Original fic: Boston
Jun. 16th, 2005 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardJimmy has a happy little flashback to the day Mac (Officer Donald Mackay, actually, if we want to be all formal) died. Continuation of the last piece.
He remembers, dim like a heartbeat shuddering into silence, the call for aid. “Shots fired,” they heard over the crackle of the radio, and they’d stepped out of the squad car with their hands on their guns, wary but easy in their patrolman’s blues. The silence sunk into the street like gangrene into flesh, something wrong, something not right, and the bright sunlight that shone off the roofs was a mistake. Mac cocked his head to one side the way he did when he wasn’t sure, eyes narrowing, then called out.
“Boston PD!”
Nothing. The sound echoed, loud as gunshots, and movement out of the corner of his eye made Jimmy turn his head to find a woman with a child clutched to her chest, turning the boy’s head into her stomach even as he squirmed to watch. What –
He didn’t see. Remembers that, that he didn’t see.
The next sounds that ran out were gunshots and Mac’s harsh panting breath as his partner collapsed back against him. The kid scrambled over Mac’s fallen body and down the sidewalk, dropping the .38 even as he did. “No, no – Mac! Jesus, Mac!”
The only sound was the rattle of blood as Mac coughed and it splattered across Jimmy’s face. Mac had knocked him down, left him sitting with his partner’s head in his lap, and he scrambled for the radio to gasp out, “Officer down, officer down! Jesus –” He spat out the address and a description of the perp, as much as he could remember from the little he saw, and all the while his partner was dying in his lap. “Officer –” he tried again, and heard the dispatcher’s voice soothing in his ear, “Officer Saint –”
“Mac, oh God – Mac –”
The first cruiser to pull up was Cahill’s car, and the cop came out with his gun in hand almost before the car slid to a stop. “Kid, where’re you hurt, where’s – oh God.” He stopped, went dead white beneath the thin brown fuzz that passed for a beard with him. “Mac! Mac, Jesus!” He dropped to his knees beside Mac and Jimmy, groping for Mac’s hand, or maybe his pulse. What he felt made him shake his head in disbelieving horror, then he threw back his head and howled.
Jimmy had never heard anything like that howl.
Still hasn’t, but the feeling is the same. The same helplessness. I can’t help my partner.
But Chris isn’t dead yet. Won’t be, not if he can help it. My partner, damnit, mine, damnit all to hell, and you bastards won’t take him.
He’s silent now, but shivering, white-faced. Like Mac’s face at his funeral. A walking corpse. Dead man breathing, detecting. Now and then he shakes his head in denial, and a whisper leaves his lips, “God help me. God, God, Jimmy please –”
Jimmy slides one hand under his arm, feels Chris thin as a scarecrow. Light as one too, crumpling against him like wet paper. Jimmy scoops him up, and his partner’s head drops onto his shoulder. Passed out.
I can help you. This time, I can help you. Any fucking way I can. And any way I can’t.
In other news, Chapter Five of Omerta contains Nick Bonasera and pictures of young Stella: Stella, at fifteen. Caught in sleep, cheek resting on a thick textbook with paper spreading out in flurries around her.
He remembers, dim like a heartbeat shuddering into silence, the call for aid. “Shots fired,” they heard over the crackle of the radio, and they’d stepped out of the squad car with their hands on their guns, wary but easy in their patrolman’s blues. The silence sunk into the street like gangrene into flesh, something wrong, something not right, and the bright sunlight that shone off the roofs was a mistake. Mac cocked his head to one side the way he did when he wasn’t sure, eyes narrowing, then called out.
“Boston PD!”
Nothing. The sound echoed, loud as gunshots, and movement out of the corner of his eye made Jimmy turn his head to find a woman with a child clutched to her chest, turning the boy’s head into her stomach even as he squirmed to watch. What –
He didn’t see. Remembers that, that he didn’t see.
The next sounds that ran out were gunshots and Mac’s harsh panting breath as his partner collapsed back against him. The kid scrambled over Mac’s fallen body and down the sidewalk, dropping the .38 even as he did. “No, no – Mac! Jesus, Mac!”
The only sound was the rattle of blood as Mac coughed and it splattered across Jimmy’s face. Mac had knocked him down, left him sitting with his partner’s head in his lap, and he scrambled for the radio to gasp out, “Officer down, officer down! Jesus –” He spat out the address and a description of the perp, as much as he could remember from the little he saw, and all the while his partner was dying in his lap. “Officer –” he tried again, and heard the dispatcher’s voice soothing in his ear, “Officer Saint –”
“Mac, oh God – Mac –”
The first cruiser to pull up was Cahill’s car, and the cop came out with his gun in hand almost before the car slid to a stop. “Kid, where’re you hurt, where’s – oh God.” He stopped, went dead white beneath the thin brown fuzz that passed for a beard with him. “Mac! Mac, Jesus!” He dropped to his knees beside Mac and Jimmy, groping for Mac’s hand, or maybe his pulse. What he felt made him shake his head in disbelieving horror, then he threw back his head and howled.
Jimmy had never heard anything like that howl.
Still hasn’t, but the feeling is the same. The same helplessness. I can’t help my partner.
But Chris isn’t dead yet. Won’t be, not if he can help it. My partner, damnit, mine, damnit all to hell, and you bastards won’t take him.
He’s silent now, but shivering, white-faced. Like Mac’s face at his funeral. A walking corpse. Dead man breathing, detecting. Now and then he shakes his head in denial, and a whisper leaves his lips, “God help me. God, God, Jimmy please –”
Jimmy slides one hand under his arm, feels Chris thin as a scarecrow. Light as one too, crumpling against him like wet paper. Jimmy scoops him up, and his partner’s head drops onto his shoulder. Passed out.
I can help you. This time, I can help you. Any fucking way I can. And any way I can’t.
In other news, Chapter Five of Omerta contains Nick Bonasera and pictures of young Stella: Stella, at fifteen. Caught in sleep, cheek resting on a thick textbook with paper spreading out in flurries around her.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-18 12:43 am (UTC)God, wow-- I love them. The horror for both Jimmy and Cahill at Mac's dying/death is palpable, and Jimmy's confusion and hurt and not quite knowing *what* happened, just that his partner was dying and suddenly *that* matters most of all. And that he won't dare let that happen to Chris.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From: