Fic: Dead on Arrival (Reservoir Dogs)
Title: Dead on Arrival
Rating: R
Pairings: None
Warnings: Bad language, violence, spoilers, character death
Disclaimer: I make no attempt to pretend that I own any of it
Summary: Officer Freddy Newandyke has been shot three times in the line of duty.
Notes: I'm a newcomer to this particular fandom, so concrit is very welcome (Of course unequivocal love is even more welcome but I'm realistic about these things...). Title comes from a Big Country song of the same name.
~*~
Officer Freddy Newandyke has been shot three times in the line of duty.
The first time was when he was a rookie - clipped by a bullet after responding to reports of an armed robbery at a liquor store in downtown LA. It was the first real action he'd seen and he was so hyped up on adrenaline he barely registered the sudden sting. He didn't think anything of it until his partner at the time, a big bulky guy by the name of Symanski, turned to him afterwards and said, "Fuck, man, you're bleeding everywhere." He came out of the hospital three hours later with twelve stitches and what would heal up into a pretty cool scar.
~*~
The second time he was technically shot twice, but he only counts it as the one. He wasn't on duty either in the strictest sense of the word. He'd been sitting in a diner minding his own damn business, his attention fully devoted to the stack of pancakes in front of him, when three guys with masks and guns burst in. He leapt to his feet, going for a gun he only belatedly remembered he didn't have since he was off duty, and got shot. When he tells the story he usually glosses over that bit a little - because, obviously, it makes him sound like a fucking idiot.
One bullet in the left shoulder; he felt it lodge itself just under his collarbone. The other one hit his side and - according to the doctors, anyway - managed to ricochet away off one of his ribs. There was no adrenaline to soften the blow this time: just a hot, breathless pain and the ground swinging up to meet him.
He remembers having the wholly inappropriate thought that the diner floor could do with being washed, followed by an oddly dispassionate realisation that he probably wasn't helping matters by bleeding all over it. When one of the robbers rolled him over he managed to swallow a strangled scream of pain and go limp, feigning unconsciousness.
Rough fingers pressed briefly against the pulse in his neck and a voice said disinterestedly, "This one's still alive. How 'bout the other guy?"
"Dead."
He chanced cracking an eyelid open. Two of the robbers were covering the crowd, the third holding a gun on a frightened waitress as she emptied the register. Movement in the periphery of his vision caught his eye: carefully, discreetly, he shifted enough to get a clear look at a second waitress edging slowly towards the counter. From his excellent vantage point on the floor, he could see the butt of the shotgun she had to be going for. One of the guys on crowd control turned towards her and she froze. She relaxed again when he looked away, but progress to the shotgun was painfully slow.
Maybe she felt him watching her, or maybe it was just coincidence, but she looked right at him and met his gaze squarely. He didn't know what she saw in his eyes, but in hers he read grim determination. A distraction, he thought. Just a moment. Enough to get to the gun.
A distraction. Well, he could do that - he'd just have to hope she took the hint and used the opportunity wisely. He took a deep breath, arched his back and screamed.
He told a highly edited version of that particular story to Pink, White, and Brown once: re-casting the diner as a warehouse, himself and the other patrons as small-time crooks, and the would-be robbers as cops. It went down pretty well. White and Brown laughed; Pink accused him of being full of shit, in response to which he undid the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled it aside to show the ugly, puckered bullet-scar high on the left side of his chest. Brown had whistled, apparently impressed, and then swiftly lost interest and started talking some shit about Elvis that none of them managed to make much sense of.
When he thinks about it, it's kind of weird how comfortable it is, hanging out and swapping bullshit stories with this little gang of crooks. It's the first fucking lesson you learn when you go undercover: don't get attached. It's way too fucking dangerous to start thinking of the crooks you're going to bring down as people. But he can't help it. Fuck, he likes them. There are times when he's listening to Brown's bullshit or Pink's skewed view of life, or watching the weird sibling-rivalry thing Blonde's got going on with Nice Guy Eddie, that he completely forgets he's an undercover cop here to take these guys down. It's so easy to let the conversation flow around him and just be, and Mr. Orange gets a little more real than he's comfortable with. It's really pretty fucking worrying when he thinks about it.
He tries not to think about it. It's easier that way.
~*~
The third time he gets shot in the line of duty, there's a moment where Officer Newandyke has no say whatsoever in the proceedings. For a moment the facade becomes real and it's Mr. Orange who reacts: Mr. Orange raises his gun and shoots right back, one bullet clean through the chest. A quick death - it's more than she gave him.
For a moment it doesn't hurt at all. There's just a sudden impact, like a fist in the gut driving the breath from his body, and a terrible coldness spreading through him. It doesn't hurt at all, and that more than anything else makes him realise that it's bad.
