Southland - Rockin' Your Eff Me Pumps (Ben/Cooper, NC-17)
Dear John Cooper,
You are the best thing to happen to me since I met an upstanding Recon Marine named Brad Colbert. I hope you will be happy with what I give you. I'm trying. Believe me.
<3,
X
This is for all my Southland peeps, but especially for lazlet, antheia and sparky77 who calmed me down when Cooper refused to drop trou, and for wolkendunst and abrabacon_trask who were all, "hey, did you see that Michael Cudlitz interview on TV Guide?" I really love it when the actor's view of their character adds to my interpretation.
Southland
Ben/Cooper, NC-17
6,100 words
Rockin' Your Eff Me Pumps
Ben's already waiting by the squad car when Cooper emerges from the precinct. It's a beautiful Los Angeles day, the blue sky not completely overcast by the smog, and a slight breeze keeping it from being too hot.
Ben's shoes are flawlessly polished, the crease in his pants perfect. He just had a haircut two days ago.
If Cooper finds fault, it won't be for Ben's appearance.
Ben's been waiting for the last fifteen minutes. Cooper's not late, but Ben is early. Very early. He's not actually on duty for another thirty minutes, but he couldn't sleep, and he's already run his four miles.
He could run farther, but then his legs would be wobbly all morning.
Cooper's mouth twitches in greeting as he opens the trunk and throws in a duffle bag. "If a 203 is mayhem, what's a 56?"
No, 'hi', no 'good morning' just straight to work.
Cooper is all business, all the time. Ben respects that. It would be nice if Cooper would relax a little bit though.
"56? Criminal damage."
"148."
"Resisting arrest."
"459."
"Burglary," Ben recites as Cooper unlocks the car and Ben opens the passenger side door. He grabs a paper container from its resting place on the roof and leans inside to hand it to Cooper.
Cooper gives him a dubious look, but takes the container. "What's this?" he says as Ben slides into the car and shuts the door.
Ben gives him a small smile. "Coffee?" he says hesitantly.
Cooper's mouth twitches. "Is it coffee or isn't it? If you don't know, how the hell am I supposed to know?"
Despite the litany, he takes a sip anyway. "Fuck me, this isn't just coffee. I've tasted coffee; this is a blow job in coffee form. Is there crack in here? Where'd you get this, Brandon Walsh?"
Ben shrugs, trying not to let his immense pleasure show. "I made it."
"What, you flew down to Columbia last night after shift and picked this shit fresh?" Cooper mocks, taking a larger sip from the container and licking his lips.
Ben doesn't stare.
"Actually, I have this monkey that likes coffee beans and after he shits them out, I make coffee from them. It's pretty popular, Monkey Shit Coffee. It's like $50 a pound."
Cooper pauses with the container mid-way to his mouth. "Junior, if you're not fucking with me, you're going to wish you were."
Ben's mouth curls at the corner. "Why? Are you going to take me in the back and spank me if I'm bad, sir?"
Cooper raises an eyebrow. "It's always the rich ones that are into the kinky shit," he says, setting the coffee in the cup holder and turning on the car.
Ben chalks one up for his side.
Barry the Basehead has a friend called Casey the Crackhead. Together they also know two guys named Heroin Harry and Jake the Junkie. They all like to hang out with this guy named Sal. Sal doesn't have a catchy nickname. He's just Sal. And the thing about Sal is that where Barry likes to freebase and Casey likes crack, Sal seems to like everything. Maybe they should call him Sal the Garbage Disposal, because Sal likes dealing everything, doing everything, and when they run into him outside a check cashing store, Sal's twitching like he's on everything.
"That's his problem," Cooper says when Ben wants to take him in to detox.
"He's needs help," Ben insists. "Aren't we supposed to help?"
Cooper crosses his arms and Ben does his best not to stare, but Cooper has massive forearms. And thick fingers. Cooper's biceps are the size of Ben's calves. Not that Ben's measured, but he's estimated quite a bit.
"The sign on the car says 'protect and serve' not 'provides rehab, counseling and coddling for addicts and pussies," Cooper drills.
Ben looks away, but he can feel the muscle in his jaw twitching with all the things he wants to say and can't. Or won't.
Cooper's fingers dig into the muscle when he grabs Ben's arm. "You can't save everybody, Sherman. If you try, you'll only end up hating the job. And yourself. I don't need that."
"I don't want to save everyone," Ben insists plaintively, looking back at Cooper. He knows he's being soft. He can feel it down in his stomach. He can tell by the tightening in Cooper's jaw. "I just want to help."
Cooper exhales loudly through his nose. "One time," he capitulates. "One fucking time. Next time I don't care if it's goddamn Mother Theresa back from the dead, you hear me?"
Ben doesn't bother to hide the force of his smile, and Cooper just makes an exasperated noise as Ben puts Sal in the back of the car.
"I'm telling you now though, if he fucks up the squad car in any way, you are going to take care of it. You hear me, Ben?"
Ben nods his head automatically, but he's a little too preoccupied with the fact that Cooper just called him 'Ben'. Still, it's not really the time for him to act like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Sometimes it pays to listen to Cooper. Not only does Sal vomit in the back of the squad car, but he manages to piss all over the seat as well. It's the most disgusting series of bodily functions Ben's seen since he thought about pledging a fraternity at UCLA with his roommate Eric. Ben eventually decided against it, even though Eric went ahead, and then Ben came home one day and found Eric huddled in the corner, because the brothers at ZBT had fed him dog food laced with laxatives and he'd pretty much been shitting and vomiting his brains out all day.
Needless to say, Cooper is not pleased.
After they get back to the precinct and deposit Sal in holding, Cooper grabs Ben by the scruff of his neck and drags him back out to the parking lot.
Ben doesn't have to ask where they're going, and sure enough, Cooper man-handles him over to the squad car, flings open the back seat and says softly in Ben's ear, "You're going to clean her up. And when you're done, you're going to prove to me how clean she is by licking the backseat."
Ben opens his mouth to protest, but the thin line of Cooper's mouth and way he narrows his eyes leaves very little room for discussion. This is not really the time for Ben's body to react to Cooper's proximity or the way his knuckles are brushing the nape of Ben's neck.
Instead, Ben spends the rest of his afternoon trekking back and forth from the parking lot to the bathrooms with Lysol and a bucket and about a thousand paper towels. He has to climb into the car to really clean up the mess, and it's truly disgusting. Even more disgusting than cleaning up Eric.
Ben gets vomit on his uniform, and he finds himself gagging at the way the Lysol makes the vomit and urine smell sickeningly sweet.
By the time he's done, his fingers are pink, raw and swollen with cleaning fluid, and he smells so bad he feels like he's the one that's been living on the streets for weeks.
In the locker room, he ends up getting in the shower fully clothed just to get rid of some of the stench. It would be perfectly easy for him to just toss out this uniform and buy another, or even buy ten others, but if he wants to be like everybody else then he can't flaunt his money.
He stands under the spray until his clothes are drenched and then he pulls them off and goes through most of a bar of soap and half a bottle of shampoo just to get clean.
The hot water runs out before he stops feeling like a disgusting mess, but he gets out anyway. Dewey and Cooper are at their lockers when he comes around the corner, and Dewey makes a series of vomiting noises in between laughing his ass off.
Ben ignores him in favor of sticking his befouled uniform in a plastic bag and pulling on a pair of briefs.
"Damn, who the fuck tore your ass up, Canada?" Dewey hollers.
Ben carries on getting dressed.
"Sherman, he's talking to you," Cooper says.
Cooper's tone doesn't leave much room for interpretation. Only he could make Ben respond to the heckling. "What?" he says, turning with a sigh.
"That scar on the back of your leg, kid," Dewey says. "What the fuck is that? That looks like it goes all the way up your ass. You still got your nuts?"
If Cooper wasn't actually watching him, Ben would just turn back away. Instead he shrugs. "Vaulting a fence takes practice."
Dewey shakes his head. "The fence won that one, Junior. Shit. I bet you can sing just like Mariah Carey now."
It's probably Ben's imagination that Cooper's smiling.
