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gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 04:21 am
gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 04:21 am
Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Seven
Title: Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Seven
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 1,892
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Explicit sex, mention of murder.
Chapter Seven
The rest of the week stays pretty quiet, just the usual meetings with undercovers, spread between prostitution, drugs, weapons, and gangs. The last, of course, includes a couple in with Costello, ones who don’t know about each other at all and are in different crews. Sean knows what that’s like. One of them was in when he still was, and Sean had no fucking idea about his existence at the time.
Too fucking bad they can’t flip French. Then they’d bring down the whole mess. Gwen won’t work; she’d never turn on the bastard.
He also does a couple of briefings, making it clear that no one except he and Queenan will have any fucking idea who undercovers are, no matter what they get asked or how they get asked. Ellerby’s in one of those briefings, and he looks annoyed, but doesn’t ask Sean about anything he damn well shouldn’t.
Robert calls on Thursday night, half an hour after Sean gets home. “Do you want to do something on Saturday?” he asks. “There’s a shipment that’s supposed to arrive at the museum on Sunday, so I have to go in then, but I don’t have plans for Saturday.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing anything either,” Sean says.
“I make good hamburgers. Do you want to come over here for a few hours?”
“Around four?” Sean asks. Should give him something to fill a little of those sixty-odd hours of nothing.
“There’s a Sox game. Want to watch it?”
“That’s at… three?”
“Two-thirty.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. See you then.”
“Bye, Sean.”
“Bye.” Sean hangs up and realizes that he’s smiling, and he’s having a fucking hard time getting rid of it.
He finally gets to transcribing Easley’s debriefing on Friday. Easley’s confident. His voice doesn’t waver; not a thing sounds wrong. He’ll be a fucking excellent witness.
Then the weekend hits, and Sean has no idea what the fuck he’s going to do to fill most of the time before his testimony on Monday morning.
So he starts it out with going for a run and then driving to the department to hit the gym, where he spends an hour on the cardio machines before telling himself that he can’t spend all fucking weekend in the gym. He has to do other shit. Besides potentially have sex.
That in mind, he heads home and showers, changes into jeans and a t-shirt, and stares around his apartment.
It strikes him that he never did any kind of spring cleaning. He usually just cleans as things need to be done, but what the hell, it’s a way to fill time. He flips on the TV, digs out the cleaning supplies from the tiny hall closet and gets started on the kitchen counters and sink.
He gets as far as pulling out the fridge and sweeping and mopping where it usually stands when he happens to glance at the clock. Swearing, he makes sure the fridge is plugged in securely—another good thing about not having any fucking pets: nothing to unplug the fridge while he’s gone—and goes to take a hurried shower.
He gets to Robert’s just after two-thirty, and Robert lets him in, already holding a beer. “Want one?” He holds it up.
“Yeah, thanks. Game already start?” Sean follows Robert to the kitchen, and Robert pops the cap off a bottle of Dos Equis, handing it to him.
“Yeah, I have it on in the living room.”
The TV was only showing ads when Robert let him in, so Sean excuses himself for not realizing. They head back to the parlor and sit on the couch together, nearly touching, and then Robert throws an arm around his shoulders.
“Mets or Sox?” Sean asks, the corners of his mouth lifting up.
“I may have gone to school in New York, but I’m an assimilated Bostonian. Sox, thank you. I hope you’re thinking the same.”
“Hey, at least it’s not the fucking Yankees. We should hit a game sometime.” He really has to stop saying things without thinking about them, but being reckless hasn’t hurt yet in dating Robert.
“Yeah, we should. Maybe in a couple of weeks.” Robert twists to kiss him swiftly. “Did you do anything you can tell me about this week?”
“Went to some bail hearings, told a bunch of nosy detectives and sergeants to back the fuck off because they’re going to find out exactly jack about who our undercovers are.” Sean shrugs. “My captain keeps everything close. So do I. We don’t want any dead cops.”
“I’ve noticed that. And I wouldn’t want to be one of the cops you were telling to fuck off.” Robert grins. “I imagine you’re effective.”
Sean grins himself, sharklike. “It usually fucking works, yeah. What did you do this week?”
“I made arrangements for the exhibit that’s being delivered tomorrow and wrote information cards on other exhibits to replace old ones. I also made arrangements for a couple of other traveling exhibitions and found more information on some pieces the museum is interested in having. A couple of them will be replicas, but most are paintings and original. And quite pricey.”
“Yeah, I can imagine. Got to be dropping a lot of money.”
“If we have to, we will. But we get donations from a lot of the older families.”
“That has to be nice.”
“It’s helpful,” Robert agrees, “but it also means they dictate, to an extent, what we display.” He shrugs. “It’s a tradeoff, but it keeps people coming back.”
