hackthis_archive | Southland – The Fine Art of Small Talk and Ben Sherman Maintenance (Cooper/Ben, PG-13)

Last night's Southland was like... I am at a loss for words. But if your animals started acting batshit between 10p-11p it was probably down to the high-pitched noises I was making during that entire hour. I would discuss it, but as I was far too busy thinking of fic, let's just go with this instead.

Tomorrow is my LJ anniversary. I've been doing this... a long fucking time. Sometimes I think it's too long, and then days like today I want to do it forever.

I wrote this for me. And you.

Southland
Cooper/Ben, PG-13
Coda to 1.05
Improv: ball, dance, ghost, kitten

The Fine Art of Small Talk and Ben Sherman Maintenance

They're stopped at a traffic light. In the rearview mirror, John can see Mr. Denise-not-Dennis slumped against the window, drooling on himself. That ignorant, inbred rabbit-fucker wouldn't know a faggot if he kicked his ass.

When John looks down, he's white-knuckling the steering wheel.

He loosens his hold and scowls at the windshield. The stoplights at Hollywood and Highland were timed by a monkey who couldn’t count and fucking tourist season is choking up the traffic, which means the next few months will feature even more stupidity than normal.

He knows Sherman's watching him, and his back is twinging in all the wrong places as he shifts in his seat. He can feel the pain starting in his kidney, soon it'll radiate inwards towards his spine. Soon, he'll be thinking about the hours until the shift it over. Clock watching is always a bad sign.

He can feel Sherman's tension increasing. It's bleeding out of him and all over the car. Soon it's going to be all over everything, coating the car until they both suffocate. He rolls down a window just to breathe.

"Stop fucking staring and say something," he barks, taking the left turn onto Highland sharply.

The only reply is the crackle of dispatch traffic.

"You want Thai for lunch?" Sherman says eventually. "I was thinking noodles would be good."

John glances at Sherman. His face is perfectly passive. Large eyes focused on the traffic, darting around at the pedestrians, the strollers.

Sherman's tongue darts out to lick his lower lip, and John just shakes his head.

"Yeah," he says, "Thai is fine."

John leans over to zip up his duffle bag and stands back up slowly. The pain is crawling up his spine, clawing into his shoulder blades. Today was too long by about six hours.

All around him the signs of shift change are taking place: people putting on uniforms, taking them off, people bitching, people rushing. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath like the shrink taught him.

He hates garbage calls.

Rich bitches thinking he's around just to serve their whims. Domestic fights with flying cats. Stupid civilians asking him about car accidents. Goddamn kittens stuck in fence posts. People don’t have the sense that God gave a rat. Actually, God probably gave rats more sense: rats know enough to avoid people as much as possible.

He doesn't tend to think about God much unless he's tired.

He needs a goddamn Vicodin. And a beer. Or six. And his DVD's of The Wire.

He can feel someone's attention focusing on him. They're looking hard. And a little inappropriately. John opens his eyes just in time to see Ben Sherman's gaze ghosting over him.

Sherman.

It's always fucking Sherman.

"What?" he barks a little bit harsher than is necessary.

Sherman doesn't flinch. He's learning. The first time John snapped at him, he thought Sherman was going to cream his pants right there.

This time, Sherman steps over the bench between them, doing a little dance around Ivey and Henderson. His eyes are intent, but his voice is deceptively soft. "Did you want to get dinner? I was just thinking, since it's late."

No. No, John does not want to get dinner. John does not want to dance. He wants to bypass all this bullshit and go directly home and do something about his aches and pains.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" he mocks.

Behind Sherman, Henderson makes a whooping noise. "Don’t put out on the first date, Sherman," he says. "Even if the mystic power of John Cooper compels you."

John rolls his eyes, punching Henderson in the arm. "Shut the fuck up."

Sherman remains unfazed, which definitely marks another change. Instead of flushing, Sherman lifts his chin, giving John an almost defiant look.

John shakes his head, picking up his duffle and slinging an arm around Sherman's neck. "C'mon, rookie, if you're nice I'll even let you buy me a drink," he says, tugging Sherman out of the locker room.

John follows Sherman from the precinct in his truck. Sherman's on his motorcycle, and there's a wild dichotomy with Ben Sherman that John's still figuring out.

Sherman's clearly one of the privileged few, but he's earning minor pay and riding the kind of bike Brando would've used. John's not fooled, he knows that bike probably costs a year's pay.

Sherman pulls into a strip mall off of La Brea, parking in front of a hole-in-the-wall Italian place. John pulls in beside him, easing himself and his back out of the truck, weight on the balls of his feet while Sherman's probably busy removing his helmet and dealing his bike.

Except when John turns around, Sherman's off his bike, helmet tucked in his arm, hair everywhere and wide, blue eyes tracking his every movement.

For the first time in hours, something beside John's back makes itself known.

"I didn't know the NAVY Seals taught summer camp," John says

Sherman pauses with his wine glass to his lips. "The NAVY Seals?"

John raises an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure they don’t teach the sleeper hold at Arts and Crafts for the Super Rich and Tacky."

Sherman looks away, setting his wine glass on the checked table cloth. The Italian place may be tiny and have stereotypical decor, but it serves amazing food. John pokes at his mushroom ravioli, spearing a square deftly.

"The sleeper hold, huh?" Sherman says.

"I was in the Marines, son," John says. "I know it when I see it. And I know you don’t learn that shit between canoeing and whatever the hell else you do at camp."

Sherman picks up his wine glass again and takes a big swallow. He's on his second glass of red wine, and he keeps glancing at John in a way that John's sure has gotten lots of coeds to part with their Victoria's Secret underwear.

