looks like a lawyer, and a woman who looks like she got lost on the way to a Boston PD precinct or homeless shelter, too skinny and bruised, her nose clearly broken and unset, her greasy, lank hair hanging down past her shoulders.
“The beat-up one,” the sergeant says, and Sean walks over to her.
“You’re here to see Captain Queenan?”
She looks up at him, something sparking in her eyes, and he freezes. “Who are you?” Her voice is stronger than it should be when she looks the way she does, hoarse but with power behind it.
“Sergeant Dignam, I work with him in Undercover. Come upstairs, Lori.”
A ghost of a smile crosses her face, and she stands, swaying slightly before she steadies. “You’re the one who was supposed to come to the meet with him.”
“Yeah.” He leads her past the desk and to the elevator, keeping a close eye in case she starts to fall. “He’s going to fucking flip when he comes into his office.”
“What, just because it’s been almost five months?”
“That weight loss kept you from being arrested. We circulated fliers for Acardi with a photo attached.”
“I have a pretty solid case for you,” she said. “Not the one we were after, but a case. Get an ADA and I’ll give them a huge report. Take down at least five or six guys. Maybe not Nicastro, though.”
“Right now, I think Queenan’s going to be more interested in getting you a hospital.”
“I’ll take a hot meal first.”
They don’t talk much more until they get to Queenan’s office, where he grabs a chair for her and leans up against the desk himself. “What happened?”
“Nicastro caught on, or thought he did, but he didn’t want to kill a woman.” She shrugs and holds up her hand, wrapped in a bandage, then gestures to her face. “His guys. I meant it about that meal.”
Christ, five months, held by Nicastro’s goons, Christ knows what happened in that time. “Start with a soda. You want Coke?”
“Sprite would be better.”
He closes the door behind him. There’s a machine in the break room, and he buys the Sprite, taking a moment to think. He really should just get her to a hospital, have Queenan meet them, but he doesn’t think she’d go willingly. And if she’s acting like this after five months when who the fuck knows what happened, she has the willpower to butt heads with him over it long enough for Queenan to get back, anyway.
Fuck, does Queenan know how to pick his undercovers.
She’s still alone when he gets back to the office, no sign of Queenan, and he hands her the can of soda before taking his position again. She watches him for a moment, her eyes sharp and burning in her too-thin face, before saying, “So I’m Lori Hardison, and I’d really like it if you stopped trying to look intimidating.”
“It’s my default,” but he grabs a chair anyway and sits facing her, consciously changing his body language to come across as relaxed. “Sean Dignam. When did they grab you?”
“About three hours before I was supposed to meet Queenan. And you, apparently.” She sips her soda, and the look that crosses her face is nothing short of orgasmic.
“I’m guessing you didn’t get a lot of soda.”
“I didn’t get a lot of anything.” She sips again. “How long is he gonna be? I don’t know you.”
“Should be any minute. I worked Costello’s crew for almost five years. Two of his guys got life sentences over the summer. We’ve been looking for you. I thought you were dead.”
“Queenan didn’t?”
“He doesn’t give up on his guys.”
The man himself walks into his office then and stops dead for a moment before he closes the door. “Hardison, when did you get here?”
“Twenty minutes ago. I stole a car, and Sergeant Dignam here met me in the lobby.” She holds up the soda. “He got me sugar.”
“You look like you could use it.” Queenan sits behind his desk and leans forward. “What happened?”
She repeats her explanation, then continues with, “So they took me to a basement in Easthampton. I spent a lot of time chained to a chair or a bed, and a fuck of a lot of time with them trying to make me say I’m a cop.” She smiles thinly. “Very creative ways, and some not-so-creative ways too. They still don’t know for sure that I’m a cop, or I think I’d actually be dead. I’d really like a hot meal.”
“You can get one in a hospital,” Queenan says. “We’ll do a thorough debriefing after you get checked out.”
“Come on, Captain, I survived this long, just get me a good sandwich or something. Hardboiled eggs and cold rice were nothing compared to hot pastrami.”
“She really liked that first sip of Sprite,” Sean puts in.
“I still like the Sprite,” she corrects.
“How did you get out?”
“They only had one guy in with me this morning. I don’t know why, since it was usually two in the mornings. Skinny little bastard. He unchained me from the bed and was hauling me to the chair for the today’s first round of, ‘Are you a cop, Acardi?’ Elbow to the nose, knee to the balls, and I got out. His car was a junker, made it was easy to hotwire, and I came here.” She shrugs, then winces. “It seemed safer than any other option. And Captain, I’m not going to a fucking hospital unless you station a cop outside the room.”
“That wasn’t even a question. Two troopers will be there, and Sergeant Dignam will stay nearby today.”
“Yeah, it means I don’t have to do the paperwork for your resurrection,” explains Sean.
“I’ll have Darlene fax the stations that we picked up Acardi,” Queenan says, shooting him a reproving look. “But you need to go.”
She sighs. “I want that pastrami after I get checked out.”
“I’ll bring it myself,” Queenan promises.
She gets to her feet. “Then I’ll go to the hospital.”
