SouthLAnd fic
I'm slowly going nuts waiting for word on SouthLAnd's fate. It just has to be renewed! But in the meantime, I'm continuing the storyline on my own (!) from right where TPTB left off.
Title: Not-So-Divine Intervention
Author: 60schic
Rating: PG 13 for language
Beta: chazper, who is encouraging me greatly with this.
Graditude also to snowprince who is acting as technical advisor on all things police-related on this fic. If anything is still wrong, it's not the fault of either of them.
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, and nothing of TNT's. Wouldn't want to own anything of NBC's.
'I just….wanted to see if you’re alright. Are you?'
'I can take care of myself.''>
Not-So-Divine Intervention - Part 1
Pain sliced through the small of his back. Merely turning his head to the side had John seeing stars. This was so not good. John had to pee, badly. And he most definitely needed another pain pill. Or three. He tried to roll onto his side but shooting pains prevented him from completing that simple task.
“Hey,” he called out, his voice weak.
“Hey!” this time louder, though he felt the vibration run down his spinal cord. John didn’t know if anyone else was even in his house. He was relieved when Jorge appeared in the doorway. There was a pitying set to his face.
John closed his eyes. “Get me my pills,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
“What? No ‘Good morning.’ No ‘Thanks for staying’. Just orders?”
“Pills first, then attitude.”
Jorge opened the bottle, tapping out one small tablet. He took the water bottle from the nightstand, holding it out to the prostrate man.
“A little help here…...please?” John raised his arm and Jorge got him sitting, noting the strain it took. “I’m gonna need more than one.”
“You have a serious problem here, Dude,” he said, watching John swallow two pills with difficulty.
“You’re my pusher, not my mother, Dude.”
“Yes, and you pay for that privilege. But I don’t need to be calling 911 on you. Cops frown on this sort of thing.”
John snorted. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.” He had to search his memory to see if he’d ever told Jorge he was a cop. The sight of his uniform in a dry cleaning bag hanging over his closet door answered that question.
“You’re going to need help,” Jorge stated as he supported John on his slow journey into the bathroom.
“Why? I have you.” There was a sardonic twist to John’s mouth.
“I have a living to make, hombre. I’m not your babysitter.”
“Then get the fuck out of here, why don’t you! Now would be good.”
Jorge shook his head. This was not going to end well. “There’s breakfast on the kitchen table. You have enough drugs to last you through tomorrow. Call me after that.”
John’s eyes flashed menacingly at Jorge’s retreating back.
With extreme care, John made his way first to the kitchen, then to his easy chair, armed with food, meds….. and a bottle of Jack. He switched on the TV, taking a slug of the amber liquid as he channel surfed.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
He was in a light sleep when the insistent knocking on his door woke him. Without thinking, he attempted to rise, being instantly reminded of his circumstances. John took a chance, bellowing out “It’s open!” and was both relieved and annoyed that it was.
His boot cautiously entered the house, needing a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within.
“Why aren’t you on the job?” ‘A good offense was always the best defense,’ John thought dryly.
Ben blinked, stepping closer. “I’m on my way. You call out again today?”
John nodded, taking a gulp from the bottle. Ben’s eyes widened but he said nothing.
“You checking up on me?”
“I just….wanted to see if you’re alright. Are you?”
“I can take care of myself.”
Sherman scanned his T/O critically; he was bent at the waist and had one fist pressed into his back. “Clearly,” he scoffed. “You look like shit, John. Listen, you need a doctor. Some physical therapy…a lot of p.t.,” he amended. “And legal drugs.” He eyed the orange container with concern.
Sighing, Cooper responded quietly, “I just need a few days to get straightened out.”
“You mean from this pretzel you’ve become?” There was unexpected anger in Ben’s voice. “You can take an IOD leave, on the Job’s dime.”
John turned his head away, grimacing with the sudden movement. It did not escape Ben’s notice.
“So you’d rather the brass find out you’re practically crippled? How’s that gonna help your cause?”
“Who’d you tell?” John demanded.
“Nobody. I read through my employment materials, specifically the health plan. Chickie and I witnessed the injury so we can state it was on the job.”
“Yeah, well…I’ll look into it. Maybe.” After a pause, “Did you want something else?” It was meant to sound dismissive.
Ben eyed the plate with congealed egg and toast crusts, and the empty water bottle. He took them, and the half empty liquor bottle, into the kitchen.
“Hey! Bring that back, damn it!”
“Make me,” Ben challenged childishly, spinning around. Watching the pain flash across John’s face as he struggled to stand softened his tone. “You’re mixing booze and drugs. Nice, John. You really want us to find you suffocating on your own vomit?” He didn’t wait for a response.
