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yuletide.
Title: An End Has A Start
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wook77
Fandom: The Departed
Pairing: Dignam/Costigan
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1335
Warnings: Canon Compliance
Summary: Parallels. Every relationship has them, some are just more obvious than others.
Author's Notes: This was definitely a team effort. Beta, review and general handholding performed by:djin7, elanorofcastile, emiime, ficlette. Obviously, the mistakes are my own. Title shamelessly stolen from The Editors. Originally written for yuletide and posted here.
Against his better judgment, he heads downtown, buys a ticket and then gets ready to hop the Chinatown bus to New York. This ticket's probably his death warrant, he thinks as he stands in line to board.
It starts and ends with his mother. As far as he's concerned, there's God, then his mother and then the rest of the world. He's a good Irish boy, after all. It's why he goes to the Academy, why he becomes more than just a cop.
He loves his mother and he wants to make her proud.
He pops a pill before he boards and then another two as they rumble down the highways. Even with the drugs, he finds it hard to nap - the kid next to him keeps sliding off his own damned seat and onto his fucking shoulder. By the end of the trip, he's twitchier than normal (but his hand's steady, it's real fucking steady) and he needs another pill more than he needs air. God, he needs another pill.
She'd been in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time. Costello had paid for the arrangements when she'd finally, thankfully, passed. That didn't mean he'd owed him a single fucking thing other than a bullet. Not with the way that it had taken her weeks to pass - a slow, steady slide into a painful oblivion. Christ, it had hurt to watch her go. It had taken far too long and he'd wanted to help her find the end so many times. Fuck's sake, he's got a gun that he's legally allowed to carry and use. It eventually becomes a trial, a test for him, just to keep it holstered when he's with her. But the need becomes so great that he locks it up when he's not in training.
When she finally dies, he decides taking down the fuckers that killed her is the most important thing in the entire world.
When he fucking finally gets to New York, he slips off the bus and starts walking, dodging scaffolding, tourists and junk vendors. They're everywhere, swarming about like locusts and he's Moses begging to the Pharaoh to let him go. It takes one more pill to get him to the coffee shop, four blocks away. The crappy Toyota (he'd thought every fucking cop used a Ford or an Impala or something. Not this shitball) pulls to a stop, and he slides in, fumbling for the seat belt and refusing to look at the driver.
"About fucking time, you lazy motherfucker. You have to get out and push the bus or something? Christ, shut the fucking door already."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"You wish," comes the expected response and then they're pulling away from the curb.
"Yeah, you're second in line, right after I meet the Devil. He's got to be more charming and better looking than you. What the fuck's up with your hair anyway? Always wanted to ask why you have the hair of a sixty year old man."
"Very fucking nice to say to the guy bailing your ass out of trouble. Again."
"Fuck you, you haven't saved my ass once."
"Oh yeah? Rat's looking for you. Want that I should just give you up to him? Sullivan wants you, too and that'll lead you right to the fucking rat. Want me to talk to him? Give up your password?"
"It'd put me outta my fucking misery."
It takes a year and a half of surrendering first his direction then his morals, followed quickly by his self-worth and lastly, his soul. In the end, he doesn't get jackshit for his soul other than Jackie Costigan ending up dead in a ditch. That's no fucking closure, not without a conviction and it's sure the fuck not worth his soul. Motherfucker. It's one of the many reasons why he goes down to the morgue and spits on the asshole's face while he rots in the cooler.
But it's enough to get him yanked off the streets, out of undercover work and into a desk job. He gets his identity back and starts down the path to his soul and his mother's dreams for him. Gets a promotion, and becomes a Staff Sergeant. Fucking Staff Sergeant from a fucking nameless nobody working under a fucking sociopath. It takes awhile, but he feels his soul coming back and he holds on tighter than a Priest onto his rosary. It ain't going nowhere.
You going to crack on me, you pussy?" The tone's the same harsh, berating tone and it comforts him in the midst of the sudden chaos of his life. It fucking breaks him.
"Yeah, yeah, I think I am," he admits, as he stares straight ahead at the street ahead. It's like his life. Green. Red. Green. Red. Start. Stop. Start. Stop.
"Hang in there." The tone changes, gentles.
He can't handle this right now. Fucking Queenan is dead and he's stuck with just Dignam. Dignam who's on a fucking leave of absence and can't do a fucking thing for him, useless prick. He's a fucking idiot for coming here when he should be protecting his ass right now, should be packing a fucking bag and getting the fuck out of Boston. He should be in San Diego, or L.A., or even fucking Portland. Hell, right now, Phoenix sounds good.
