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gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 03:51 am
gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 03:51 am
Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter One
Title: Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter One
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 4,026
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Mild violence.
Chapter One
Sean Dignam meets Robert Messer in May of 1998, and he throws his whole world off-kilter.
Robert’s tall, and not just by Sean-standards, but by average-height-guy standards—he comes in at six-three. He’s half-Hispanic, he’s eight years older than Sean, he has three younger sisters, he went to public school and then Rutgers in New Brunswick and got a degree in art history, then finished at NYU with an MFA, and now he’s working at one of the museums in Cambridge.
Knowing all this wouldn’t be a problem if, one, Sean wasn’t eight months out of undercover and still suspicious of every-fucking-one who crosses his path, and, two, he didn’t learn all this within the first hour of knowing Robert after a chance meeting at a coffee shop.
He’s lucky that they’re in Massachusetts. Boston, specifically, which might not be as liberal as New York or San Francisco or something but is pretty high up there. The baristas don’t look twice except to ask if either of them wants more to drink. Sean’s riding that bonus that made its way into his account and splurges, going for a third cup of coffee when they ask again, cream and no sugar even though he takes it black whenever he’s at the station. He’s working there now, an aboveboard cop; Queenan’s decided that he’s going to be his assistant or some shit, and really, Sean’s got no problem with it. He likes the guy, a whole hell of a lot. Frankly, it’s better than having to watch fucking Frank Costello’s guys extort and kill and pretend to play along. Plus, it means he doesn’t have to be a traffic cop or some bullshit job like that; he gets to stay a real cop and have a real job.
The other customers, they ignore them too. Not in a ‘don’t exist’ way, but in the casual way city dwellers everywhere have of ignoring everything around them if it doesn’t affect them. Safety mechanism, one Sean understands intimately but doesn’t—can’t—use himself.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” Robert asks him after he’s finished his coffee.
That one, that’s what gives him pause. First, they’re going to look ridiculous, since Sean is eight inches shorter than Robert. Second, there’s this thing he’s got going on where Robert is interesting and great to talk to and really fucking attractive with his red-tinted light brown hair, slightly darker skin than Sean’s, deep green eyes, and lips made for kissing and is, oh yeah, a fucking man.
Sean’s got no problem with gay people, on the surface. They do their thing, he does his, and they don’t exactly interfere with each other. Interests don’t really overlap in that area. Except right now, maybe they kind of do.
“Sure,” Sean’s mouth says without his brain really catching up to what it’s doing. “Yeah. Let’s go for a walk.” Apparently, his mouth missed the fact that he’s working on avoiding having to consider complicated things such as if he actually likes guys and has forever, or if this is a total fluke, a reaction to being undercover and not able to form relationships besides shallow things with women who wouldn’t ask any fucking questions.
This avoiding shit is really, really not working. Part of that’s because he and Robert are standing, and part of it’s because it’s fucking happening and his brain needs to just shut down and handle this one thing at a time. It could shut down and stay quiet until he had space to think for almost five years. He just needs it to do that now.
Which, of course, it fucking won’t because it’s gotten in the habit of doing what it fucking wants since he got out. Fucking brain.
“So what exactly do you do?” Sean asks. He’d shove his hands in his pockets for lack of things to do with them, except that’d show off the shoulder holster perfectly, and he really doesn’t feel like dealing with that shit, even if he’s got his badge with him at all fucking times now. He earned the damn thing well enough.
“I do a lot of things that are pretty boring to people who aren’t interested in art.” Robert laughs, and it makes his eyes kind of crinkle around the corners. He’s not a Rob, apparently, but a Robert. Fine with Sean, like his input fucking matters on the name of a guy he met a fucking hour before, but he still thinks it fits him better. “It varies from being sure our dates on pieces are accurate to writing material for audio tours.”
“You’re right,” Sean says bluntly. “Sounds boring.”
That gets Robert to laugh again, and that’s doing uncomfortable things to his insides. “What about you?”
Sean shrugs. He can say it now. “I’m a cop. Massachusetts State Police detective,” because fuck yeah, he took the test, passed it, nailed it. Like he doesn’t know the law and the street better than half the force, anyway. “I work in the undercover unit.”
“Now that doesn’t sound remotely boring,” Robert says. “Exciting, actually. Does that mean you were undercover?”
Sean flashes him a grin, a real one, not a shark-mean one or a sharp, warning one. “Can’t talk about that.”
He laughs again. “You gave yourself away.”
“Maybe, but I’m not talking about it.” Part of that uncomfortable thing his insides are doing is, Sean realizes, pleasure at the laugh; the other part, though, the bigger part, is comfort with the conversation, with the whole thing.
