hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2009-04-27 12:45 pm
hackthis_archive) wrote2009-04-27 12:45 pm
Entry tags:
Southland – Meantime, In Between Time (Cooper, Ben, PG)
I have cramps that would fell a horse. I love this story, FYI.
Southland
Cooper, Ben, PG
Spoilers for 1.03
Meantime, In Between Time
The Vicodin gives everything around John a slightly fuzzy edge, so when something starts ringing at his house late at night after his shift, he slumps further in his armchair and squints at the TV in irritation.
He was this close to finally falling asleep. Finally at that place where his back didn't hurt anymore and his brain was quiet, and he wasn't thinking about screaming parents and beaten transvestites and the feel of brick under his fingers during back alley blowjobs.
On his plasma TV penguins are being eaten by a sea lion -– he loves this part of Planet Earth. It's insane enough to seem perfectly natural.
It's also not the source of the ringing.
He rubs his hand over his face and looks around bemusedly.
The ringing happens again, and he shifts forward, lowering the legs of his La-Z boy and perching on the edge of the chair. His mobile's dark on the coffee table and penguins are squawking in the surround sound.
In the corner, John, Paul and Clint are scrabbling around softly in their terrarium.
It's the door. Gotta be the door.
He gets to his feet, grabs his weapon, and shakes his head.
John's neighborhood is quiet; he's made it this way. Anybody calling after hours has to be having problems that they want him to handle, and his neighbors love him, because he does this for them. Whether it's the son in trouble for tagging the wrong building or a daughter hanging around with the wrong boys, John takes care of a lot. But tonight, tonight he honestly doesn't want to do it.
He's not on the clock right now.
He's not anybody's keeper.
He squints through the eyehole, blinks and then squints again.
The hell?
He unlocks the door and steps back to let it swing open. On the other side of the iron security door, underneath the porch lights, Ben Sherman gives John a wry grin and rubs the back of his neck. He's wearing a suit and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. Fancy.
John raises an eyebrow and clicks the safety on his weapon. "What's wrong, Trust Fund Kid, you make a wrong turn on Mulholland? This ain't Bel-Air," he says, even as he unlocks the wrought iron gate and pushes it open.
Sherman smirks. "Yeah, I mistake Echo Park for Sunset all the time."
"Don't come to my house and talk shit, Junior," John warns even as he moves aside to let Sherman in.
Sherman steps into John's living room, glances around and ducks his head in that sheepish way he has sometimes. "Not expecting guests, huh?" Sherman says gesturing towards John's crotch.
John glances down at his own sweatpants and bare feet. Oh, and the gun on his hand. "Not of the Hollywood Hills variety, no."
"Sorry?" Sherman offers and John eyes him curiously.
John knows when things aren't fitting -- he was married for five years – and Ben Sherman in his living room shouldn't fit all. Sherman's suit probably costs more than everything John owns except for his TV. So, with that in mind, it's very strange that Sherman blends in like he's been here before. Like he belongs. He hasn't. He doesn't.
"Do I want to know how you found me?" John asks, leaning out the door to take a glance up and down the street. Three houses down, Clarence Henderson is just getting in from work. He works the evening shift as a janitor at the local high school; his wife works at a doctor's office. They have twins.
Clarence gives John a quick wave, and John nods and then shuts the security door. "You know stalking is illegal," he says, turning back to Sherman, "and I have no problem with running your ass in."
Sherman shifts from one foot to the other. "I was in the neighborhood."
John rolls his eyes as he shuts the front door. "The hell you were. Just 'cause we're partners, doesn't mean we're 'partners'. I'm not the Department of Waste, don’t bring your shit here."
Sherman bites his lip and John looks up at the ceiling. "Of all the rookies in the world, you sent me a prepubescent James Dean wannabe? Really?"
"Uh, who are you talking too?"
John shoots Sherman a look. "Junior, take off your coat, sit down and shut up. You're giving me the willies with all your rich person, is-the-maid-gonna-steal-my-jewelry anxiety."
Sherman looks only mildly offended, but he does exactly what John says.
John has to give it to the kid: he may run off half cocked and act like he's G.I. fucking Joe half the time, but he takes orders very well.
While Sherman's doing his thing, John goes into the kitchen, sets down his gun and gets two beers.
"Are you watching Planet Earth?"
John glances up from searching for the bottle opener. Sherman's set his jacket on the back of the sofa. He's wearing a blue Oxford. It's a good color for him. "Yeah, you've seen it before?" he says, opening the beers.
