Follow up on this SouthLAnd fic thing
Possibly I have written a bit during my break. Like, 650 words. So I am giving it to your eyes first, flist, because I trust your judgment. Tell me what you think of my Coop and Ben thank youuuuuuu.
Ben’s been sleeping; it’s obvious in his mussed up hair and the creases along his cheek, deep red pillow marks on his skin. He looks at John with sleepy wariness in his eyes, something soft edging along, too, like the beginning of an apology he won’t say out loud. John has more to apologize for, so he doesn’t really want to hear it.
Ben opens his mouth, sighs, then starts again. “I’ve heard, about the kid. I’m sorry,” he ends with, moving enough to allow John to walk in his small apartment. He’s not moved out yet, not decided on a house next to the rest of them. John hears about it enough, cops are worse gossipers than high-schoolers, but he’s not sure if it’ll make things easier for him or not.
John lets the thrum of his own heartbeat take the lead of his thoughts as he settles ungracefully on Ben’s couch, the fake leather creaking underneath him. Ben sits on the coffee table, hands on his knees, fingers digging in, looking straight at John in the darkness, like he’s trying to decide what he should be saying, or doing. John hasn’t said a word yet, and he knows it’s long overdue, but suddenly, it’s too hard, syllables like molasses in his mouth.
“Not sure where to start,” he finally manages to say, and it seems to spur Ben into moving, sitting next to John on the couch, pressed closer than he has to, warm skin against John’s hand. John’s head is spinning with all the things he’s not supposed to want or care about, this kid he’s mourning, at least for a little while, if only just for a night, his relationship with Ben, broken, not really on the mend even now.
“So don’t. Let it go.” And John does. He sags, closer to Ben, this dick of a boy who likes to pretend he’s a hardcore cop, and Ben lets him, takes his weight, wraps his arms around John like it’s something they’re used to do, like it doesn’t change everything. Ben rests his chin against the back of John’s neck, breathes slowly into his hair, and John gives up on trying to explain himself. He can do that later, another day maybe, or he possibly can pretend it never happened; it’s not like he sees Ben every day anyway.
John curls a hand around Ben’s elbow, and turns his head to bury his nose in the dip between Ben’s collarbones, smelling soap and sleep, the smell so deeply comforting he almost sobs, closing his eyes tighter, burrowing closer. For a moment he wishes he could dig inside, make himself a place under Ben’s skin, stay there for a while, admit to Ben that he misses him, misses teaching him the ropes, yelling at him, sharing a few beers after hours.
He’s pretty sure Ben knows, anyway.
“Hey, Coop, you still awake?”
John lets his eyes flutter open, and he nods at Ben’s whispered words, trying to chase the image of that kid on his hospital bed, bruised and battered and so thoroughly broken he couldn’t see an exit. Ben sighs, shifting slightly until he’s laying down on the couch, bringing John along with him, his fingers curled around John’s ear, drifting into his hair. John fixates on a stain high on Ben’s shirt.
“You’re not going to push me to talk?” He asks gruffly, too used to Ben’s brusqueness not to anticipate it. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears, as if unused for too long.
“Not tonight. Try to sleep, will you?”
John’s hand creeps up until it’s resting between Ben’s shoulder blades, the other staying on his stomach, following his steady breathing, just the kind of movement John is looking for, alive. John closes his eyes again; he’s not even cold.
“But soon, you will.”
Ben breathes out a sleepy chuckle. “You bet your ass I will. Still expect an apology from you.”
Ben’s been sleeping; it’s obvious in his mussed up hair and the creases along his cheek, deep red pillow marks on his skin. He looks at John with sleepy wariness in his eyes, something soft edging along, too, like the beginning of an apology he won’t say out loud. John has more to apologize for, so he doesn’t really want to hear it.
Ben opens his mouth, sighs, then starts again. “I’ve heard, about the kid. I’m sorry,” he ends with, moving enough to allow John to walk in his small apartment. He’s not moved out yet, not decided on a house next to the rest of them. John hears about it enough, cops are worse gossipers than high-schoolers, but he’s not sure if it’ll make things easier for him or not.
John lets the thrum of his own heartbeat take the lead of his thoughts as he settles ungracefully on Ben’s couch, the fake leather creaking underneath him. Ben sits on the coffee table, hands on his knees, fingers digging in, looking straight at John in the darkness, like he’s trying to decide what he should be saying, or doing. John hasn’t said a word yet, and he knows it’s long overdue, but suddenly, it’s too hard, syllables like molasses in his mouth.
“Not sure where to start,” he finally manages to say, and it seems to spur Ben into moving, sitting next to John on the couch, pressed closer than he has to, warm skin against John’s hand. John’s head is spinning with all the things he’s not supposed to want or care about, this kid he’s mourning, at least for a little while, if only just for a night, his relationship with Ben, broken, not really on the mend even now.
“So don’t. Let it go.” And John does. He sags, closer to Ben, this dick of a boy who likes to pretend he’s a hardcore cop, and Ben lets him, takes his weight, wraps his arms around John like it’s something they’re used to do, like it doesn’t change everything. Ben rests his chin against the back of John’s neck, breathes slowly into his hair, and John gives up on trying to explain himself. He can do that later, another day maybe, or he possibly can pretend it never happened; it’s not like he sees Ben every day anyway.
John curls a hand around Ben’s elbow, and turns his head to bury his nose in the dip between Ben’s collarbones, smelling soap and sleep, the smell so deeply comforting he almost sobs, closing his eyes tighter, burrowing closer. For a moment he wishes he could dig inside, make himself a place under Ben’s skin, stay there for a while, admit to Ben that he misses him, misses teaching him the ropes, yelling at him, sharing a few beers after hours.
He’s pretty sure Ben knows, anyway.
“Hey, Coop, you still awake?”
John lets his eyes flutter open, and he nods at Ben’s whispered words, trying to chase the image of that kid on his hospital bed, bruised and battered and so thoroughly broken he couldn’t see an exit. Ben sighs, shifting slightly until he’s laying down on the couch, bringing John along with him, his fingers curled around John’s ear, drifting into his hair. John fixates on a stain high on Ben’s shirt.
“You’re not going to push me to talk?” He asks gruffly, too used to Ben’s brusqueness not to anticipate it. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears, as if unused for too long.
“Not tonight. Try to sleep, will you?”
John’s hand creeps up until it’s resting between Ben’s shoulder blades, the other staying on his stomach, following his steady breathing, just the kind of movement John is looking for, alive. John closes his eyes again; he’s not even cold.
“But soon, you will.”
Ben breathes out a sleepy chuckle. “You bet your ass I will. Still expect an apology from you.”