Rummaging in the refrigerator, Ben found a take out carton. He sniffed it before nuking the leftover Chinese food. He brought a dish and a new water bottle in to John, setting them within his reach.
“Thanks,” John mumbled grudgingly.
Ben shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “Did you hear, Chickie caught the Canyon Rapist last night? Singlehandedly.”
“Is that so?” John tried to hide his surprise. “Told you it would be a patrol cop who did it.”
Nodding, Ben added, “Turns out to be some security guard, fired off his last 3 jobs.”
“Good. Glad the scum bag is off the streets.”
The conversation seemed to die there. After another minute of silence, John angled his head towards the door. “Go to work, Ben,” he gently ordered.
“You need anything else before I leave?”
“Not unless you’ve got a spare back in your pocket.”
Ben snorted, shaking his head, but made no comment as he let the door close behind him.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Ben slid into the passenger seat of Chickie’s car, his face a grim mask.
“How is he?”
“Not good.”
With her hand on the door handle, Chickie started, “Maybe I should go….”
“No,” Ben interrupted. “Let’s leave him be a few days, see what he does.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
After scarfing down the much needed food, John needed to use the bathroom. It took him several minutes to get out of the chair. He tried to gauge how many steps it would be to the hallway and how long it would take him. With a snicker, John hoped he’d make it, but he wouldn’t bet on it.
Sweat covered his brow and when he looked in the mirror, John didn’t like what he saw. The kid was right; he did look like shit. John knew he had been tough on Sherman but he was in agony, for Christ’s sake. Maybe a shower would fix him up.
More concentrated effort was required to get out of his clothes. Then he spent the first five minutes just letting the hot water cascade over his back, moving experimentally to see where the pain began and ended. Just when he thought it wasn’t so bad, John dropped the soap and watched it skid towards the drain.
“Shit!” His attempt to drag the bar back with his foot caused a twinge to surge down his leg. John fired off a barrage of expletives while pounding his fists against the tile in frustration. When his rage was spent, he finished his shower lathering himself with the shampoo instead.
Once dried and dressed, with considerable effort and more sweating, John ambled cautiously toward the kitchen. His refrigerator revealed meager offerings; half a head of lettuce, brown around the edges, some dried out slices of cheese, a variety of condiments - olives were from the vegetable group, weren’t they? - and on the bottom shelf, a couple of six packs of beer. There was a God. Not sure he wanted to bend just yet, John remembered the confiscated bottle of Jack. He scanned the room, finding nothing on the counters or in the lower cabinets. He saw one door was ajar, over his head, and spied the telltale black and white label, the bottle being shoved back from the edge. “That little fucker!” he spat. “The beer’ll have to do.”
Getting the easy-twist cap off proved to be more of a challenge than reaching the bottom shelf. With a bottle in one hand and the carton in the other, John shuffled back into the living room, sinking gratefully and wearily into his chair. He changed channels and took another pill, polishing half of the second beer off as a chaser. After the third bottle, his vision blurred and John had difficulty following even something as lame as Judge Judy, not that it was any great loss. He muted the sound and closed his eyes, eventually falling into a fitful sleep.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Johnnie.
Don’t call me that.
I’ll call you whatever I want, asswipe. Now what are you gonna do, Boy-O?
I’ll be just fine.
Oh really?
I’ll take care of it, on my own, just like I always have.
You wanna be nicer to those in a position to help you, Johnnie.
Or what?
Or you’ll be alone in a grave…or a jail cell.
Like you?
Apples and trees, Johnnie…apples and trees………
He woke with a start, wrenching his back in the process. Jesus fucking Christ. He reached for another bottle. It felt warm and he wondered how long he’d been asleep. He could barely see the digital time display on the TV. He kicked out at the cardboard carton at his feet, as he sat up, alone in the gathering gloom of his house.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
It had been three days since Ben had seen Cooper, as John had taken a day off on either side of his regular time off. Ben rapped his knuckles lightly on the door, then knocked again, harder. Thinking that he might have heard a groan and a soft thud, he tried the knob, releasing his breath in relief when it turned easily.
Worry instantly creased his face, until he heard soft snores coming from Cooper’s throat. Ben inched closer, not wanting to disturb John if he was truly in a sound sleep. But he froze upon seeing the object on the floor. It was John’s service revolver. He relaxed only slightly when he saw that the safety was on. Ben shifted the bag he was carrying to his left arm while bending to pick up the gun, placing it on a shelf out of John’s reach.