"I love this series," Sherman says, settling on the sofa and moving the cushions around to make room for himself. "Did the sea lion eat the penguins yet?"
John laughs as he walks back into the living room. "Yeah, right before you got here. Why? You want to see it again? I didn't peg you for one of those who got off on animal violence, Richie Rich. I'm starting to think you have more issues than National Geographic," he says, knocking the bottle of Amstel Light against Sherman's shoulder softly.
"I'd hate to bore you," Sherman says, taking the beer and watching as John settles himself in his chair again. He tugs on his sweatpants, adjusting himself fractionally, and his back gives a very faint twinge, which he ignores.
They watch the TV in silence for a while, Sherman unfurling himself on John's sofa by degrees. First his shoulders release, then his legs. Every now and then John can feel Sherman glancing at him, but he doesn't care.
The beer and the Vicodin work incredibly well together, and John can feel himself unwinding again as they watch a segment about killer whales. Sherman's presence is just a vague notion on his right.
"They don't serve beer at The Ivy?" John says some time later.
Sherman looks over him and John belches. Ah, beer.
"My dad was there," Sherman says. "So, I didn't stay. I didn't think you'd appreciate me getting arrested for assault when I was off-duty."
John nods. "I don't care what you do when're off-duty as long as you don’t get arrested for it," he agrees. "Problem is, you're a cop now, and even when you're off duty, you're still cop."
Sherman licks his lips and John shifts a little in his chair. His cock stirs vaguely, but it's pretty much down for the count with the pills and booze.
Sherman's going to say something, John can feel it. "Make yourself useful and get some more beer," he says peremptorily.
Sherman opens and closes his mouth, and then says, "okay." When he shuffles off, John doesn't even look at his ass.
Eventually, he returns, hands John another beer and drops down on the sofa. He's sitting on the right side, where before he was in the middle. He's closer now. His presence less of a notion and more of an impression.
In the corner, John, Paul and Clint carry on with their nightly activities, their movements a slightly scratchy soundtrack.
"What's in the terrarium?" Sherman asks.
"Hermit crabs," John says around his beer. "John, Paul and Clint."
Sherman smiles. "John, Paul and Clint? Let me guess. John Wayne. Clint Eastwood. And…"
"Paul Newman," John supplies.
"Why hermit crabs?"
"They don't need much except water and dog food. And every other week some carrots and lettuce. Less shit than a dog and less bitching than a partner. The other kind of partner," John clarifies after a minute. "Although, you're kind of bitchy yourself."
"I am not," Sherman protests.
John can't help laughing. "See, Sherman, you got your panties in a twist already."
Sherman might actually be sulking. It's – anyway.
"You can call me Ben," Sherman says. "It is my name."
"Anyway, Sherman," John teases.
Sherman's –- Ben's mouth twists into a crooked smile. "You think you're real fucking funny, don't you?'
"Oh my god, Sherman cursed! I think his balls dropped, somebody buy the boy a beer!"
John's still laughing when Ben smacks him on the arm with a cushion from the sofa. John's so startled his beer spills a little on the arm of the sofa. "You do that shit again, and you'll need to worry about me assaulting you," he warns.
Ben gives him another one of those huge grins. Asshole.
The second beer becomes the third, and Ben relaxes even more. His shoes go underneath John's coffee table and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. John's pretty sure he's down for the count himself. Every part of him is warm and numb, except for his fingers, which are wrapped around neck of his beer and are cold and numb.
"Is your back feeling better now?" Ben asks.
John rolls his head along the back of the chair, it's the only way to get it to move. "You worry about you and I'll worry about me."
"You worry about me," Ben says. "It's why you're always yelling at me."
"I don't yell," John says mildly. "Except sometimes."
John can feel Ben's eyes on his face, so he focuses on the TV. The next time he glances over, Sherman's eyes are closed, his head back on the sofa, mouth open slightly.
John looks up at the ceiling again. "I know you think this shit is funny, but I'm not laughing."
The room is quiet except for the hermit crabs, the TV and Ben's soft breathing. John turns off the TV and takes several minutes to get to his feet. He moves around gathering their bottles and putting them in the recycling bin.
In the closet he finds the pale yellow blanket that Emily knitted for him after she left. He doesn't use it much, but it's soft and warm so he keeps it. He shuffles back over to Sherman -– Ben -- and pats him on the shoulder. "Lie down."
Ben opens one eye. "Uh?"
"Lie down," John orders.
Ben sniffs and then stretches out lengthwise. His eyes are closed before John's even got the blanket over him. John just shakes his head, grabs his weapon from the kitchen, turns out the lights and goes to bed himself.