And it stays comfortable. They walk for another hour until Sean makes some excuse to go home, and then he finds himself trading numbers with Robert and making arrangements for supper on Thursday—eight. Sean does have leeway because his shrink says he’s supposed to be getting on a ‘normal human schedule’, whatever that is, for a while, in between going from ‘crazy motherfucker’s organization’s schedule’ to ‘cop schedule’. Shrink didn’t put it that way, though. He doesn’t know where—Robert’s apparently going to make a reservation—“Nothing too fancy,” Sean tells him, because he might have the bonus but he doesn’t want to spend it all—and he’ll call him, let him know.
If he was the type to cry to his shrink about anything, they could spend a few weeks picking this shit apart. Since he’s not, and his sessions consist of about two minutes of answering questions and then forty-something of silence while Sean plays chicken to see if he can get out early and consistently loses, there’s no fucking way that’s happening.
It’s going to be him and a couple of longneck friends, because the fuck, he made a date. With a man. That bears repeating: the first date he has back in real life is with a man, when he’s never had a date with a man, or even a thought—
Okay, that’s a lie, and one he’s going to have to think about more with those Buds. That mantra about avoiding self-deception is too drilled into his head, courtesy of Queenan, for him to ignore it.
“Thursday,” he says where he and Robert are parting, Sean for the T and Robert to get his car. Art history apparently pays better than being a cop, which is such a real fucking surprise.
Robert nods and gives Sean a smile that does strange things to his chest. Fuck, he’s so fucked. He needs those beers. “I’ll call by Tuesday.”
“All right,” and then Sean doesn’t know what else to say, so he walks toward the T stop.
He does pay attention to his surroundings, unlike most city people. Most city people don’t have to.
Most city people don’t probably have a price on their head courtesy the Irish mob. Costello’s still pissed at him personally, not that Sean blames him. He’s gotten a couple of people at least remanded, waiting on Nashua Street. Unfortunately, Costello himself is not one of them, and neither is French. He still made a dent, even if it’s fucking small He didn’t get shot. Queenan says that’s enough to count, especially when it comes to Costello’s small, divided crews.
So he pays attention on his walks, from leaving Robert to the T, the T to his apartment, and on the T and in the stations, too. That’s not as risky as the walks, though, thanks to the crowds on the T.
He gets up to his apartment and pulls his gun before he unlocks the door. Basic fucking precaution right now. Checks every room, and then relaxes; finds some leftover takeout and a couple beers in the fridge, decides it’s still cool enough out for hot food and dumps it on a plate that he pops into the microwave, and then he, his food, his beer, and his gun get comfortable in the parlor. It’s simple paranoia to keep his gun out—the apartment is clear, windows are closed, door is locked—but enough is fucking with his head tonight to make the paranoia excusable.
He makes his way through the lo mein, sweet and sour pork, and half a beer before he lets it start soaking into his mind. Treat it like a case, break it into pieces and then put together the conclusion. Make it easier that way.
Fact one: He spent two hours with Robert this afternoon, one in a coffee shop and one walking. Both hours were spent talking with very little silence.
Fact two: He’s extremely interested in what Robert says, all of it, from anecdotes about his youngest sister to some work story involving a vase and some kids who broke away from their class on a trip.
Fact three: He thinks Robert is attractive.
Fact four: He has an actual, true-to-God date with Robert on Thursday night.
And then the background evidence on the suspect, the little things from the past fifteen, sixteen years of having a sex drive actively interested in others. How sometimes, at the movies, he’ll spend a little more time thinking about the actors than the actresses, even during sex scenes. How he thought a little too much, too detailed, about Rose Freeman’s brother Kevin instead of Rose herself, back when he was a teenager. How, when he jerks off, it hasn’t always been to thoughts of girls, tits and blowjobs from lipsticked mouths and fucking cunt. Sometimes it’s turned to touching flat, hard bodies and rubbing up against another dick and—
So: Evidence shows the suspect, Sean Dignam, is not a straight motherfucker.
He drains the rest of the second beer and does his damnedest to not think about it any longer. Doesn’t work, of course; it’s like not thinking about those pink elephants in Dumbo. Once he tells himself not to, it’s the only thing in his mind.
Does he want to be dating a guy? Does he want it to be a one-off thing? How the fuck’s he going to explain to Robert that he’s never fucking done this before either way? What happens after a first date with another man, anyway? A fucking kiss, fucking… what? There some kind of guide he can go to for this?
Groaning, he scrubs a hand over his face and gets up, grabbing his gun. He takes it in the bathroom with him and lays it on the counter before he strips, turning the water on hot. Unsurprisingly, he’s getting hard, all that thinking about what he’s going to do with another guy, he guesses.
Jesus. What he is. Not might, not could, but is going to do. Fuck.