Then the pain hits him and it's like nothing else he's ever felt.
There's blood everywhere - so much fucking blood. He can hear himself screaming and sobbing, writhing around and clutching Larry's hand as if that's going to fucking help. The tearing acid agony in his gut makes a coherent thought process so far out of the question it's fucking laughable; any doomed attempts are drowned at birth by a frantic, panicked litany of oh fuck oh fuck I'm gonna die fuck fuck shit fuck it fucking hurts oh god. Right there and then, it doesn't matter if he's Mr. Orange or Officer Newandyke or Marilyn fucking Monroe. Pain strips everything else away until there's nothing left in him but the most basic instinct and desire to not die.
Consciousness comes and goes and by degrees, he manages to pull himself together a little. He's in so much fucking pain it's almost not pain any more - too much for his body to process, like that weird buzz when you turn the stereo's speakers up too high.
Everything else has been stripped away. There's nothing left but a screaming pain clawing at his insides and a steely determination, a strength he would never have imagined he had in him. He's going to die; he knows it like he knows the sky is blue, the cruel, unadorned understanding a cold weight in his chest. He knows it, and he accepts it. But no way, no fucking way is he going to let himself have died for nothing.
~*~
The fourth time he gets shot, he's not even sure who he is. The lines are so fucking blurred they aren't even there any more.
The barrel of the gun is cold against his jaw, and even the bullet buried in his guts doesn't hurt as much as the wounded-animal noises of disbelief and betrayal Larry's making. He's in so fucking far over his head he couldn't see the surface with a fucking telescope. Maybe he was in over his head right from the fucking start. He didn't just get attached, he moved right on in and set up fucking housekeeping.
He'd always managed to keep his distance before. There must have been a moment this time where he did something wrong, let down an emotional barrier that should have stayed exactly where the fuck it was, but he can't work out when. He doesn't know what he did wrong, but he never wanted it to end like this - he never thought it would end like this, drowning in pain as the look on Larry's face tears him up inside even worse than that fucking bullet did.
He closes his eyes. So much fucking pain. It's easier to give up, to slip away. The cops' shouts are faint and distant; Larry's strangled moans cut far too close. The barrel of the gun is cold against his jaw. The fourth time he gets shot, Officer Newandyke and Mr. Orange have bled into each other so badly he doesn't know who the fuck he is any more.
The fourth time he gets shot, he welcomes it.
~*fin*~
Rating: R
Pairings: None
Warnings: Bad language, violence, spoilers, character death
Disclaimer: I make no attempt to pretend that I own any of it
Summary: Officer Freddy Newandyke has been shot three times in the line of duty.
Notes: I'm a newcomer to this particular fandom, so concrit is very welcome (Of course unequivocal love is even more welcome but I'm realistic about these things...). Title comes from a Big Country song of the same name.
~*~
Officer Freddy Newandyke has been shot three times in the line of duty.
The first time was when he was a rookie - clipped by a bullet after responding to reports of an armed robbery at a liquor store in downtown LA. It was the first real action he'd seen and he was so hyped up on adrenaline he barely registered the sudden sting. He didn't think anything of it until his partner at the time, a big bulky guy by the name of Symanski, turned to him afterwards and said, "Fuck, man, you're bleeding everywhere." He came out of the hospital three hours later with twelve stitches and what would heal up into a pretty cool scar.
~*~
The second time he was technically shot twice, but he only counts it as the one. He wasn't on duty either in the strictest sense of the word. He'd been sitting in a diner minding his own damn business, his attention fully devoted to the stack of pancakes in front of him, when three guys with masks and guns burst in. He leapt to his feet, going for a gun he only belatedly remembered he didn't have since he was off duty, and got shot. When he tells the story he usually glosses over that bit a little - because, obviously, it makes him sound like a fucking idiot.
One bullet in the left shoulder; he felt it lodge itself just under his collarbone. The other one hit his side and - according to the doctors, anyway - managed to ricochet away off one of his ribs. There was no adrenaline to soften the blow this time: just a hot, breathless pain and the ground swinging up to meet him.
He remembers having the wholly inappropriate thought that the diner floor could do with being washed, followed by an oddly dispassionate realisation that he probably wasn't helping matters by bleeding all over it. When one of the robbers rolled him over he managed to swallow a strangled scream of pain and go limp, feigning unconsciousness.
Rough fingers pressed briefly against the pulse in his neck and a voice said disinterestedly, "This one's still alive. How 'bout the other guy?"
"Dead."