Cooper's leaning against the wall outside the locker room when Ben emerges. He's wearing a plain white button down shirt and jeans. The shirt fits without being tight and the jeans don't hang down to his knees or look like a second skin like every other guy Ben's seen in the last three years. There's a duffle bag at his feet. None of this should be nearly as hot as it is.
Ben waves at Cooper, which could possibly be construed as 'hi' or 'bye' or 'do me now.'
Cooper pushes off the wall, and nods towards the door. "We're getting a drink," he says flatly.
Since the matter doesn't seem open to debate, Ben just says, "Okay."
Cooper's mouth curls up at the right corner as he slides into the booth across from Ben. "I know what you were trying to do today."
Ben looks at Cooper blankly. "What I was trying to do when?"
The beer Cooper pushes across the table towards Ben leaves wet streaks on the woodwork. In the background, some sort of wannabe rocker warbles about how he's gonna be a big star and his girl's gonna be sorry she left him for some other guy.
"Look, Melrose Place," Cooper says, "if you want to save the world with your kumbaya, karmic bullshit, join the Peace Corps. You keep it out of my squad car though, you hear me?"
Ben traces the condensation rolling down the side of his beer.
In Ben's periphery Cooper's hand taps on the table. "Sherman, you listening to me?"
"Yes, sir," Ben nods and takes a long pull on his beer, glancing past Cooper's head at the wood paneling and the other people milling around. They're all attractive in that L.A. way if you go for hipsters and self-obsessed struggling actors or rich men and women trying to pick up hipsters and self-obsessed struggling actors.
There's a dearth of really good dive bars in L.A. Every bar wants to cater to a specific group: gay, Mexican, Thai, hippies, people who fuck apple pies, there's a bar for everybody, so of course there are bars for cops.
The bar Cooper's taken Ben to doesn't seem like much of a cop bar. When the song changes in the background, it's a different guy but he's singing the same song, except this time it's about how his man did him wrong.
Ben's antennae twinge of their own accord.
Ben's pretty sure cops don't listen to music about men doing other men wrong.
"I know you're trying," Cooper starts again.
"I'll do better," Ben says softly. And then he looks Cooper in the eye and repeats it again. "I will do better."
"You're not doing a bad job," Cooper says. "But you gotta listen to me. I know you're probably used to knowing everything and being top dog, but around here you're nothing but a puppy chewing on my shoelaces, d'you hear me?"
Ben looks down at his beer. "Yeah, I hear you."
He glances up to see Cooper take another pull on his beer. His throat is this long, tan column, his Adam's Apple moving up and down as he swallows.
"I don't need you to be brain dead," Cooper says, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "I just need you to use your goddamn overeducated, underutilized brain sometime. Shootin' like a goddamn sniper doesn't mean anything if you pull the trigger at the wrong time or shoot yourself in the foot."
Ben's mouth twists into a wry smile. "I'll try to keep all my toes. Just for you."
Cooper snorts. "Don't do me any favors, kid."
"I suppose that means you don't want to do shots with me either. I mean I know you old guys can't really hold your liquor. I wouldn't want you think I was doing you any favors or anything."
Cooper's leans across the table, his eyes very bright despite the sparse lighting. "Anything you got, Junior, bring it on."
Ben leans in further than he should. "Don't say I didn't warn you, old man."
"Old man?" Cooper spits. "You're going down."
Ben chuckles at the irony because it's a bit too late for that.
He's heard these things happen gradually. That first you find yourself thinking about stupid stuff: the way someone holds a pen, or the way they cock their head when they're talking on their cell phone or the way they hold their gun. And then a couple months later you look across a table or a room and you have that epiphany, "Crap. I'm in love with X."
That didn't happen to Ben though. For Ben Sherman to fall for John Cooper, it took about a day.
Okay, more like a day and a half.
There are all different kinds of tequila: gold, silver, patron. Pretty much everyone has a type they favor. Ben's been very good friends with Jose Cuervo for several years now, but he's never done too well with silver. Patron is fine, and pretty much all of them are bearable as long he doesn't mix them together.
Cooper, however, is sadistic. He drinks all kinds of tequila. And he drinks them well. And he drinks them together. The asshole. And this is what Ben mumbles over and over again when Cooper has to help him up off of the bathroom floor.
Cooper's wearing loafers, perfectly polished, nice black loafers. They look shiny, which apparently Ben says out loud since Cooper laughs riotously right after Ben has this thought.
Cooper is warm and solid, and when he folds Ben into passenger seat of his car to drive him home, Ben might possibly sniff him. It seems like it takes a long time for Cooper to get in the car beside him.
"'m fine," Ben insists when Cooper leans over to fasten his seatbelt for him. "I can do it."
Cooper just laughs as he turns on the car and pulls out onto the surface streets. "Of course you are, Hot Shot, what's your name?"
Ben looks down at his knees. "I hate silver tequila."
"That's your name? 'I hate silver tequila'? Does that fit on your Driver's License?"
It's possible that Ben sticks out his tongue.
"What's wrong, can't keep up with us old guys?"
Ben's head rolls for a long time to look at Cooper. "Where'd you learn to drink like that?"
"The military, son," Cooper says. "When you can't drink for six months and then get libo in Australia, you learn a lot about drinking copious amounts."
"You're military?"
"Marines," Cooper says.
"The few, the proud, the dragon slayers," Ben hiccups. "Do they really give you a sword?"
"You've been watching too much TV," Cooper says.
Ben stares at Cooper's profile in the faint blue light from the dashboard. It's warm in Cooper's car and there's some faint classic rock coming from the speakers, Ben closes his eyes and waits for the world to stop moving.
Ben wakes up the next morning with a hangover the size of a small country. Or at least the size of the UCLA Marching Band and just as fucking loud. If he didn't have the afternoon shift, he would call in sick. Actually, that's a lie, he would never give Cooper the satisfaction of calling out sick just because he had a few drinks too many. It's not as though Ben did anything embarrassing like trying to climb on Cooper and stick his tongue down his throat... did he?
The thought alone sends Ben scurrying for the bathroom again.
A few minutes praying to the porcelain god and Ben's head is much clearer. His throat feels like he's tried to send fingernails the wrong way, but he's sure he didn't do anything that embarrassing. Not that getting trashed and Cooper driving him home wasn't embarrassing enough.
He takes a shower, washing his hair twice. He brushes his teeth three times, shaves and then goes to get dressed, but he's missing his wallet, which is a whole new issue.
It turns out his wallet is with his jeans, and his jeans are in a heap by the front door along with his shoes, socks and underwear.
The front door is closed, but it's not locked.
He distinctly remembers undressing himself; he hopes he didn't do it as part of a show for Cooper. The thought alone keeps him preoccupied during the entire taxi ride to pick up his car. His brain keeps fizzing and crackling and all he can do is pick up some coffee from Starbucks, which is a fucking abomination.
Cooper's smiling when Ben arrives at the precinct. He's still smiling after Ben's changed into his uniform and joined him in the squad car. It's scary. And irritating as fuck.
"Okay, I got drunk," Ben says about 30 seconds after they pull out of the parking lot. "Stop acting like you've never gotten drunk before."
Cooper just laughs. "Son, there's a big difference between the way working class people get drunk and the way rich people get drunk. If your palate wasn't so damn picky, I wouldn't've had to pick you up off the floor."
"You didn't pick me up..." Ben's argument dies off in face of a very obvious flashback of his arm slung around Cooper's neck and Cooper's arm around his waist. Cooper smelled good, like soap and aftershave.
Shit.
"You were saying?" Cooper mocks.
Ben just scowls. And then Cooper reaches over and ruffles his hair. "You keep acting like a goddamn human being and not some rich asshole, I may have to start liking you or something."
Ben ducks his head, but it doesn't hide his smile.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cooper glancing at him, but then dispatch calls about an 11-84 415 off of Crenshaw and Olympic involving trashcans and a naked man.
Ben stares at the radio. "Did I hear that right? They need somebody to direct traffic because some naked guy is disturbing the peace with trashcans?"
Cooper smirks. "Gotta love this job."
They have tacos for lunch. Although lunch is really more like dinner. Before they leave the taco stand, Ben grabs a few pieces of cake that are wrapped up in cellophane and tosses a fiver at the counter.
He doesn't know how the cake tastes, but if they're as good as the tacos then they're in good hands.