The not-straight thing, that’s not much of a problem. Or it probably won’t be once he gets the fuck over figuring it out, he thinks. Too fucking much thinking, that’s his problem. It’s the part where he’s a fucking cop and most of the force doesn’t give a fuck about Massachusetts being a liberal state and all that shit. They give a fuck about having a fag on their side of the blue line. He wouldn’t be the only guy dating a guy if he does date Robert more than Thursday, he’s positive of that—sheer odds are in his favor—and he’s not too worried about the shit they might try to put him through (it’s only ‘might’ and not ‘will’ because there’s a fuck of a lot of respect from working Costello, and on top of that, he scares troopers on his own, or so say rumors and Queenan), but he’d like to know what the fuck kind of shit they might pull if they have the balls to do it, should it get out and it always fucking does. Gossip spreads through the department fast when it’s at all juicy, and, ‘That UC who hurt Costello’s fucking a guy,’ that’s real fucking juicy gossip, and he knows it. Christ. In some ways, his job’s like high school all over again. All jobs can be, he guesses.
But dating a guy, that’s not such a big deal in his head. Being interested in guys isn’t such a big deal, either. He’s seen a fuck of a lot worse than that, done a little when he absolutely fucking had to. Makes it clear this is actually completely neutral.
The shower’s got to be hot by now, and he’s soft again from thinking about all that other shit, which is a nice combination because maybe he’s dealing with the thing where he’s not as straight as he thought, but it doesn’t mean he’s ready to jerk off with that knowledge.
He sticks his gun under his pillow when he finally drops into bed after arguing himself in circles and getting fucking nowhere for another hour. That shower that was supposed to relax him, knock him out. It obviously didn’t work, and just as obviously didn’t solve anything, so he’s just going to fucking sleep on it, and fuck it if he’s being fucking paranoid. Not the first time he’s slept with steel in bed. Not the first time since he got out from undercover work, for that matter.
When Sean wakes up, it’s five-thirty in the morning, an hour he has not willingly been awake at since the academy. It’s sure as fuck not willing now.
He was dreaming. He had a dream about a guy who looked maybe like Robert and maybe shorter and maybe with different hair. But, thing is, it wasn’t just a dream. In it, the maybe-Robert guy was fucking him, and now he’s awake from the dream, and he’s hard as a fucking rock.
Shit.
He tries desperately to remember all the logic from the night before, how he laid out evidence about himself, how it fit, but no, goddammit, it’s gone. The logic’s left, and shit, logic and intuition are his fucking job, how the fuck could they be gone?
His hand, this whole time while he’s having a very quiet breakdown, is stealing down his chest and toward his dick, and he’s maybe going to cut it off for its traitorousness. Instead, he slams it, fisted, into the mattress and heads for the bathroom.
In the shower, he does his damnedest to not think about the fucking dream while he strokes himself off.
It doesn’t work.
Gym, he decides when he’s out and shaved. He worked scruffy a lot when he was in with Costello. It made him look less cop, he thought, and since he was never suspected by Costello or his guys, it might have worked. But since he worked scruffy then, he’s never going to fucking go to work without shaving unless he gets an urgent call in the middle of the night.
So he goes for a long fucking run, and then he catches the T to near the department. When he gets there, he hits the department gym, pressing until sweat soaks through his shirt, his arms and legs ache, and his back and abdomen are pleasantly sore. It helps. It clears out some of the irritating fucking thoughts, the ones he couldn’t chase away before, the ones about the dream and the date and what the fuck he’s not actually straight. So the showers are like any other day he hits the gym and gets cleaned up, giving some of the other guys shit and getting some back, cleaning up, getting dressed, heading up to his office, the small one right by Queenan’s so they can work their undercovers easier together, check in with each other all day.
And he starts his day, which gives him very little time to think about it.
The day has no surprise raids, no issues with a UC, just a meeting with the ADA about his testimony, going over the harder questions—did he ever use, did he hurt people, did he get asked if he was a cop, did he coerce anyone into incriminating actions, and the answers are no, only if he absolutely had to, just once at the very start of things, and fuck yourself lady, which he apparently can’t say on the stand—mixed in somewhere in there among the paperwork and conferring with Queenan over what to do about which undercover and which case for most of the rest of the day. When he leaves the building, his brain has apparently worked shit out again. He’s not trusting it this time, though, not with how it fucked him over the last time. He’ll do his own thinking instead of trusting the edges of his mind, thank you very fucking much, asshole.
It turns out he can have a silent crisis, since he does on his way home. It’s not surprising because of the whole undercover thing, where he had them all the fucking time, but it is because he’s a real cop now, even more of one because he can actually carry his badge and his real gun instead of whatever French got to them.