He chanced cracking an eyelid open. Two of the robbers were covering the crowd, the third holding a gun on a frightened waitress as she emptied the register. Movement in the periphery of his vision caught his eye: carefully, discreetly, he shifted enough to get a clear look at a second waitress edging slowly towards the counter. From his excellent vantage point on the floor, he could see the butt of the shotgun she had to be going for. One of the guys on crowd control turned towards her and she froze. She relaxed again when he looked away, but progress to the shotgun was painfully slow.
Maybe she felt him watching her, or maybe it was just coincidence, but she looked right at him and met his gaze squarely. He didn't know what she saw in his eyes, but in hers he read grim determination. A distraction, he thought. Just a moment. Enough to get to the gun.
A distraction. Well, he could do that - he'd just have to hope she took the hint and used the opportunity wisely. He took a deep breath, arched his back and screamed.
He told a highly edited version of that particular story to Pink, White, and Brown once: re-casting the diner as a warehouse, himself and the other patrons as small-time crooks, and the would-be robbers as cops. It went down pretty well. White and Brown laughed; Pink accused him of being full of shit, in response to which he undid the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled it aside to show the ugly, puckered bullet-scar high on the left side of his chest. Brown had whistled, apparently impressed, and then swiftly lost interest and started talking some shit about Elvis that none of them managed to make much sense of.
When he thinks about it, it's kind of weird how comfortable it is, hanging out and swapping bullshit stories with this little gang of crooks. It's the first fucking lesson you learn when you go undercover: don't get attached. It's way too fucking dangerous to start thinking of the crooks you're going to bring down as people. But he can't help it. Fuck, he likes them. There are times when he's listening to Brown's bullshit or Pink's skewed view of life, or watching the weird sibling-rivalry thing Blonde's got going on with Nice Guy Eddie, that he completely forgets he's an undercover cop here to take these guys down. It's so easy to let the conversation flow around him and just be, and Mr. Orange gets a little more real than he's comfortable with. It's really pretty fucking worrying when he thinks about it.
He tries not to think about it. It's easier that way.
~*~
The third time he gets shot in the line of duty, there's a moment where Officer Newandyke has no say whatsoever in the proceedings. For a moment the facade becomes real and it's Mr. Orange who reacts: Mr. Orange raises his gun and shoots right back, one bullet clean through the chest. A quick death - it's more than she gave him.
For a moment it doesn't hurt at all. There's just a sudden impact, like a fist in the gut driving the breath from his body, and a terrible coldness spreading through him. It doesn't hurt at all, and that more than anything else makes him realise that it's bad.
Then the pain hits him and it's like nothing else he's ever felt.
There's blood everywhere - so much fucking blood. He can hear himself screaming and sobbing, writhing around and clutching Larry's hand as if that's going to fucking help. The tearing acid agony in his gut makes a coherent thought process so far out of the question it's fucking laughable; any doomed attempts are drowned at birth by a frantic, panicked litany of oh fuck oh fuck I'm gonna die fuck fuck shit fuck it fucking hurts oh god. Right there and then, it doesn't matter if he's Mr. Orange or Officer Newandyke or Marilyn fucking Monroe. Pain strips everything else away until there's nothing left in him but the most basic instinct and desire to not die.
Consciousness comes and goes and by degrees, he manages to pull himself together a little. He's in so much fucking pain it's almost not pain any more - too much for his body to process, like that weird buzz when you turn the stereo's speakers up too high.
Everything else has been stripped away. There's nothing left but a screaming pain clawing at his insides and a steely determination, a strength he would never have imagined he had in him. He's going to die; he knows it like he knows the sky is blue, the cruel, unadorned understanding a cold weight in his chest. He knows it, and he accepts it. But no way, no fucking way is he going to let himself have died for nothing.
~*~
The fourth time he gets shot, he's not even sure who he is. The lines are so fucking blurred they aren't even there any more.
The barrel of the gun is cold against his jaw, and even the bullet buried in his guts doesn't hurt as much as the wounded-animal noises of disbelief and betrayal Larry's making. He's in so fucking far over his head he couldn't see the surface with a fucking telescope. Maybe he was in over his head right from the fucking start. He didn't just get attached, he moved right on in and set up fucking housekeeping.
He'd always managed to keep his distance before. There must have been a moment this time where he did something wrong, let down an emotional barrier that should have stayed exactly where the fuck it was, but he can't work out when. He doesn't know what he did wrong, but he never wanted it to end like this - he never thought it would end like this, drowning in pain as the look on Larry's face tears him up inside even worse than that fucking bullet did.
He closes his eyes. So much fucking pain. It's easier to give up, to slip away. The cops' shouts are faint and distant; Larry's strangled moans cut far too close. The barrel of the gun is cold against his jaw. The fourth time he gets shot, Officer Newandyke and Mr. Orange have bled into each other so badly he doesn't know who the fuck he is any more.
The fourth time he gets shot, he welcomes it.
~*fin*~