He hands a piece to Cooper when they get in the car, and Cooper eyes him shrewdly. "You keep bringing me stuff and I'm going to think you want something."
Ben snorts, but doesn't say anything since his mouth is full of white cake. Cooper peers at him a little closer than he should and Ben tries to swallow. The cake is dry going down.
He can't feel if he's flushing, because he's trying to control the twitching of the muscle in his jaw.
Thank god for dispatch and armed robberies.
Okay, forget what Ben said about thanking god for armed robberies, because any time that people are shooting at Cooper is not anything to be thankful for.
He's not worried about himself, there's something comforting about the heaviness of a 9mm in Ben's hand. He has control with a weapon that he doesn't seem to have in other parts of his life. The gun will do what he wants it to, when he wants it to. He can't control much of anything else.
He'll never be big like Cooper or an asshole like his dad -- thank God. He'll never be as innocent as Olivia or as forgiving as his mom, but he can shoot, and when some jackass wings Cooper, Ben can put a bullet in him and take him down.
The next few minutes are a mess of calling dispatch and black and whites flooding the scene, because Cooper's been shot and it doesn't matter what he says, Ben is fucking worried.
"I'm fine," Cooper says, batting him away in exasperation as they sit on the hood of the car and wait for the EMTs. Ben's perched on Cooper's left, his hand on Cooper's arm, keeping pressure on Copper's bicep where he got winged by the bullet
Ben purses his lips and presses down harder on Cooper's arm. "No, you're not, sir." Cooper winces fractionally, but Ben knows he's not supposed to notice that.
"I thought we'd got past the 'sir' thing."
"Okay, you're not fine, John. Now shut the fuck up and stop arguing with me."
Cooper raises an eyebrow. "Maybe you've forgotten who's in charge here."
"No, sir," Ben says tightly.
Cooper shakes his head. "I already had a wife, Ben. I decided that wasn't for me."
There are so many sirens, Ben can hardly carry his part of the conversation. He leans in closer to hear what John's saying. "What wasn't for you? Marriage?"
"No. Women."
Ben loosens his grip automatically, pulling back slightly. John eyes him. "Is this going to be a problem?
"No," Ben says quietly
"Good."
"What the fuck's wrong with you that you get shot by a crackhead stealing a goddamn Nutty Butty?!" Dewey hollers as he and Chickie pull up in their squad car. "I was trying to get myself some ass, and instead I have to come over here and save your ass."
When John flips Dewey the bird, Ben snorts softly. In retaliation, John punches him on the thigh.
Clearly he really is fine.
This time it's Ben waiting on Cooper, but it's in a hospital, not at the locker room, and it's outside a surgical curtain. Ben can't help twitching every time someone rushes by him; hospitals make him nervous. Nothing good ever happens in one.
There's no sound coming from the other side of the curtain except the occasional squeak of what Ben assumes is a chair or a gurney, and a soft murmur of what's probably Cooper telling the doctor to hurry the fuck up.
All around him people are bustling around, doing their jobs, and all Ben can do is think about Cooper and Cooper coming out to him, and what that possibly -- probably...
Okay, it doesn't mean anything except in Ben's head.
The thing is, Ben's in his head, like, a lot of the time.
He looks up when the curtain is yanked back. Cooper has a white bandage wrapped around his bicep and a doctor is pulling off his surgical gloves. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" Cooper says, goading Ben. "You look like somebody got shot."
Ben purses his lips. "Asshole."
Cooper points in Ben's face. "Just 'cause you saved my life doesn't mean you can talk to me like that, kid." His dictate is softened by the smile on his face.
Ben can feel his face flushing. Fucking hormones.
"If you need anything or your arm starts to bother you, John, call me." Ben glances over Cooper's shoulder at the doctor, who is very tall, and what could be called attractive, if you went for dark, handsome and well-educated.
If Ben scowls, he'll never admit it. Cooper glances over his shoulder. "No offense, doc, but I hate seeing you."
The doctor laughs. His teeth are too white. They're probably caps. "Oh well, can't blame me for trying. I have twenty parking tickets; the laws on my side of town were written by monkeys."
Cooper chuckles. "You know the laws are the same for everyone, even you rich fuckers."