He’ll figure it out on his own. He’s not some pussy who needs help with shit. He’s not going to call up his sister if he can even find her fucking number, or talk to Queenan, or call the fucking shrink.
He doesn’t feel like bothering to try to cook with whatever’s in his fridge—he needs to go shopping again before that can happen, anyway—so he goes to this little takeout place that has the best clam chowder he’s ever tasted, thick and rich and full of clams and bacon and potatoes, and bread bowls to go with it. He gets two orders and tells himself he has to take a long run to make up for the extra calories, but what the fuck ever.
While he’s waiting for the pretty girl, maybe five years younger than him, to ladle the chowder into tall cups—Jesus, he forgot how big those are, maybe he’ll only have one after all, stick the other in the fridge for breakfast or something—he’s thinking about how cute she is, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, that turned-up nose, the light freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Some part of his mind, though, is also on the guy sitting in at the corner table, and it’s not because Sean’s on the lookout for anyone who might be dangerous, even though he is. It’s because the guy is good-looking, dark-haired and good build, great features, and Jesus fuck can’t his fucking brain wait for this until he gets home?
He smiles at the girl when she hands him the bag of food, thanking her and giving her a three-dollar tip on his eight-dollar meal, and then leaves, making a point of not looking toward that corner table.
He should have, though, but not because of the good-looking guy. There’s another guy, a table closer to the door, who gets up and follows Sean out, and he’s too fucking much in his own fucking head to process it the way he should, the way that means he switches his bag to his right hand to free his left to throw a punch or pin a suspect or, fuck, grab for his gun if he has to.
He should have because he failed to notice the haircut that motherfucking Fitzy sports, not to mention lack of neck. Fitzy, one of those fuckers who’s spent most his life with one of Costello’s crews, who’s fucking insane, who would probably have no qualms about shooting a cop who took down anyone with a hard-on for earning for Costello, even if that cop’s on a Boston street with plenty of civilians to witness things.
He doesn’t realize until he happens to glance at windows across the street and catches the shadowy reflection, and then he moves. The bag’s in his right as soon as he spins on Fitzy, and no matter the four inches he has on Sean, Sean shoves him back against the wall they’re next to, snarling, “What’s the plan, Fitz? Shoot me here? Maybe knife me? What about a garrote? Don’t think you can do that one right, though. What is it, huh?”
“Just walkin’,” Fitzy says in that heavy brogue, a sardonic smile pulling at his mouth. “Gettin’ supper, Officer.”
“Detective,” Sean snaps at him. “Massachusetts State Police detective, asshole, and you fucking remember it. You or anyone else gets fucking close, you’ll have the force out for your fucking blood, you got it?”
“Hey,” a woman shouts. “Hey, is there a problem?”
“Don’t worry, ma’am.” Sean uses an authoritative tone as he pushes back his jacket with his left hand enough to show his badge, hooked to his belt. “I’m a cop.”
“Oh, all right.” She skirts them, walking on the street to pass by.
“That was easy for you,” Fitzy observes. “It’s like you weren’t a con for, how long was it, Sean?”
“Almost five years,” Sean says tersely, “and I was never a fucking con. You got it?” He loosens his hold on Fitzy, stepping back as his eyes narrow. “You got no business here. Fucking move.”
“Yes sir, Detective.” Fitzy gives what’s probably supposed to be a salute, and Sean’s fist aches to hit him. But Fitzy doesn’t make a move toward him, so Sean just watches Fitzy walk away. People can tell, he notices. They see that Fitzy’s not right, not like them. They give him room, move a little to the edges of the sidewalk or fall back instead of getting too close. No one wants to risk getting their throat ripped out.
Shaking his head at himself—Jesus Christ, he could’ve gotten himself killed, and then those years would’ve been for fucking nothing—he starts walking once Fitzy’s disappeared down the street. If he walks home, it’s riskier, but it’ll clear his mind, get him back on track with this whole ‘stop being a fucking idiot’ thing about watching his own back. The fuck was he thinking, Christ.
So he walks, and he keeps the bag in his right hand, and he stays so fucking aware that it’s almost exhausting. That girl on his right, slowly starting to lag and popping gum. The guy ahead of him, picking up speed and then turning into a pawn shop. The one across the street who looks at him a little too long. He watches every fucking one of them, and none of them pose the slightest damn threat, of course.
By the time he gets home, the chowder has cooled, but it’s still hot enough to eat—the wonders of Styrofoam cups. He’s kind of surprised none of his food got ruined when he spun on Fitzy, pinned him. Important thing is it didn’t. He pulls out the center of the bread bowl and pours the soup in, grabbing a cup of ice water while it starts to soak into the bread. Best fucking way to eat it. Tonight, he sits at his kitchen table, which is probably big enough for four but has only ever seen, at most, two bodies sitting around it, and usually a big old zero. Tonight, he needs to think.