He's asleep before he's fully in the bed, and he wakes up hours later with his left leg over the side of the bed, the sun streaming through the windows, Mrs. Esposito's wind chimes tinkling next door and the smell of bacon permeating everything.
The bacon is confusing.
Confusing enough that John gets up much faster than his body thinks is a good idea. His back complains, his head bitches, and his entire orientation is off. He glances at his gun, but he's is pretty sure that anybody out to rob him isn't going to make him breakfast first.
He scratches his ass as he heads towards the kitchen. He pauses in the entryway, because Sherman -– Ben -- is in his kitchen, cooking up a storm and acting like he owns it. John just shakes his head. "He shoots, he cooks, he can remember addresses that end in a half, he's rich –- why aren't you married, kid?"
Ben looks up. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair is everywhere, but he looks very pleased about something. He gives John the sort of grin that makes John's fingers dig into his palm.
"I don't think I'm the marrying kind," Ben says, expertly sliding four pieces of bacon onto a plate.
"You sure about that? I thought all you rich kids wanted to get married. How else are you gonna cheat on your wife with the nanny?"
Ben snorts. "I'm sure."
John files that away for later, and then he catches a whiff of something else. "You made coffee?"
Ben shrugs. "You let me pass out on your sofa."
John takes a few steps into the kitchen and grabs a piece of bacon. It's hot. Too fucking hot. He eats it anyway. "You can pass out on my sofa anytime you want, if you make breakfast," he says, trying to chew through the pain.
Ben nods. "How do you like your eggs?"
"Scrambled. Hard."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Shut up, Beverly Hills," John says without heat.
"The eggs'll be ready in five, if you want to take a shower," Ben tosses over his shoulder as he cracks several eggs in one of John's frying pans. Then again, John only has two.
John smirks at Ben's back. "All right, but you burn my house down, and I'm kicking your ass."
Ben turns around. "If I burn your house down, I'll buy you a new one."
John laughs as he turns away. "Kid, you buy me a new house and I'll marry you."
"I'll remember that the next time you're yelling at me."
John glances over his shoulder to see Ben watching him intently. He just shakes his head.
"You do that, kid," he says with a smile. "You do that."
-end-
For my Southland girls:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
antheia, lazlet, serialkarma and sparky77. It's so nice when everybody's excited about the same thing.
Beta bylazlet. Cooper characterization compiled with serialkarma and sparky77.
Southland
Cooper, Ben, PG
Spoilers for 1.03
The Vicodin gives everything around John a slightly fuzzy edge, so when something starts ringing at his house late at night after his shift, he slumps further in his armchair and squints at the TV in irritation.
He was this close to finally falling asleep. Finally at that place where his back didn't hurt anymore and his brain was quiet, and he wasn't thinking about screaming parents and beaten transvestites and the feel of brick under his fingers during back alley blowjobs.
On his plasma TV penguins are being eaten by a sea lion -– he loves this part of Planet Earth. It's insane enough to seem perfectly natural.
It's also not the source of the ringing.
He rubs his hand over his face and looks around bemusedly.
The ringing happens again, and he shifts forward, lowering the legs of his La-Z boy and perching on the edge of the chair. His mobile's dark on the coffee table and penguins are squawking in the surround sound.
In the corner, John, Paul and Clint are scrabbling around softly in their terrarium.
It's the door. Gotta be the door.
He gets to his feet, grabs his weapon, and shakes his head.
John's neighborhood is quiet; he's made it this way. Anybody calling after hours has to be having problems that they want him to handle, and his neighbors love him, because he does this for them. Whether it's the son in trouble for tagging the wrong building or a daughter hanging around with the wrong boys, John takes care of a lot. But tonight, tonight he honestly doesn't want to do it.
He's not on the clock right now.
He's not anybody's keeper.
He squints through the eyehole, blinks and then squints again.
The hell?
He unlocks the door and steps back to let it swing open. On the other side of the iron security door, underneath the porch lights, Ben Sherman gives John a wry grin and rubs the back of his neck. He's wearing a suit and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. Fancy.
John raises an eyebrow and clicks the safety on his weapon. "What's wrong, Trust Fund Kid, you make a wrong turn on Mulholland? This ain't Bel-Air," he says, even as he unlocks the wrought iron gate and pushes it open.
Sherman smirks. "Yeah, I mistake Echo Park for Sunset all the time."
"Don't come to my house and talk shit, Junior," John warns even as he moves aside to let Sherman in.