"Delahunt? He's in the marsh. Go about five hundred yards in. Three feet of mud and he's sunk in there." It's an abrupt, unsubtle change of subject, but he doesn't give a shit, he's got to say something or he's going to explode. His hands twitch, tapping out a beat on his thighs. It sounds suspiciously like a funeral march.
"All right. I'll call it in." The tone's still gentle. Fuck.
"Delahunt, he knew I was the rat. Why didn't he turn me in? He had plenty of opportunity. Fucking Fitzy was dragging him all over hell and back. Delahunt could've told him."
"He's one of ours."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"He going to get full honors?"
"Yeah, I'm going to unlock his file. He'll get full honors."
"That's good."
As they slip into silence, he thinks of all the things he wants to ask. Then he thinks of all the things he wants to beg for. The things he's going to fucking die for. He thinks of the fucking pills in his fucking pockets.
"I can't protect you right now. You gotta be smart. Real smart."
"Good thing I'm real smart, then, huh?"
"1400 on the SATs." The tone's a bit teasing but still gentle and, it's suddenly like the fucker in the driver's seat really is his his best fucking friend in the whole wide world. Fuck.
"Yeah," he agrees and they slide back into that silence that's full of worries and cares.
It's a relief when they finish the loop and arrive back at the bus stop.
"Seriously. Be smart and protect yourself until I can get back there and help you out."
"Yeah, will do." He gets out of the car and turns back in when he hears a whistle.
"Lace curtain Irish motherfucker."
"Asshole," he says and then slams the door, heading towards the bus without a look back.
He'd seen himself in Costigan. Seen a younger, newer, slightly less tarnished, less bitter version of himself and it fucking scared him. Fucking started his protective instincts racing, his Irish brotherhood. It fucking killed him to start the poor bastard down the road to losing his soul. Cause sure as the fucking sun rises and sets, this kid was going to lose his soul. He'd tried to keep the kid from losing his life.
Except that he failed. Guess he's lost his soul, after all.
The envelope that's waiting for him starts him back down that road to redemption.
Shooting Sullivan gets him a faster ride. He'd like to think that his mother would be proud of him as he walks out of the apartment and into redemption.
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.
yuletide. Title: An End Has A Start
Author:
wook77Fandom: The Departed
Pairing: Dignam/Costigan
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1335
Warnings: Canon Compliance
Summary: Parallels. Every relationship has them, some are just more obvious than others.
Author's Notes: This was definitely a team effort. Beta, review and general handholding performed by:
djin7, elanorofcastile, emiime, ficlette. Obviously, the mistakes are my own. Title shamelessly stolen from The Editors. Originally written for yuletide and posted here. Against his better judgment, he heads downtown, buys a ticket and then gets ready to hop the Chinatown bus to New York. This ticket's probably his death warrant, he thinks as he stands in line to board.
It starts and ends with his mother. As far as he's concerned, there's God, then his mother and then the rest of the world. He's a good Irish boy, after all. It's why he goes to the Academy, why he becomes more than just a cop.
He loves his mother and he wants to make her proud.
He pops a pill before he boards and then another two as they rumble down the highways. Even with the drugs, he finds it hard to nap - the kid next to him keeps sliding off his own damned seat and onto his fucking shoulder. By the end of the trip, he's twitchier than normal (but his hand's steady, it's real fucking steady) and he needs another pill more than he needs air. God, he needs another pill.
She'd been in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time. Costello had paid for the arrangements when she'd finally, thankfully, passed. That didn't mean he'd owed him a single fucking thing other than a bullet. Not with the way that it had taken her weeks to pass - a slow, steady slide into a painful oblivion. Christ, it had hurt to watch her go. It had taken far too long and he'd wanted to help her find the end so many times. Fuck's sake, he's got a gun that he's legally allowed to carry and use. It eventually becomes a trial, a test for him, just to keep it holstered when he's with her. But the need becomes so great that he locks it up when he's not in training.
When she finally dies, he decides taking down the fuckers that killed her is the most important thing in the entire world.
When he fucking finally gets to New York, he slips off the bus and starts walking, dodging scaffolding, tourists and junk vendors. They're everywhere, swarming about like locusts and he's Moses begging to the Pharaoh to let him go. It takes one more pill to get him to the coffee shop, four blocks away. The crappy Toyota (he'd thought every fucking cop used a Ford or an Impala or something. Not this shitball) pulls to a stop, and he slides in, fumbling for the seat belt and refusing to look at the driver.