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 4,026
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Mild violence.
Sean Dignam meets Robert Messer in May of 1998, and he throws his whole world off-kilter.
Robert’s tall, and not just by Sean-standards, but by average-height-guy standards—he comes in at six-three. He’s half-Hispanic, he’s eight years older than Sean, he has three younger sisters, he went to public school and then Rutgers in New Brunswick and got a degree in art history, then finished at NYU with an MFA, and now he’s working at one of the museums in Cambridge.
Knowing all this wouldn’t be a problem if, one, Sean wasn’t eight months out of undercover and still suspicious of every-fucking-one who crosses his path, and, two, he didn’t learn all this within the first hour of knowing Robert after a chance meeting at a coffee shop.
He’s lucky that they’re in Massachusetts. Boston, specifically, which might not be as liberal as New York or San Francisco or something but is pretty high up there. The baristas don’t look twice except to ask if either of them wants more to drink. Sean’s riding that bonus that made its way into his account and splurges, going for a third cup of coffee when they ask again, cream and no sugar even though he takes it black whenever he’s at the station. He’s working there now, an aboveboard cop; Queenan’s decided that he’s going to be his assistant or some shit, and really, Sean’s got no problem with it. He likes the guy, a whole hell of a lot. Frankly, it’s better than having to watch fucking Frank Costello’s guys extort and kill and pretend to play along. Plus, it means he doesn’t have to be a traffic cop or some bullshit job like that; he gets to stay a real cop and have a real job.
The other customers, they ignore them too. Not in a ‘don’t exist’ way, but in the casual way city dwellers everywhere have of ignoring everything around them if it doesn’t affect them. Safety mechanism, one Sean understands intimately but doesn’t—can’t—use himself.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” Robert asks him after he’s finished his coffee.
That one, that’s what gives him pause. First, they’re going to look ridiculous, since Sean is eight inches shorter than Robert. Second, there’s this thing he’s got going on where Robert is interesting and great to talk to and really fucking attractive with his red-tinted light brown hair, slightly darker skin than Sean’s, deep green eyes, and lips made for kissing and is, oh yeah, a fucking man.
Sean’s got no problem with gay people, on the surface. They do their thing, he does his, and they don’t exactly interfere with each other. Interests don’t really overlap in that area. Except right now, maybe they kind of do.
“Sure,” Sean’s mouth says without his brain really catching up to what it’s doing. “Yeah. Let’s go for a walk.” Apparently, his mouth missed the fact that he’s working on avoiding having to consider complicated things such as if he actually likes guys and has forever, or if this is a total fluke, a reaction to being undercover and not able to form relationships besides shallow things with women who wouldn’t ask any fucking questions.
This avoiding shit is really, really not working. Part of that’s because he and Robert are standing, and part of it’s because it’s fucking happening and his brain needs to just shut down and handle this one thing at a time. It could shut down and stay quiet until he had space to think for almost five years. He just needs it to do that now.
Which, of course, it fucking won’t because it’s gotten in the habit of doing what it fucking wants since he got out. Fucking brain.
“So what exactly do you do?” Sean asks. He’d shove his hands in his pockets for lack of things to do with them, except that’d show off the shoulder holster perfectly, and he really doesn’t feel like dealing with that shit, even if he’s got his badge with him at all fucking times now. He earned the damn thing well enough.
“I do a lot of things that are pretty boring to people who aren’t interested in art.” Robert laughs, and it makes his eyes kind of crinkle around the corners. He’s not a Rob, apparently, but a Robert. Fine with Sean, like his input fucking matters on the name of a guy he met a fucking hour before, but he still thinks it fits him better. “It varies from being sure our dates on pieces are accurate to writing material for audio tours.”
“You’re right,” Sean says bluntly. “Sounds boring.”
That gets Robert to laugh again, and that’s doing uncomfortable things to his insides. “What about you?”
Sean shrugs. He can say it now. “I’m a cop. Massachusetts State Police detective,” because fuck yeah, he took the test, passed it, nailed it. Like he doesn’t know the law and the street better than half the force, anyway. “I work in the undercover unit.”
“Now that doesn’t sound remotely boring,” Robert says. “Exciting, actually. Does that mean you were undercover?”
Sean flashes him a grin, a real one, not a shark-mean one or a sharp, warning one. “Can’t talk about that.”
He laughs again. “You gave yourself away.”
“Maybe, but I’m not talking about it.” Part of that uncomfortable thing his insides are doing is, Sean realizes, pleasure at the laugh; the other part, though, the bigger part, is comfort with the conversation, with the whole thing.