Sean nods and settles more comfortably into the couch, taking a long drink of his beer.
The Sox fucking lose, nothing to one, and fuck the New York teams, but at least it wasn’t the Yankees. To console themselves, Sean and Robert each have another beer.
Robert’s burgers are up to his hype. It’s something in the way he seasons the meat and probably the fact that he actually barbecues them, but whatever it is, Sean helps himself to a second before he and Robert clear off the table and put everything away.
“I thought you’d have a dog.” Sean’s putting away the condiments.
“I used to, but she kept getting out. I gave her to my sister, Stacy. I’m going to build up the fence before I get another.” Robert glances at him. “What made you think that?”
Sean shrugs. “You just seem like a dog person. You’re a runner, home-oriented, open, all that.”
“You really are a detective.” Robert smiles. “Have a little more free time, Detective?”
Sean pulls him into a hard kiss. “Only if you don’t call me that in bed.”
Robert’s smile broadens. “I think I can manage that.”
Almost as soon as they get to the bedroom, Robert pushes Sean to sit on the edge of the bed and grabs a condom. He does this trick where he rolls it on Sean’s dick with his mouth and immediately begins to suck him off, pressing hard with his tongue and playing with Sean’s balls the whole time. He’s not over-gentle, like a chick might be, and Sean’s hands clench on his shoulders as he goes. That’s about the extent of things on Sean’s end, one hard orgasm after ten or so minutes of getting great head, and he allows himself a moment to catch his breath and to kiss Robert before grabbing another condom and rolling it on him. He slides to his own knees and thinks about everything he likes when he’s getting blown, then tries to do that for Robert. Judging by the sounds he’s making and the fingers digging into his shoulders, he does a good job.
He crawls back up on the bed after, and Robert kisses him before sucking in air. “You’re pretty good at that.”
“For someone new to giving head?”
“Now that you mention the qualifier.”
Sean kisses him again. “Practice makes perfect, right?”
“It should, and I won’t complain if you want to keep practicing.”
He smirks. “I think that’d be a good idea.”
They stay like that for a few minutes, sitting naked on the edge of Robert’s bed and kissing, before Sean asks, “Are you free Wednesday?”
“I think so. Did you want to do something?”
“Supper, my treat.”
Robert smiles in a way Sean particularly likes. “Let me know the details.”
“I’ll figure it out tomorrow,” Sean agrees. “You were busy tonight?”
“Yeah, I have some planning to do for setting up the new exhibit. I should start soon.”
Sean kisses him once more and stands. “I need to move my fridge back anyway.” He retrieves his pants and starts to dress.
“Your fridge,” Robert repeats.
“I was cleaning.”
“It’s a little late for spring cleaning,” Robert says, amusement evident.
Sean shrugs. “I’m a late bloomer.” That gets Robert to laugh, and he grins and finishes dressing before kissing Robert quickly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you to the door.” Robert only gets pants on before standing, and he looks good like that, jeans and shirtless, barefoot too.
At the door, he kisses Sean one last time, lingering, and by the time Sean breaks away, his mouth feels swollen. It might be, between the blowjob and kissing.
He checks the back of his car before getting in the front. No one’s hiding out, and it’s still locked, no windows broken. Christ, he feels paranoid, but he testifies in two days. He’ll be as paranoid as he damn well wants until that’s over.
Back at home, he does a quick search of the apartment and locks up before changing back into the already-dirty shirt from before. No point in getting two shirts that filthy.
He spends Sunday cleaning his room and reorganizing his papers. A slip falls out of old bill stubs, and he picks it up. Carrie’s number and address.
He sits back on his heels. It’s probably out of date by now. Four years since the last card he sent, six since the last phone call she answered. He should just throw it out. Not like it’s going to be useful.
Instead, he gets up and finds his address book and a pen. Once everything from that slip is copied into the ‘C’ section of the book, he throws it out and goes back to the filing cabinet. Now it’s not going anywhere, not that it really fucking matters. His sister doesn’t want to hear from him.
By the time the only thing he has left to do is oil his gun, his mind refuses to get the fuck off tomorrow. Half of him is positive he’s going to end up murdered on the courthouse steps. If he gets Middlebrook and Williams convicted, one of them might turn on Costello pre-sentencing, or at least on French, and both those fuckers are smart enough to know about the possibility. Sean wouldn’t put it past either of them to have a cop killed. Hell, they’ve done it, and he knows it. That knowing is from hearing only whispers, though, and it was before his time, nothing he has a prayer of proving.
He just might get the privilege of being next.
Shaking his head at himself, he finishes oiling the gun and reassembles it, then loads the clip.