"About fucking time, you lazy motherfucker. You have to get out and push the bus or something? Christ, shut the fucking door already."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"You wish," comes the expected response and then they're pulling away from the curb.
"Yeah, you're second in line, right after I meet the Devil. He's got to be more charming and better looking than you. What the fuck's up with your hair anyway? Always wanted to ask why you have the hair of a sixty year old man."
"Very fucking nice to say to the guy bailing your ass out of trouble. Again."
"Fuck you, you haven't saved my ass once."
"Oh yeah? Rat's looking for you. Want that I should just give you up to him? Sullivan wants you, too and that'll lead you right to the fucking rat. Want me to talk to him? Give up your password?"
"It'd put me outta my fucking misery."
It takes a year and a half of surrendering first his direction then his morals, followed quickly by his self-worth and lastly, his soul. In the end, he doesn't get jackshit for his soul other than Jackie Costigan ending up dead in a ditch. That's no fucking closure, not without a conviction and it's sure the fuck not worth his soul. Motherfucker. It's one of the many reasons why he goes down to the morgue and spits on the asshole's face while he rots in the cooler.
But it's enough to get him yanked off the streets, out of undercover work and into a desk job. He gets his identity back and starts down the path to his soul and his mother's dreams for him. Gets a promotion, and becomes a Staff Sergeant. Fucking Staff Sergeant from a fucking nameless nobody working under a fucking sociopath. It takes awhile, but he feels his soul coming back and he holds on tighter than a Priest onto his rosary. It ain't going nowhere.
You going to crack on me, you pussy?" The tone's the same harsh, berating tone and it comforts him in the midst of the sudden chaos of his life. It fucking breaks him.
"Yeah, yeah, I think I am," he admits, as he stares straight ahead at the street ahead. It's like his life. Green. Red. Green. Red. Start. Stop. Start. Stop.
"Hang in there." The tone changes, gentles.
He can't handle this right now. Fucking Queenan is dead and he's stuck with just Dignam. Dignam who's on a fucking leave of absence and can't do a fucking thing for him, useless prick. He's a fucking idiot for coming here when he should be protecting his ass right now, should be packing a fucking bag and getting the fuck out of Boston. He should be in San Diego, or L.A., or even fucking Portland. Hell, right now, Phoenix sounds good.
"Delahunt? He's in the marsh. Go about five hundred yards in. Three feet of mud and he's sunk in there." It's an abrupt, unsubtle change of subject, but he doesn't give a shit, he's got to say something or he's going to explode. His hands twitch, tapping out a beat on his thighs. It sounds suspiciously like a funeral march.
"All right. I'll call it in." The tone's still gentle. Fuck.
"Delahunt, he knew I was the rat. Why didn't he turn me in? He had plenty of opportunity. Fucking Fitzy was dragging him all over hell and back. Delahunt could've told him."
"He's one of ours."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"He going to get full honors?"
"Yeah, I'm going to unlock his file. He'll get full honors."
"That's good."
As they slip into silence, he thinks of all the things he wants to ask. Then he thinks of all the things he wants to beg for. The things he's going to fucking die for. He thinks of the fucking pills in his fucking pockets.
"I can't protect you right now. You gotta be smart. Real smart."
"Good thing I'm real smart, then, huh?"
"1400 on the SATs." The tone's a bit teasing but still gentle and, it's suddenly like the fucker in the driver's seat really is his his best fucking friend in the whole wide world. Fuck.
"Yeah," he agrees and they slide back into that silence that's full of worries and cares.
It's a relief when they finish the loop and arrive back at the bus stop.
"Seriously. Be smart and protect yourself until I can get back there and help you out."
"Yeah, will do." He gets out of the car and turns back in when he hears a whistle.
"Lace curtain Irish motherfucker."
"Asshole," he says and then slams the door, heading towards the bus without a look back.
He'd seen himself in Costigan. Seen a younger, newer, slightly less tarnished, less bitter version of himself and it fucking scared him. Fucking started his protective instincts racing, his Irish brotherhood. It fucking killed him to start the poor bastard down the road to losing his soul. Cause sure as the fucking sun rises and sets, this kid was going to lose his soul. He'd tried to keep the kid from losing his life.
Except that he failed. Guess he's lost his soul, after all.
The envelope that's waiting for him starts him back down that road to redemption.
Shooting Sullivan gets him a faster ride. He'd like to think that his mother would be proud of him as he walks out of the apartment and into redemption.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-01-08 06:55 pm (UTC)The last line is a killer ending too.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 07:13 am (UTC)I'm very glad that you enjoyed this!
no subject
Date: 2010-01-09 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-18 07:13 am (UTC)