The doctor shakes his head. "You're fine. Make sure he takes his medication every four hours and he'll be back at work in a few days." It takes Ben a minute to realize the doctor is talking to him.
"Fuck that, doc," Cooper says, "I'll be back on the street tomorrow."
"Then I'll see you to repair your stitches tomorrow afternoon," the doctor says wryly.
"You do that," Cooper says, nodding for Ben to follow him.
If Ben glares at the doctor as they're leaving, that's his right. If he has to see Cooper flirt with another man again ever, it will be too soon.
Ben has to take Cooper to the precinct so everyone can see he's okay, and because Cooper wants to grab some stuff from his locker. This is clearly a bad idea, but Ben has yet to figure out how to tell Cooper 'no', probably because there aren't many instances where he has the opportunity.
Naturally, the field trip to the station degenerates into thirty minutes in the locker room, trying to change his clothes with everybody talking shit about Cooper getting shot and Ben being some sort of marksman. And then they have to go out and see other people, including their commander, and all Ben really wants to do is get Cooper the hell out of there. If he hovers a lot more than is strictly necessary, well, fuck everybody. Their partners didn't get shot today and his did.
Finally, Cooper seems to get the hint and grabs Ben away from his conversation with Chickie. "C'mon, I'm ready for the Sherman Express to take me home."
Chickie grins at him. "You better do what the man says, Ben. He gets really bitchy when people don't listen to him."
Ben smirks. "Yeah, I've figured that out." He's totally not expecting it when Cooper smacks him on the ass. "Shit!"
"Shut the fuck up, you mouthy fuck and come on," Cooper orders.
If Ben's smiling about Cooper ordering him around, he'll never tell.
Cooper's house is traditional L.A.: a one level ranch with a driveway, palm trees and a small yard. The lawn is immaculate and there are even flowers near the house.
Ben's been to Echo Park enough to know that Cooper's neighborhood isn't necessarily indicative of how everyone else is living, but it certainly seems the norm for Cooper's block.
It pays to have a cop in the area.
Ben parks in the driveway, and by the time he's turned off the engine, Cooper and his duffle bag are halfway up the steps. Ben shakes his head and follows when Cooper opens his wrought iron safety door and leaves the front door wide open.
"Okay, what do you need?" Ben says, trooping in behind Cooper and turning to shut the doors behind him. "Are you hungry? Is your arm hurting? Do you need something to --"
Ben's totally not expecting Cooper to be right behind him when he turns around. He's expecting it even less when Cooper plants a hand on his chest and presses him against the wall. There's no force behind the action. No pressure to make Ben stay where Cooper's put him, but Ben glances down at Cooper's hand splayed against his white tee shirt and his heart speeds up to foot chase levels.
"What're you doing, Ben?"
It's very hard for Ben to stop looking at Cooper's hand, to stop thinking about how warm it is through the cotton of his shirt. He swallows. "What am I doing where?"
"Here."
Ben's smile doesn't completely form. "In case you missed it, you got shot today. I'm here to make sure you don't bleed out all over the place."
Cooper's mouth twitches. "It's a graze. Seven fucking stitches. I may take them out myself tomorrow; it wouldn't be the first time."
Ben leans into Cooper's fingers curling against his chest. "How many of those pain pills have you taken so far?" he says. "It's every four hours, not every forty minutes."
Ben licks his lips, watching Cooper's eyes following his tongue and that's enough for him. "I want to kiss you," Ben says quietly, "so if you're going to tell me 'no', now would be a good time."
Cooper makes a scoffing noise, but he takes a step forward, right into Ben's space and when Ben tilts his head back, Cooper's right there. Still, Ben's the one to press forward, to propel himself up just enough to kiss Cooper on the mouth. Cooper makes this noise, whether it's in surprise or invitation, Ben goes with it, parting his lips and flicking his tongue against Cooper's mouth until he opens up for him.
Cooper tastes like nachos and cake and coffee, and his fingers tighten enough in Ben's shirt that Ben can feel the collar tightening around his neck. Ben's hands start at Cooper's waist, gripping his shirt and sliding up his chest, until he can wrap a hand around the back of Cooper's neck and hold him there.