If he sleeps with it under his pillow that night, no one has to know.
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 1,892
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Explicit sex, mention of murder.
The rest of the week stays pretty quiet, just the usual meetings with undercovers, spread between prostitution, drugs, weapons, and gangs. The last, of course, includes a couple in with Costello, ones who don’t know about each other at all and are in different crews. Sean knows what that’s like. One of them was in when he still was, and Sean had no fucking idea about his existence at the time.
Too fucking bad they can’t flip French. Then they’d bring down the whole mess. Gwen won’t work; she’d never turn on the bastard.
He also does a couple of briefings, making it clear that no one except he and Queenan will have any fucking idea who undercovers are, no matter what they get asked or how they get asked. Ellerby’s in one of those briefings, and he looks annoyed, but doesn’t ask Sean about anything he damn well shouldn’t.
Robert calls on Thursday night, half an hour after Sean gets home. “Do you want to do something on Saturday?” he asks. “There’s a shipment that’s supposed to arrive at the museum on Sunday, so I have to go in then, but I don’t have plans for Saturday.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing anything either,” Sean says.
“I make good hamburgers. Do you want to come over here for a few hours?”
“Around four?” Sean asks. Should give him something to fill a little of those sixty-odd hours of nothing.
“There’s a Sox game. Want to watch it?”
“That’s at… three?”
“Two-thirty.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. See you then.”
“Bye, Sean.”
“Bye.” Sean hangs up and realizes that he’s smiling, and he’s having a fucking hard time getting rid of it.
He finally gets to transcribing Easley’s debriefing on Friday. Easley’s confident. His voice doesn’t waver; not a thing sounds wrong. He’ll be a fucking excellent witness.
Then the weekend hits, and Sean has no idea what the fuck he’s going to do to fill most of the time before his testimony on Monday morning.
So he starts it out with going for a run and then driving to the department to hit the gym, where he spends an hour on the cardio machines before telling himself that he can’t spend all fucking weekend in the gym. He has to do other shit. Besides potentially have sex.
That in mind, he heads home and showers, changes into jeans and a t-shirt, and stares around his apartment.
It strikes him that he never did any kind of spring cleaning. He usually just cleans as things need to be done, but what the hell, it’s a way to fill time. He flips on the TV, digs out the cleaning supplies from the tiny hall closet and gets started on the kitchen counters and sink.
He gets as far as pulling out the fridge and sweeping and mopping where it usually stands when he happens to glance at the clock. Swearing, he makes sure the fridge is plugged in securely—another good thing about not having any fucking pets: nothing to unplug the fridge while he’s gone—and goes to take a hurried shower.
He gets to Robert’s just after two-thirty, and Robert lets him in, already holding a beer. “Want one?” He holds it up.
“Yeah, thanks. Game already start?” Sean follows Robert to the kitchen, and Robert pops the cap off a bottle of Dos Equis, handing it to him.
“Yeah, I have it on in the living room.”
The TV was only showing ads when Robert let him in, so Sean excuses himself for not realizing. They head back to the parlor and sit on the couch together, nearly touching, and then Robert throws an arm around his shoulders.
“Mets or Sox?” Sean asks, the corners of his mouth lifting up.
“I may have gone to school in New York, but I’m an assimilated Bostonian. Sox, thank you. I hope you’re thinking the same.”
“Hey, at least it’s not the fucking Yankees. We should hit a game sometime.” He really has to stop saying things without thinking about them, but being reckless hasn’t hurt yet in dating Robert.
“Yeah, we should. Maybe in a couple of weeks.” Robert twists to kiss him swiftly. “Did you do anything you can tell me about this week?”
“Went to some bail hearings, told a bunch of nosy detectives and sergeants to back the fuck off because they’re going to find out exactly jack about who our undercovers are.” Sean shrugs. “My captain keeps everything close. So do I. We don’t want any dead cops.”
“I’ve noticed that. And I wouldn’t want to be one of the cops you were telling to fuck off.” Robert grins. “I imagine you’re effective.”
Sean grins himself, sharklike. “It usually fucking works, yeah. What did you do this week?”
“I made arrangements for the exhibit that’s being delivered tomorrow and wrote information cards on other exhibits to replace old ones. I also made arrangements for a couple of other traveling exhibitions and found more information on some pieces the museum is interested in having. A couple of them will be replicas, but most are paintings and original. And quite pricey.”
“Yeah, I can imagine. Got to be dropping a lot of money.”
“If we have to, we will. But we get donations from a lot of the older families.”
“That has to be nice.”
“It’s helpful,” Robert agrees, “but it also means they dictate, to an extent, what we display.” He shrugs. “It’s a tradeoff, but it keeps people coming back.”