And it stays comfortable. They walk for another hour until Sean makes some excuse to go home, and then he finds himself trading numbers with Robert and making arrangements for supper on Thursday—eight. Sean does have leeway because his shrink says he’s supposed to be getting on a ‘normal human schedule’, whatever that is, for a while, in between going from ‘crazy motherfucker’s organization’s schedule’ to ‘cop schedule’. Shrink didn’t put it that way, though. He doesn’t know where—Robert’s apparently going to make a reservation—“Nothing too fancy,” Sean tells him, because he might have the bonus but he doesn’t want to spend it all—and he’ll call him, let him know.
If he was the type to cry to his shrink about anything, they could spend a few weeks picking this shit apart. Since he’s not, and his sessions consist of about two minutes of answering questions and then forty-something of silence while Sean plays chicken to see if he can get out early and consistently loses, there’s no fucking way that’s happening.
It’s going to be him and a couple of longneck friends, because the fuck, he made a date. With a man. That bears repeating: the first date he has back in real life is with a man, when he’s never had a date with a man, or even a thought—
Okay, that’s a lie, and one he’s going to have to think about more with those Buds. That mantra about avoiding self-deception is too drilled into his head, courtesy of Queenan, for him to ignore it.
“Thursday,” he says where he and Robert are parting, Sean for the T and Robert to get his car. Art history apparently pays better than being a cop, which is such a real fucking surprise.
Robert nods and gives Sean a smile that does strange things to his chest. Fuck, he’s so fucked. He needs those beers. “I’ll call by Tuesday.”
“All right,” and then Sean doesn’t know what else to say, so he walks toward the T stop.
He does pay attention to his surroundings, unlike most city people. Most city people don’t have to.
Most city people don’t probably have a price on their head courtesy the Irish mob. Costello’s still pissed at him personally, not that Sean blames him. He’s gotten a couple of people at least remanded, waiting on Nashua Street. Unfortunately, Costello himself is not one of them, and neither is French. He still made a dent, even if it’s fucking small He didn’t get shot. Queenan says that’s enough to count, especially when it comes to Costello’s small, divided crews.
So he pays attention on his walks, from leaving Robert to the T, the T to his apartment, and on the T and in the stations, too. That’s not as risky as the walks, though, thanks to the crowds on the T.
He gets up to his apartment and pulls his gun before he unlocks the door. Basic fucking precaution right now. Checks every room, and then relaxes; finds some leftover takeout and a couple beers in the fridge, decides it’s still cool enough out for hot food and dumps it on a plate that he pops into the microwave, and then he, his food, his beer, and his gun get comfortable in the parlor. It’s simple paranoia to keep his gun out—the apartment is clear, windows are closed, door is locked—but enough is fucking with his head tonight to make the paranoia excusable.
He makes his way through the lo mein, sweet and sour pork, and half a beer before he lets it start soaking into his mind. Treat it like a case, break it into pieces and then put together the conclusion. Make it easier that way.
Fact one: He spent two hours with Robert this afternoon, one in a coffee shop and one walking. Both hours were spent talking with very little silence.
Fact two: He’s extremely interested in what Robert says, all of it, from anecdotes about his youngest sister to some work story involving a vase and some kids who broke away from their class on a trip.
Fact three: He thinks Robert is attractive.
Fact four: He has an actual, true-to-God date with Robert on Thursday night.
And then the background evidence on the suspect, the little things from the past fifteen, sixteen years of having a sex drive actively interested in others. How sometimes, at the movies, he’ll spend a little more time thinking about the actors than the actresses, even during sex scenes. How he thought a little too much, too detailed, about Rose Freeman’s brother Kevin instead of Rose herself, back when he was a teenager. How, when he jerks off, it hasn’t always been to thoughts of girls, tits and blowjobs from lipsticked mouths and fucking cunt. Sometimes it’s turned to touching flat, hard bodies and rubbing up against another dick and—
So: Evidence shows the suspect, Sean Dignam, is not a straight motherfucker.
He drains the rest of the second beer and does his damnedest to not think about it any longer. Doesn’t work, of course; it’s like not thinking about those pink elephants in Dumbo. Once he tells himself not to, it’s the only thing in his mind.
Does he want to be dating a guy? Does he want it to be a one-off thing? How the fuck’s he going to explain to Robert that he’s never fucking done this before either way? What happens after a first date with another man, anyway? A fucking kiss, fucking… what? There some kind of guide he can go to for this?
Groaning, he scrubs a hand over his face and gets up, grabbing his gun. He takes it in the bathroom with him and lays it on the counter before he strips, turning the water on hot. Unsurprisingly, he’s getting hard, all that thinking about what he’s going to do with another guy, he guesses.
Jesus. What he is. Not might, not could, but is going to do. Fuck.