Sherman can be subtle when he wants to be, but sometimes it fails. It's flattering, John's not blind, but he's also not stupid. People have had their entire careers ruined for a lot less.

"My mom," Sherman says. "She had this boyfriend, Bryan. He was a Marine at Pendleton. He, um, he taught me some stuff."

John takes a swig of his beer. "Some stuff? Kid, that's Special Ops. What kind of Marine are we talking about?"

Sherman makes a study of the tablecloth, tracing the squares with his fingers. When he looks up, he has that twitch to his jaw he gets sometimes when he's thinking too hard. "It doesn't matter," Sherman says dully. "He's gone anyway."

John's pretty sure he knows what 'gone' means here.

"Any particular reason he taught you that move?" he prods.

Sherman finishes his wine. "I was small for my age," he says with a shrug. "I had money and then I didn’t. I had a dad and then I didn't."

Bullies. John can read between the lines here. He spears more of his dinner.

"That guy really offended you today, didn't he?" Sherman says.

John pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. "What guy?"

Sherman's head tilts to the side. "I get it."

John sets his fork down. "You get what?"

"I get it," he repeats more stridently.

John rubs his forehead

Yeah, he gets it too.

They go their separate ways after dinner. John goes home to his Wire DVDs, a long hot shower and Vicodin, and Sherman goes off to wherever it is that Sherman goes to.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, John's in a haze of Stringer Bell, drugs and his sofa when the door bell rings. He really hopes that Bobby Jimenez didn’t keep the Campbell's daughter out too late again.

He levers himself up slowly, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck to put himself in some semblance of order.

Only instead of Tom Campbell with a death grip on Bobby Jimenez's right ear, it's Ben Sherman with a paper bag. John would be less shocked if George Clooney had shown up on his doorstep naked.

John opens the security door and leans against the door frame. He's feeling a little hazy. "Sherman, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Your back is killing you," Sherman says, deftly sliding between John and his door. Sherman's so close that John can still smell the wine on his breath and the soap he used. "I've been watching you all day; I thought this might help."

John blinks out at his driveway where his truck is parked. His truck is now being kept company by Sherman's bike. The fuck?

When he turns back around, Sherman's ditched his coat and is pulling out all kinds of shit: ice packs, heat pads, Icy Hot. John purses his lips. Sometimes Sherman's determination is annoying. In that being mauled by a Labrador puppy way.

"This is cute, Junior, but I'm trying to relax. So, unless you want me to come in tomorrow and kick your ass all over 125th Street, get out."

Sherman looks up, holding something that looks suspiciously like a bottle of massage oil. "My ass aside for a minute, I want to help."

John shakes his head and closes the door. The neighbors don't need to see him arguing with the jailbait. "I don’t need your help," John snaps once the door is shut. "You're forgetting your place, Sherman. Let me remind you—"

"John, enough!" Sherman's tone is somewhere between ordering and pleading.

The haze falls away in a flash, and John's across the room, a fistful of Sherman's shirt in his hand. "Look, kid, we're not friends!" he barks. "I'm your fucking training officer. Do you know what would happen if people saw you coming in and out of my house like you fucking own it? This isn't the goddamn Westside!"

And this time, John understands this look Sherman's been giving him. It's not defiance; it's a lot more complicated. "You're in pain," Sherman says, carefully untangling John's fingers from his shirt. "I want to help. It's what partners do."

John rubs his forehead. "You know what'd help me? A blow job. That'd help me."

"If your back is hurting you as much as I think it is, you couldn't sit still long enough to enjoy it anyway," Sherman says dismissively, but he's got a smile on his lips.

Cooper picks up the heat pad and the bottle of what's actually is massage oil. Sherman's face turns a little pink and John shakes his head. "Your seduction technique needs work."

Sherman pulls the oil away. "When I'm seducing you, you'll know it."

John snorts. "Oh, really?"

There's that look again. "Yeah," Sherman says softly. "You will."

They both turn at a barrage of noise from the TV. On the screen, Omar Little is living up to his title as the most badass fictional gay man ever created for TV. "I love The Wire," Sherman says thoughtfully.

John smirks. "There might be hope for you yet."

"I know," Sherman says, opening the box of Icy Hot back treatments. "Bend over," he directs.

"Excuse me?"

Sherman smacks him on the shoulder with the box. "Back, first. Sex, second. Focus."

John shakes his head, but does as he's told. "Sherman, you don't want me to focus on you. You couldn't handle it."

John twitches when the hem of his shirt is pushed up and Sherman's hands smooth over his lower back. "I can handle it," Sherman says. "I want to handle it."

John makes a noncommittal noise.

Sherman places a bandage on his back. And another. Four in succession before pulling John's shirt back down. Instead of removing his hands though, Sherman slides them to John's waist. "Stand up. Slowly," he orders.

John'll tolerate the orders, for now. When he turns around, Sherman's giving him the wide-eyed look. "Did you hear what I said?" he asks.

If John couldn't feel the sensations, he'd say it was somebody else who rubs Sherman's mouth with their right thumb. But it's him. He does it.

"Yeah, I heard you," he says, his voice a little gravelly. "Loud and clear."

Every nerve in John's body snaps to attention when Sherman licks the tip of his thumb. "Good," Sherman says. "Because I'm going to want a rain check on the blowjob."

John exhales an unsteady breath, lowering his hand to his side. "I can do that." It's the drugs. If it weren't for the drugs... he'd be in even more pain.

Sherman's smile is brilliant. "I know you can," he says.

John shakes his head in something like admiration. "God, you're a cocky son of a bitch, aren't you?"

Sherman scoffs. "Look who's talking."

-end-

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