Satisfied that all was well for the time being, Ben occupied himself by putting away the groceries he had brought; prepared meals, fruits and veggies, crackers and cheese, and soda.
He returned to the living room, plunking an opened can of Coke down onto the table. John awoke with only a twitch this time, his mind finally grasping his body’s dire situation. Blue eyes, bloodshot and dull, darted from the floor up to his lap, then to the young man’s face, to the table, and finally back to the floor. John then followed Ben’s line of sight to the bookshelf.
“Not gonna do me much good way over there, son.”
“Not gonna do you that much more good on your lap, unless you intend to shoot off your balls.”
Coop chuckled. “Still checking up on me?” It was a considerably kinder tone than the last time.
“You haven’t answered your phone in two days. I wanted to see if I was gonna have to find a new partner, or make funeral arrangements.”
John cracked a grin. “No such luck for either one of us, buddy…………why do you care so much?” he asked softly. “And why are you in uniform?”
“You told me partners looked out for each other. And I’m on a Code 7.” John’s eyebrows shot up, knowing Sherman was way out of his division for dinner. Ben ducked his head, sheepishly adding, “I may have been in your driveway when I called it in.” His eyes went to a presumably new pill bottle, then sharply back to John. “You are one sorry mess, John Cooper,” he stated with obvious concern.
“And you are one insubordinate son of a bitch, Ben Sherman.”
“Trust me; I’ve had lots of practice. So, uh, I brought you my copy of the health insurance plan. It’s on the kitchen counter, open to what I thought applies to you.” John glared but Ben continued, “You’re going to need to do something sooner or later. You can’t keep calling out and you can’t come back like this. It’s not a sin to need or ask for help, John.”
Cooper nodded, remaining non committal. “Well, since you’re here, help me up…..please.”
Ben complied while informing John, “You’re not gonna find the bourbon.”
“I’m actually thinking food for once…..” he began while shuffling toward the kitchen. John had barely finished this thought when Ben’s radio crackled telling him to call the W/C once he was clear. Not wanting to push his luck, Ben offered to return after his shift but Coop waved him off. He had the refrigerator open and noticed the restocked food supply. He was unaccustomedly grateful. Ben said goodbye with a lopsided smile, and left John still staring into his fridge.
His pleasure quickly turned into a howl of rage when he discovered that the second carton of beer was gone.
~ * TBC * ~
Title: Not-So-Divine Intervention
Author: 60schic
Rating: PG 13 for language
Beta: chazper, who is encouraging me greatly with this.
Graditude also to snowprince who is acting as technical advisor on all things police-related on this fic. If anything is still wrong, it's not the fault of either of them.
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, and nothing of TNT's. Wouldn't want to own anything of NBC's.
'I just….wanted to see if you’re alright. Are you?'
'I can take care of myself.''>
Not-So-Divine Intervention - Part 1
Pain sliced through the small of his back. Merely turning his head to the side had John seeing stars. This was so not good. John had to pee, badly. And he most definitely needed another pain pill. Or three. He tried to roll onto his side but shooting pains prevented him from completing that simple task.
“Hey,” he called out, his voice weak.
“Hey!” this time louder, though he felt the vibration run down his spinal cord. John didn’t know if anyone else was even in his house. He was relieved when Jorge appeared in the doorway. There was a pitying set to his face.
John closed his eyes. “Get me my pills,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
“What? No ‘Good morning.’ No ‘Thanks for staying’. Just orders?”
“Pills first, then attitude.”
Jorge opened the bottle, tapping out one small tablet. He took the water bottle from the nightstand, holding it out to the prostrate man.
“A little help here…...please?” John raised his arm and Jorge got him sitting, noting the strain it took. “I’m gonna need more than one.”
“You have a serious problem here, Dude,” he said, watching John swallow two pills with difficulty.
“You’re my pusher, not my mother, Dude.”
“Yes, and you pay for that privilege. But I don’t need to be calling 911 on you. Cops frown on this sort of thing.”
John snorted. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.” He had to search his memory to see if he’d ever told Jorge he was a cop. The sight of his uniform in a dry cleaning bag hanging over his closet door answered that question.
“You’re going to need help,” Jorge stated as he supported John on his slow journey into the bathroom.
“Why? I have you.” There was a sardonic twist to John’s mouth.
“I have a living to make, hombre. I’m not your babysitter.”
“Then get the fuck out of here, why don’t you! Now would be good.”
Jorge shook his head. This was not going to end well. “There’s breakfast on the kitchen table. You have enough drugs to last you through tomorrow. Call me after that.”