Sherman steps into John's living room, glances around and ducks his head in that sheepish way he has sometimes. "Not expecting guests, huh?" Sherman says gesturing towards John's crotch.
John glances down at his own sweatpants and bare feet. Oh, and the gun on his hand. "Not of the Hollywood Hills variety, no."
"Sorry?" Sherman offers and John eyes him curiously.
John knows when things aren't fitting -- he was married for five years – and Ben Sherman in his living room shouldn't fit all. Sherman's suit probably costs more than everything John owns except for his TV. So, with that in mind, it's very strange that Sherman blends in like he's been here before. Like he belongs. He hasn't. He doesn't.
"Do I want to know how you found me?" John asks, leaning out the door to take a glance up and down the street. Three houses down, Clarence Henderson is just getting in from work. He works the evening shift as a janitor at the local high school; his wife works at a doctor's office. They have twins.
Clarence gives John a quick wave, and John nods and then shuts the security door. "You know stalking is illegal," he says, turning back to Sherman, "and I have no problem with running your ass in."
Sherman shifts from one foot to the other. "I was in the neighborhood."
John rolls his eyes as he shuts the front door. "The hell you were. Just 'cause we're partners, doesn't mean we're 'partners'. I'm not the Department of Waste, don’t bring your shit here."
Sherman bites his lip and John looks up at the ceiling. "Of all the rookies in the world, you sent me a prepubescent James Dean wannabe? Really?"
"Uh, who are you talking too?"
John shoots Sherman a look. "Junior, take off your coat, sit down and shut up. You're giving me the willies with all your rich person, is-the-maid-gonna-steal-my-jewelry anxiety."
Sherman looks only mildly offended, but he does exactly what John says.
John has to give it to the kid: he may run off half cocked and act like he's G.I. fucking Joe half the time, but he takes orders very well.
While Sherman's doing his thing, John goes into the kitchen, sets down his gun and gets two beers.
"Are you watching Planet Earth?"
John glances up from searching for the bottle opener. Sherman's set his jacket on the back of the sofa. He's wearing a blue Oxford. It's a good color for him. "Yeah, you've seen it before?" he says, opening the beers.
"I love this series," Sherman says, settling on the sofa and moving the cushions around to make room for himself. "Did the sea lion eat the penguins yet?"
John laughs as he walks back into the living room. "Yeah, right before you got here. Why? You want to see it again? I didn't peg you for one of those who got off on animal violence, Richie Rich. I'm starting to think you have more issues than National Geographic," he says, knocking the bottle of Amstel Light against Sherman's shoulder softly.
"I'd hate to bore you," Sherman says, taking the beer and watching as John settles himself in his chair again. He tugs on his sweatpants, adjusting himself fractionally, and his back gives a very faint twinge, which he ignores.
They watch the TV in silence for a while, Sherman unfurling himself on John's sofa by degrees. First his shoulders release, then his legs. Every now and then John can feel Sherman glancing at him, but he doesn't care.
The beer and the Vicodin work incredibly well together, and John can feel himself unwinding again as they watch a segment about killer whales. Sherman's presence is just a vague notion on his right.
"They don't serve beer at The Ivy?" John says some time later.
Sherman looks over him and John belches. Ah, beer.
"My dad was there," Sherman says. "So, I didn't stay. I didn't think you'd appreciate me getting arrested for assault when I was off-duty."
John nods. "I don't care what you do when're off-duty as long as you don’t get arrested for it," he agrees. "Problem is, you're a cop now, and even when you're off duty, you're still cop."
Sherman licks his lips and John shifts a little in his chair. His cock stirs vaguely, but it's pretty much down for the count with the pills and booze.
Sherman's going to say something, John can feel it. "Make yourself useful and get some more beer," he says peremptorily.
Sherman opens and closes his mouth, and then says, "okay." When he shuffles off, John doesn't even look at his ass.
Eventually, he returns, hands John another beer and drops down on the sofa. He's sitting on the right side, where before he was in the middle. He's closer now. His presence less of a notion and more of an impression.
In the corner, John, Paul and Clint carry on with their nightly activities, their movements a slightly scratchy soundtrack.
"What's in the terrarium?" Sherman asks.
"Hermit crabs," John says around his beer. "John, Paul and Clint."
Sherman smiles. "John, Paul and Clint? Let me guess. John Wayne. Clint Eastwood. And…"
"Paul Newman," John supplies.
"Why hermit crabs?"
"They don't need much except water and dog food. And every other week some carrots and lettuce. Less shit than a dog and less bitching than a partner. The other kind of partner," John clarifies after a minute. "Although, you're kind of bitchy yourself."