Queenan sits in the back with her, and he’s on his phone while Sean drives. He calls Darlene first, then has the car Hardison arrived in taken as evidence after she describes it. By the time he’s done with that, they’re in the half-circle in front of the ER. Queenan helps Hardison out so Sean can go park.
Queenan’s string-pulling involves things like “assaulted cop” and “undercover officer held prisoner” and a lot of badge-flashing and calling Sean and Hardison by their ranks, which means they call him ‘Captain’, and it all works; Hardison gets taken off to a room in the ER, and Sean and Queenan linger just outside while she changes into a gown before rejoining her and using a plastic clothing bag the hospital provides to hold her evidentiary clothing.
It’s not until a nurse has started an IV and gotten a preliminary report, leaving behind a promise that a doctor will be in ‘soon’, that Queenan asks Hardison directly.
“Were you ever sexually assaulted?”
“Come on, Captain, Nicastro’s a good Catholic,” and that part is dry, a smirk joining it. “He wouldn’t allow that. Beating the hell out of me, yeah, but no rape.”
Queenan relaxes. Sean asks, “Always men doing it?”
“Yeah. I’d worked with some of them before, and I have names for all of them.” She touches her finger to her temple. “And what they look like.”
“If you hadn’t gotten made,” Sean mutters.
“How did that happen?” Queenan asks.
Hardison gives them a considering look. “Can I use that as a bargaining tool for that pastrami?”
Before either of them can answer, there’s a rap on the door, and then a doctor comes in, a man about five-eleven but unassuming-looking. Bland, radiating calm and reassurance, and Sean doesn’t see Hardison tighten up at all. “Ms. Hardison—”
“Trooper Hardison,” Queenan corrects.
“Apologies, Trooper. I’m Dr. Zapata.” He grabs a stool.
“Call me Lori,” she says.
“Lori. And you two are…”
“My captain and my sergeant. Captain promised me a pastrami sandwich when we’re done here, so can we get moving? I’m starving.”
“Did we get a weight on you?” Zapata flips through her chart.
“I didn’t mean that literally,” she grumbles.
“You look like you are,” Sean informs her.
She gives him a glare that only highlights the bruises on her face and the fact that her cheekbones are trying to cut through the skin on her face.
“Ninety-four pounds,” Zapata says. “And you’re five and a half feet tall?”
“A little over,” she says grudgingly.
“That’s drastically underweight.” Zapata gives her a concerned look, his brow slightly furrowed and mouth held soft. “What’s been going on?”
She blows out a breath. “How much can I say?” she asks Queenan.
“Everything that’s medically relevant.”
She fills the doctor in without naming names, just the bare facts of what happened, and then asks, “Need anything else””
She’s so cold and clinical about it, her voice not wavering, face expressionless, that Sean can’t decide if she’s going to be an excellent witness, or if the jury won’t believe her. He’s also not sure if she’s incredibly well-adapted or incredibly fucked up. A glance at Queenan shows his boss with his arms held loosely over his chest, face neutral too.
“Okay. Do you want them to stay while I examine you?”
“Yes,” she says instantly. “I’m having troopers around as long as I’m here.”
“That might be a while,” Zapata cautions, and stands, taking out his stethoscope.
While he examines her, Sean steps closer to Queenan and, in a low voice, asks, “How fucked up is she?”
“No more than you.” Queenan keeps his eyes on Hardison. “She has an interesting background. Overall, she reminds me a lot of you.”
“Lucky fucking her,” he mutters, and Queenan’s mouth quirks.
By the time Zapata is done, Hardison looks like the adrenaline is wearing off, but manages to make it seem like she’s only lying down because Zapata tells her to before adding, “We’re getting some blood from you, then starting an IV, and you’ll be checked in. Private room, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Sean says, keeping it drier than he’d really like.
Zapata glances at him, one corner of his mouth just pulled up, and closes Hardison’s chart. “After you’re checked in, we’ll get your x-rays and everything done.”
“That sounds like fun. How about that sandwich?”
He hesitates. “If you eat about a quarter of it, slowly, I think you can handle it.”
“Believe me, I don’t think I could handle a whole grinder right now. Captain, you promised me.”
“I did. I’ll be back soon. Keys, Sergeant?”
Sean hands them over. “Fifth row, toward the back.”
“I’ll find it. Don’t leave her at all,” he adds in an undertone. “Go down to x-ray with her if you have to.”
“I know how to watch someone, Captain.”
After Queenan leaves, Sean takes the stool beside Hardison’s bed. “How much did you not tell Zapata?”
“Plenty.”
“Thought so. Any risk of internal bleeding?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing happened today besides what I did to my guard. Oh, and almost burned my fingers when I wired the car. That’s been nine or ten years, so it was kind of a difficult thing.”
He nods and leans back, doing his damnedest not to look intimidating. If that’s the only thing bothering her, he can avoid it. Probably.
She eats the quarter of the hot pastrami sandwich, accompanied by another Sprite, as she’s being taken upstairs by wheelchair, Queenan and Sean crammed into the elevator with her and the orderly, and somehow Sean ends up playing cupholder. At least she can take it, and give it back, when he bitches at her for it. By the time they get upstairs, there’s a little more non-purple color to her face, and Sean figures she’ll survive to be good on the stand as long as she keeps getting pastrami grinders.