Sean nods and settles more comfortably into the couch, taking a long drink of his beer.
The Sox fucking lose, nothing to one, and fuck the New York teams, but at least it wasn’t the Yankees. To console themselves, Sean and Robert each have another beer.
Robert’s burgers are up to his hype. It’s something in the way he seasons the meat and probably the fact that he actually barbecues them, but whatever it is, Sean helps himself to a second before he and Robert clear off the table and put everything away.
“I thought you’d have a dog.” Sean’s putting away the condiments.
“I used to, but she kept getting out. I gave her to my sister, Stacy. I’m going to build up the fence before I get another.” Robert glances at him. “What made you think that?”
Sean shrugs. “You just seem like a dog person. You’re a runner, home-oriented, open, all that.”
“You really are a detective.” Robert smiles. “Have a little more free time, Detective?”
Sean pulls him into a hard kiss. “Only if you don’t call me that in bed.”
Robert’s smile broadens. “I think I can manage that.”
Almost as soon as they get to the bedroom, Robert pushes Sean to sit on the edge of the bed and grabs a condom. He does this trick where he rolls it on Sean’s dick with his mouth and immediately begins to suck him off, pressing hard with his tongue and playing with Sean’s balls the whole time. He’s not over-gentle, like a chick might be, and Sean’s hands clench on his shoulders as he goes. That’s about the extent of things on Sean’s end, one hard orgasm after ten or so minutes of getting great head, and he allows himself a moment to catch his breath and to kiss Robert before grabbing another condom and rolling it on him. He slides to his own knees and thinks about everything he likes when he’s getting blown, then tries to do that for Robert. Judging by the sounds he’s making and the fingers digging into his shoulders, he does a good job.
He crawls back up on the bed after, and Robert kisses him before sucking in air. “You’re pretty good at that.”
“For someone new to giving head?”
“Now that you mention the qualifier.”
Sean kisses him again. “Practice makes perfect, right?”
“It should, and I won’t complain if you want to keep practicing.”
He smirks. “I think that’d be a good idea.”
They stay like that for a few minutes, sitting naked on the edge of Robert’s bed and kissing, before Sean asks, “Are you free Wednesday?”
“I think so. Did you want to do something?”
“Supper, my treat.”
Robert smiles in a way Sean particularly likes. “Let me know the details.”
“I’ll figure it out tomorrow,” Sean agrees. “You were busy tonight?”
“Yeah, I have some planning to do for setting up the new exhibit. I should start soon.”
Sean kisses him once more and stands. “I need to move my fridge back anyway.” He retrieves his pants and starts to dress.
“Your fridge,” Robert repeats.
“I was cleaning.”
“It’s a little late for spring cleaning,” Robert says, amusement evident.
Sean shrugs. “I’m a late bloomer.” That gets Robert to laugh, and he grins and finishes dressing before kissing Robert quickly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you to the door.” Robert only gets pants on before standing, and he looks good like that, jeans and shirtless, barefoot too.
At the door, he kisses Sean one last time, lingering, and by the time Sean breaks away, his mouth feels swollen. It might be, between the blowjob and kissing.
He checks the back of his car before getting in the front. No one’s hiding out, and it’s still locked, no windows broken. Christ, he feels paranoid, but he testifies in two days. He’ll be as paranoid as he damn well wants until that’s over.
Back at home, he does a quick search of the apartment and locks up before changing back into the already-dirty shirt from before. No point in getting two shirts that filthy.
He spends Sunday cleaning his room and reorganizing his papers. A slip falls out of old bill stubs, and he picks it up. Carrie’s number and address.
He sits back on his heels. It’s probably out of date by now. Four years since the last card he sent, six since the last phone call she answered. He should just throw it out. Not like it’s going to be useful.
Instead, he gets up and finds his address book and a pen. Once everything from that slip is copied into the ‘C’ section of the book, he throws it out and goes back to the filing cabinet. Now it’s not going anywhere, not that it really fucking matters. His sister doesn’t want to hear from him.
By the time the only thing he has left to do is oil his gun, his mind refuses to get the fuck off tomorrow. Half of him is positive he’s going to end up murdered on the courthouse steps. If he gets Middlebrook and Williams convicted, one of them might turn on Costello pre-sentencing, or at least on French, and both those fuckers are smart enough to know about the possibility. Sean wouldn’t put it past either of them to have a cop killed. Hell, they’ve done it, and he knows it. That knowing is from hearing only whispers, though, and it was before his time, nothing he has a prayer of proving.
He just might get the privilege of being next.
Shaking his head at himself, he finishes oiling the gun and reassembles it, then loads the clip.
If he sleeps with it under his pillow that night, no one has to know.