"I am not," Sherman protests.
John can't help laughing. "See, Sherman, you got your panties in a twist already."
Sherman might actually be sulking. It's – anyway.
"You can call me Ben," Sherman says. "It is my name."
"Anyway, Sherman," John teases.
Sherman's –- Ben's mouth twists into a crooked smile. "You think you're real fucking funny, don't you?'
"Oh my god, Sherman cursed! I think his balls dropped, somebody buy the boy a beer!"
John's still laughing when Ben smacks him on the arm with a cushion from the sofa. John's so startled his beer spills a little on the arm of the sofa. "You do that shit again, and you'll need to worry about me assaulting you," he warns.
Ben gives him another one of those huge grins. Asshole.
The second beer becomes the third, and Ben relaxes even more. His shoes go underneath John's coffee table and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. John's pretty sure he's down for the count himself. Every part of him is warm and numb, except for his fingers, which are wrapped around neck of his beer and are cold and numb.
"Is your back feeling better now?" Ben asks.
John rolls his head along the back of the chair, it's the only way to get it to move. "You worry about you and I'll worry about me."
"You worry about me," Ben says. "It's why you're always yelling at me."
"I don't yell," John says mildly. "Except sometimes."
John can feel Ben's eyes on his face, so he focuses on the TV. The next time he glances over, Sherman's eyes are closed, his head back on the sofa, mouth open slightly.
John looks up at the ceiling again. "I know you think this shit is funny, but I'm not laughing."
The room is quiet except for the hermit crabs, the TV and Ben's soft breathing. John turns off the TV and takes several minutes to get to his feet. He moves around gathering their bottles and putting them in the recycling bin.
In the closet he finds the pale yellow blanket that Emily knitted for him after she left. He doesn't use it much, but it's soft and warm so he keeps it. He shuffles back over to Sherman -– Ben -- and pats him on the shoulder. "Lie down."
Ben opens one eye. "Uh?"
"Lie down," John orders.
Ben sniffs and then stretches out lengthwise. His eyes are closed before John's even got the blanket over him. John just shakes his head, grabs his weapon from the kitchen, turns out the lights and goes to bed himself.
He's asleep before he's fully in the bed, and he wakes up hours later with his left leg over the side of the bed, the sun streaming through the windows, Mrs. Esposito's wind chimes tinkling next door and the smell of bacon permeating everything.
The bacon is confusing.
Confusing enough that John gets up much faster than his body thinks is a good idea. His back complains, his head bitches, and his entire orientation is off. He glances at his gun, but he's is pretty sure that anybody out to rob him isn't going to make him breakfast first.
He scratches his ass as he heads towards the kitchen. He pauses in the entryway, because Sherman -– Ben -- is in his kitchen, cooking up a storm and acting like he owns it. John just shakes his head. "He shoots, he cooks, he can remember addresses that end in a half, he's rich –- why aren't you married, kid?"
Ben looks up. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair is everywhere, but he looks very pleased about something. He gives John the sort of grin that makes John's fingers dig into his palm.
"I don't think I'm the marrying kind," Ben says, expertly sliding four pieces of bacon onto a plate.
"You sure about that? I thought all you rich kids wanted to get married. How else are you gonna cheat on your wife with the nanny?"
Ben snorts. "I'm sure."
John files that away for later, and then he catches a whiff of something else. "You made coffee?"
Ben shrugs. "You let me pass out on your sofa."
John takes a few steps into the kitchen and grabs a piece of bacon. It's hot. Too fucking hot. He eats it anyway. "You can pass out on my sofa anytime you want, if you make breakfast," he says, trying to chew through the pain.
Ben nods. "How do you like your eggs?"
"Scrambled. Hard."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Shut up, Beverly Hills," John says without heat.
"The eggs'll be ready in five, if you want to take a shower," Ben tosses over his shoulder as he cracks several eggs in one of John's frying pans. Then again, John only has two.
John smirks at Ben's back. "All right, but you burn my house down, and I'm kicking your ass."
Ben turns around. "If I burn your house down, I'll buy you a new one."
John laughs as he turns away. "Kid, you buy me a new house and I'll marry you."
"I'll remember that the next time you're yelling at me."
John glances over his shoulder to see Ben watching him intently. He just shakes his head.
"You do that, kid," he says with a smile. "You do that."
-end-
For my Southland girls:
antheia, lazlet, serialkarma and sparky77. It's so nice when everybody's excited about the same thing.Beta by
lazlet. Cooper characterization compiled with serialkarma and sparky77.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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