The not-straight thing, that’s not much of a problem. Or it probably won’t be once he gets the fuck over figuring it out, he thinks. Too fucking much thinking, that’s his problem. It’s the part where he’s a fucking cop and most of the force doesn’t give a fuck about Massachusetts being a liberal state and all that shit. They give a fuck about having a fag on their side of the blue line. He wouldn’t be the only guy dating a guy if he does date Robert more than Thursday, he’s positive of that—sheer odds are in his favor—and he’s not too worried about the shit they might try to put him through (it’s only ‘might’ and not ‘will’ because there’s a fuck of a lot of respect from working Costello, and on top of that, he scares troopers on his own, or so say rumors and Queenan), but he’d like to know what the fuck kind of shit they might pull if they have the balls to do it, should it get out and it always fucking does. Gossip spreads through the department fast when it’s at all juicy, and, ‘That UC who hurt Costello’s fucking a guy,’ that’s real fucking juicy gossip, and he knows it. Christ. In some ways, his job’s like high school all over again. All jobs can be, he guesses.
But dating a guy, that’s not such a big deal in his head. Being interested in guys isn’t such a big deal, either. He’s seen a fuck of a lot worse than that, done a little when he absolutely fucking had to. Makes it clear this is actually completely neutral.
The shower’s got to be hot by now, and he’s soft again from thinking about all that other shit, which is a nice combination because maybe he’s dealing with the thing where he’s not as straight as he thought, but it doesn’t mean he’s ready to jerk off with that knowledge.
He sticks his gun under his pillow when he finally drops into bed after arguing himself in circles and getting fucking nowhere for another hour. That shower that was supposed to relax him, knock him out. It obviously didn’t work, and just as obviously didn’t solve anything, so he’s just going to fucking sleep on it, and fuck it if he’s being fucking paranoid. Not the first time he’s slept with steel in bed. Not the first time since he got out from undercover work, for that matter.
When Sean wakes up, it’s five-thirty in the morning, an hour he has not willingly been awake at since the academy. It’s sure as fuck not willing now.
He was dreaming. He had a dream about a guy who looked maybe like Robert and maybe shorter and maybe with different hair. But, thing is, it wasn’t just a dream. In it, the maybe-Robert guy was fucking him, and now he’s awake from the dream, and he’s hard as a fucking rock.
Shit.
He tries desperately to remember all the logic from the night before, how he laid out evidence about himself, how it fit, but no, goddammit, it’s gone. The logic’s left, and shit, logic and intuition are his fucking job, how the fuck could they be gone?
His hand, this whole time while he’s having a very quiet breakdown, is stealing down his chest and toward his dick, and he’s maybe going to cut it off for its traitorousness. Instead, he slams it, fisted, into the mattress and heads for the bathroom.
In the shower, he does his damnedest to not think about the fucking dream while he strokes himself off.
It doesn’t work.
Gym, he decides when he’s out and shaved. He worked scruffy a lot when he was in with Costello. It made him look less cop, he thought, and since he was never suspected by Costello or his guys, it might have worked. But since he worked scruffy then, he’s never going to fucking go to work without shaving unless he gets an urgent call in the middle of the night.
So he goes for a long fucking run, and then he catches the T to near the department. When he gets there, he hits the department gym, pressing until sweat soaks through his shirt, his arms and legs ache, and his back and abdomen are pleasantly sore. It helps. It clears out some of the irritating fucking thoughts, the ones he couldn’t chase away before, the ones about the dream and the date and what the fuck he’s not actually straight. So the showers are like any other day he hits the gym and gets cleaned up, giving some of the other guys shit and getting some back, cleaning up, getting dressed, heading up to his office, the small one right by Queenan’s so they can work their undercovers easier together, check in with each other all day.
And he starts his day, which gives him very little time to think about it.
The day has no surprise raids, no issues with a UC, just a meeting with the ADA about his testimony, going over the harder questions—did he ever use, did he hurt people, did he get asked if he was a cop, did he coerce anyone into incriminating actions, and the answers are no, only if he absolutely had to, just once at the very start of things, and fuck yourself lady, which he apparently can’t say on the stand—mixed in somewhere in there among the paperwork and conferring with Queenan over what to do about which undercover and which case for most of the rest of the day. When he leaves the building, his brain has apparently worked shit out again. He’s not trusting it this time, though, not with how it fucked him over the last time. He’ll do his own thinking instead of trusting the edges of his mind, thank you very fucking much, asshole.
It turns out he can have a silent crisis, since he does on his way home. It’s not surprising because of the whole undercover thing, where he had them all the fucking time, but it is because he’s a real cop now, even more of one because he can actually carry his badge and his real gun instead of whatever French got to them.
He’ll figure it out on his own. He’s not some pussy who needs help with shit. He’s not going to call up his sister if he can even find her fucking number, or talk to Queenan, or call the fucking shrink.