John’s eyes flashed menacingly at Jorge’s retreating back.
With extreme care, John made his way first to the kitchen, then to his easy chair, armed with food, meds….. and a bottle of Jack. He switched on the TV, taking a slug of the amber liquid as he channel surfed.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
He was in a light sleep when the insistent knocking on his door woke him. Without thinking, he attempted to rise, being instantly reminded of his circumstances. John took a chance, bellowing out “It’s open!” and was both relieved and annoyed that it was.
His boot cautiously entered the house, needing a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within.
“Why aren’t you on the job?” ‘A good offense was always the best defense,’ John thought dryly.
Ben blinked, stepping closer. “I’m on my way. You call out again today?”
John nodded, taking a gulp from the bottle. Ben’s eyes widened but he said nothing.
“You checking up on me?”
“I just….wanted to see if you’re alright. Are you?”
“I can take care of myself.”
Sherman scanned his T/O critically; he was bent at the waist and had one fist pressed into his back. “Clearly,” he scoffed. “You look like shit, John. Listen, you need a doctor. Some physical therapy…a lot of p.t.,” he amended. “And legal drugs.” He eyed the orange container with concern.
Sighing, Cooper responded quietly, “I just need a few days to get straightened out.”
“You mean from this pretzel you’ve become?” There was unexpected anger in Ben’s voice. “You can take an IOD leave, on the Job’s dime.”
John turned his head away, grimacing with the sudden movement. It did not escape Ben’s notice.
“So you’d rather the brass find out you’re practically crippled? How’s that gonna help your cause?”
“Who’d you tell?” John demanded.
“Nobody. I read through my employment materials, specifically the health plan. Chickie and I witnessed the injury so we can state it was on the job.”
“Yeah, well…I’ll look into it. Maybe.” After a pause, “Did you want something else?” It was meant to sound dismissive.
Ben eyed the plate with congealed egg and toast crusts, and the empty water bottle. He took them, and the half empty liquor bottle, into the kitchen.
“Hey! Bring that back, damn it!”
“Make me,” Ben challenged childishly, spinning around. Watching the pain flash across John’s face as he struggled to stand softened his tone. “You’re mixing booze and drugs. Nice, John. You really want us to find you suffocating on your own vomit?” He didn’t wait for a response.
Rummaging in the refrigerator, Ben found a take out carton. He sniffed it before nuking the leftover Chinese food. He brought a dish and a new water bottle in to John, setting them within his reach.
“Thanks,” John mumbled grudgingly.
Ben shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “Did you hear, Chickie caught the Canyon Rapist last night? Singlehandedly.”
“Is that so?” John tried to hide his surprise. “Told you it would be a patrol cop who did it.”
Nodding, Ben added, “Turns out to be some security guard, fired off his last 3 jobs.”
“Good. Glad the scum bag is off the streets.”
The conversation seemed to die there. After another minute of silence, John angled his head towards the door. “Go to work, Ben,” he gently ordered.
“You need anything else before I leave?”
“Not unless you’ve got a spare back in your pocket.”
Ben snorted, shaking his head, but made no comment as he let the door close behind him.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Ben slid into the passenger seat of Chickie’s car, his face a grim mask.
“How is he?”
“Not good.”
With her hand on the door handle, Chickie started, “Maybe I should go….”
“No,” Ben interrupted. “Let’s leave him be a few days, see what he does.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
After scarfing down the much needed food, John needed to use the bathroom. It took him several minutes to get out of the chair. He tried to gauge how many steps it would be to the hallway and how long it would take him. With a snicker, John hoped he’d make it, but he wouldn’t bet on it.
Sweat covered his brow and when he looked in the mirror, John didn’t like what he saw. The kid was right; he did look like shit. John knew he had been tough on Sherman but he was in agony, for Christ’s sake. Maybe a shower would fix him up.
More concentrated effort was required to get out of his clothes. Then he spent the first five minutes just letting the hot water cascade over his back, moving experimentally to see where the pain began and ended. Just when he thought it wasn’t so bad, John dropped the soap and watched it skid towards the drain.
“Shit!” His attempt to drag the bar back with his foot caused a twinge to surge down his leg. John fired off a barrage of expletives while pounding his fists against the tile in frustration. When his rage was spent, he finished his shower lathering himself with the shampoo instead.