Ben kisses Cooper like it might be the last thing he ever does, which, it just might be if he's doing this wrong. He presses himself against as much of Cooper as possible, shamelessly rutting against Cooper's thigh, and making encouraging noises when Cooper grips his ass with his free hand.
Ben has to pull away momentarily to breathe, his lungs taking huge shuddering breaths to keep his brain from totally blacking out with lust and oxygen-deprivation. He can feel Cooper's exhalations against his forehead
"What the hell are you doing, Sherman?" Cooper says in a low voice. "This isn't going to get you to detective."
Ben scowls at Cooper's chest and then up at Cooper himself. "You think I care about that right now?"
Cooper doesn't quite meet his eyes, but his fingers release Ben's shirt. "You're just fucked up because you had to shoot somebody again. I don’t need that."
Ben doesn't even pretend not to be insulted. "You think I'm pissed off that some junkie died? I care that you almost died. Asshole."
Cooper snorts. "Weren't you just trying to save a different junkie?"
Ben socks Cooper in the chest. "You are so fucking difficult, Jesus. Why the hell did I have to fall for you of all people?"
Cooper inhales sharply. "You don't know what you're saying. Do you even know what you're doing?"
Ben takes Cooper's hand from where it's fallen to his side and presses it over his very prominent erection. "You'd be surprised."
Cooper's fingers curl around Ben and Ben's entire body tenses in anticipation.
"You think you'd surprise me?" Cooper's voice is deep. Scratchy. Promising all kinds of things that make Ben's cock twitch happily.
"Yeah, I do."
"Try me." Cooper rubs Ben with his palm and Ben arches into it, thrusting his hips against Cooper's hand again and again, watching Cooper watch what his hand is doing.
Ben bites his lip, grunting at the stimulation. When Cooper looks up at him, Ben kisses him again, wet and dirty, and Cooper groans loudly.
Ben fingers go to Cooper's pants intuitively, trying to unfasten the buttons, to get to the zipper. He curses loudly when Cooper bats his hands away. "What the fuck?!"
"Shut up, Ben," Cooper says, unbuttoning Ben's pants with one hand.
"John," Ben pleads, making a very undignified noise when Cooper pushes his jeans and briefs down and wraps a large, sweaty hand around Ben's cock. Little stars dance behind Ben's eyes when he bangs his head against the wall. "Oh, fuck, yes," he says as Cooper strokes his cock.
Ben's eyes are instinctively drawn to his dick in Cooper's hand. The way Cooper's thumb circles the head and presses against the underside. His cock is dark with blood and Cooper's hand is tan and marked with old scars. He can't get past the juxtaposition. He can't stop trying to fuck Cooper's fist.
His hands open and close at his sides. He wants to grab at Cooper, but Cooper got shot and Ben -- fuck.
He tries to claw at the wall behind him, which is fruitless. Fucking paint.
"Look at me." Ben's head snaps up automatically. Cooper's voice never leaves room for hesitation, and Ben takes a stuttering breath at Cooper's flushed face and swollen mouth. "Is this what you want? You want my hands on you?"
Ben makes a keening noises.
"What was that?" Cooper demands.
"Yes!" Ben snaps. "Yes, fuck."
Ben's hands are grabbing at his own thighs now, he can feel the bruises he's leaving. Cooper smirks. "You want me? Show me."
So Ben does. Or tries. He grabs at Cooper, momentarily ignoring his injury, his hands go everywhere, under Cooper's shirt, gripping at his shoulders, biting at Cooper's mouth. He's game for everything he possibly can do to get more of Cooper's hand on his cock and Cooper's mouth on his.
In a very small amount of time he comes hard enough to almost blackout. When he comes to, his fingers are tangled in Cooper's belt loops and Cooper's panting against his temple. "Fuck, Ben."
Ben snorts. "God, yes."
Cooper pulls back. "You want that, too?"
Ben smirks as he slides down to his knees. "I want a lot of things," he says, unfastening Cooper's pants and pulling them down to his knees. Cooper's thighs are thick and muscled, impressive without being obscene.
"I'm your training officer." John's words are thready as Ben's fingers slide up the back of his thighs, and his voice dies off when Ben pulls down his briefs and wraps his hand around his cock.