He doesn’t feel like bothering to try to cook with whatever’s in his fridge—he needs to go shopping again before that can happen, anyway—so he goes to this little takeout place that has the best clam chowder he’s ever tasted, thick and rich and full of clams and bacon and potatoes, and bread bowls to go with it. He gets two orders and tells himself he has to take a long run to make up for the extra calories, but what the fuck ever.
While he’s waiting for the pretty girl, maybe five years younger than him, to ladle the chowder into tall cups—Jesus, he forgot how big those are, maybe he’ll only have one after all, stick the other in the fridge for breakfast or something—he’s thinking about how cute she is, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, that turned-up nose, the light freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Some part of his mind, though, is also on the guy sitting in at the corner table, and it’s not because Sean’s on the lookout for anyone who might be dangerous, even though he is. It’s because the guy is good-looking, dark-haired and good build, great features, and Jesus fuck can’t his fucking brain wait for this until he gets home?
He smiles at the girl when she hands him the bag of food, thanking her and giving her a three-dollar tip on his eight-dollar meal, and then leaves, making a point of not looking toward that corner table.
He should have, though, but not because of the good-looking guy. There’s another guy, a table closer to the door, who gets up and follows Sean out, and he’s too fucking much in his own fucking head to process it the way he should, the way that means he switches his bag to his right hand to free his left to throw a punch or pin a suspect or, fuck, grab for his gun if he has to.
He should have because he failed to notice the haircut that motherfucking Fitzy sports, not to mention lack of neck. Fitzy, one of those fuckers who’s spent most his life with one of Costello’s crews, who’s fucking insane, who would probably have no qualms about shooting a cop who took down anyone with a hard-on for earning for Costello, even if that cop’s on a Boston street with plenty of civilians to witness things.
He doesn’t realize until he happens to glance at windows across the street and catches the shadowy reflection, and then he moves. The bag’s in his right as soon as he spins on Fitzy, and no matter the four inches he has on Sean, Sean shoves him back against the wall they’re next to, snarling, “What’s the plan, Fitz? Shoot me here? Maybe knife me? What about a garrote? Don’t think you can do that one right, though. What is it, huh?”
“Just walkin’,” Fitzy says in that heavy brogue, a sardonic smile pulling at his mouth. “Gettin’ supper, Officer.”
“Detective,” Sean snaps at him. “Massachusetts State Police detective, asshole, and you fucking remember it. You or anyone else gets fucking close, you’ll have the force out for your fucking blood, you got it?”
“Hey,” a woman shouts. “Hey, is there a problem?”
“Don’t worry, ma’am.” Sean uses an authoritative tone as he pushes back his jacket with his left hand enough to show his badge, hooked to his belt. “I’m a cop.”
“Oh, all right.” She skirts them, walking on the street to pass by.
“That was easy for you,” Fitzy observes. “It’s like you weren’t a con for, how long was it, Sean?”
“Almost five years,” Sean says tersely, “and I was never a fucking con. You got it?” He loosens his hold on Fitzy, stepping back as his eyes narrow. “You got no business here. Fucking move.”
“Yes sir, Detective.” Fitzy gives what’s probably supposed to be a salute, and Sean’s fist aches to hit him. But Fitzy doesn’t make a move toward him, so Sean just watches Fitzy walk away. People can tell, he notices. They see that Fitzy’s not right, not like them. They give him room, move a little to the edges of the sidewalk or fall back instead of getting too close. No one wants to risk getting their throat ripped out.
Shaking his head at himself—Jesus Christ, he could’ve gotten himself killed, and then those years would’ve been for fucking nothing—he starts walking once Fitzy’s disappeared down the street. If he walks home, it’s riskier, but it’ll clear his mind, get him back on track with this whole ‘stop being a fucking idiot’ thing about watching his own back. The fuck was he thinking, Christ.
So he walks, and he keeps the bag in his right hand, and he stays so fucking aware that it’s almost exhausting. That girl on his right, slowly starting to lag and popping gum. The guy ahead of him, picking up speed and then turning into a pawn shop. The one across the street who looks at him a little too long. He watches every fucking one of them, and none of them pose the slightest damn threat, of course.
By the time he gets home, the chowder has cooled, but it’s still hot enough to eat—the wonders of Styrofoam cups. He’s kind of surprised none of his food got ruined when he spun on Fitzy, pinned him. Important thing is it didn’t. He pulls out the center of the bread bowl and pours the soup in, grabbing a cup of ice water while it starts to soak into the bread. Best fucking way to eat it. Tonight, he sits at his kitchen table, which is probably big enough for four but has only ever seen, at most, two bodies sitting around it, and usually a big old zero. Tonight, he needs to think.