Once dried and dressed, with considerable effort and more sweating, John ambled cautiously toward the kitchen. His refrigerator revealed meager offerings; half a head of lettuce, brown around the edges, some dried out slices of cheese, a variety of condiments - olives were from the vegetable group, weren’t they? - and on the bottom shelf, a couple of six packs of beer. There was a God. Not sure he wanted to bend just yet, John remembered the confiscated bottle of Jack. He scanned the room, finding nothing on the counters or in the lower cabinets. He saw one door was ajar, over his head, and spied the telltale black and white label, the bottle being shoved back from the edge. “That little fucker!” he spat. “The beer’ll have to do.”
Getting the easy-twist cap off proved to be more of a challenge than reaching the bottom shelf. With a bottle in one hand and the carton in the other, John shuffled back into the living room, sinking gratefully and wearily into his chair. He changed channels and took another pill, polishing half of the second beer off as a chaser. After the third bottle, his vision blurred and John had difficulty following even something as lame as Judge Judy, not that it was any great loss. He muted the sound and closed his eyes, eventually falling into a fitful sleep.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Johnnie.
Don’t call me that.
I’ll call you whatever I want, asswipe. Now what are you gonna do, Boy-O?
I’ll be just fine.
Oh really?
I’ll take care of it, on my own, just like I always have.
You wanna be nicer to those in a position to help you, Johnnie.
Or what?
Or you’ll be alone in a grave…or a jail cell.
Like you?
Apples and trees, Johnnie…apples and trees………
He woke with a start, wrenching his back in the process. Jesus fucking Christ. He reached for another bottle. It felt warm and he wondered how long he’d been asleep. He could barely see the digital time display on the TV. He kicked out at the cardboard carton at his feet, as he sat up, alone in the gathering gloom of his house.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
It had been three days since Ben had seen Cooper, as John had taken a day off on either side of his regular time off. Ben rapped his knuckles lightly on the door, then knocked again, harder. Thinking that he might have heard a groan and a soft thud, he tried the knob, releasing his breath in relief when it turned easily.
Worry instantly creased his face, until he heard soft snores coming from Cooper’s throat. Ben inched closer, not wanting to disturb John if he was truly in a sound sleep. But he froze upon seeing the object on the floor. It was John’s service revolver. He relaxed only slightly when he saw that the safety was on. Ben shifted the bag he was carrying to his left arm while bending to pick up the gun, placing it on a shelf out of John’s reach.
Satisfied that all was well for the time being, Ben occupied himself by putting away the groceries he had brought; prepared meals, fruits and veggies, crackers and cheese, and soda.
He returned to the living room, plunking an opened can of Coke down onto the table. John awoke with only a twitch this time, his mind finally grasping his body’s dire situation. Blue eyes, bloodshot and dull, darted from the floor up to his lap, then to the young man’s face, to the table, and finally back to the floor. John then followed Ben’s line of sight to the bookshelf.
“Not gonna do me much good way over there, son.”
“Not gonna do you that much more good on your lap, unless you intend to shoot off your balls.”
Coop chuckled. “Still checking up on me?” It was a considerably kinder tone than the last time.
“You haven’t answered your phone in two days. I wanted to see if I was gonna have to find a new partner, or make funeral arrangements.”
John cracked a grin. “No such luck for either one of us, buddy…………why do you care so much?” he asked softly. “And why are you in uniform?”
“You told me partners looked out for each other. And I’m on a Code 7.” John’s eyebrows shot up, knowing Sherman was way out of his division for dinner. Ben ducked his head, sheepishly adding, “I may have been in your driveway when I called it in.” His eyes went to a presumably new pill bottle, then sharply back to John. “You are one sorry mess, John Cooper,” he stated with obvious concern.
“And you are one insubordinate son of a bitch, Ben Sherman.”
“Trust me; I’ve had lots of practice. So, uh, I brought you my copy of the health insurance plan. It’s on the kitchen counter, open to what I thought applies to you.” John glared but Ben continued, “You’re going to need to do something sooner or later. You can’t keep calling out and you can’t come back like this. It’s not a sin to need or ask for help, John.”
Cooper nodded, remaining non committal. “Well, since you’re here, help me up…..please.”
Ben complied while informing John, “You’re not gonna find the bourbon.”
“I’m actually thinking food for once…..” he began while shuffling toward the kitchen. John had barely finished this thought when Ben’s radio crackled telling him to call the W/C once he was clear. Not wanting to push his luck, Ben offered to return after his shift but Coop waved him off. He had the refrigerator open and noticed the restocked food supply. He was unaccustomedly grateful. Ben said goodbye with a lopsided smile, and left John still staring into his fridge.
His pleasure quickly turned into a howl of rage when he discovered that the second carton of beer was gone.
~ * TBC * ~