Cooper grunts as Ben blows softly, his tongue licking over the slick head enthusiastically. "Ben." Cooper's tenor is somewhere between pleading and ordering.
"You won't be training me forever," Ben promises right before he takes Cooper in his mouth and begins sucking in earnest.
"Oh, fuck," Cooper hisses, thrusting his hips towards Ben's mouth. Ben's hands have moved from Cooper's thighs to his ass, kneading the muscle there, holding on, but in no way restraining the way Cooper's using his mouth.
Ben's technique is pretty much nonexistent. There's saliva and precome running down his chin and neck, making his shirt stick to his chest. He's gagging and slurping loudly and loving every minute.
Cooper's hands are soft on his head, not holding but mostly stroking his hair. Filthy compliments about Ben's mouth falling from his lips.
Ben can feel the muscles tense when Cooper's about to come and when Cooper tries to push him away, Ben moves in. Cooper comes in Ben's mouth and on his chin, and when Ben pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Oh, god," Cooper says softly, his fingers tracing the side of Ben's face. "Where the hell did you come from?"
Ben leans into Cooper's hand at the same time he looks up and grins. "Beverly Hills. I thought you knew."
Cooper laughs, offering Ben a hand up. "I thought I knew, but I'm starting to think I was wrong."
"John Cooper is admitting he was wrong? I suppose the world is ending now," Ben says, gesturing out the nearest window. "If I'm going to die soon, you better fuck me first."
Cooper looks at Ben's disheveled state. "You cleaned up vomit from the squad car, took out a crackhead and just sucked my cock. I may even fuck you twice."
Ben can't stop the strength of his smile. "Promise?"
Copper shakes his head, tugging Ben's shirt off. "I suppose I better. God only knows what you'll do if I don't."
"I believe in high standards," Ben says, kicking off his clothes in some semblance of persuading Cooper get naked as quickly as possible.
Cooper pauses. "Well, at least I've taught you something."
Ben smirks. "I'm sure there are some things you've forgotten."
"You think so?"
"You should take off your clothes so we can find out."
"You know there might be hope for you yet, Sherman."
Ben grins. "You're too kind, really."
"I know," Cooper says magnanimously.
Ben almost punches him in the arm, but the white bandage makes him think twice. "Do I need to worry that you can't get it up again, because you got shot?" he mocks instead.
Cooper chuckles. "No, but you might want to worry that you won't be able to walk tomorrow when I'm done with you."
Ben can only hope.
-end-
Beta by sparky77. Mistakes by me. Title from Amy Winehouse's 'Fuck Me Pumps'. Awesome provided by Southland.
You are the best thing to happen to me since I met an upstanding Recon Marine named Brad Colbert. I hope you will be happy with what I give you. I'm trying. Believe me.
<3,
X
This is for all my Southland peeps, but especially for lazlet, antheia and sparky77 who calmed me down when Cooper refused to drop trou, and for wolkendunst and abrabacon_trask who were all, "hey, did you see that Michael Cudlitz interview on TV Guide?" I really love it when the actor's view of their character adds to my interpretation.
Southland
Ben/Cooper, NC-17
6,100 words
Rockin' Your Eff Me Pumps
Ben's already waiting by the squad car when Cooper emerges from the precinct. It's a beautiful Los Angeles day, the blue sky not completely overcast by the smog, and a slight breeze keeping it from being too hot.
Ben's shoes are flawlessly polished, the crease in his pants perfect. He just had a haircut two days ago.
If Cooper finds fault, it won't be for Ben's appearance.
Ben's been waiting for the last fifteen minutes. Cooper's not late, but Ben is early. Very early. He's not actually on duty for another thirty minutes, but he couldn't sleep, and he's already run his four miles.
He could run farther, but then his legs would be wobbly all morning.
Cooper's mouth twitches in greeting as he opens the trunk and throws in a duffle bag. "If a 203 is mayhem, what's a 56?"
No, 'hi', no 'good morning' just straight to work.
Cooper is all business, all the time. Ben respects that. It would be nice if Cooper would relax a little bit though.
"56? Criminal damage."
"148."
"Resisting arrest."
"459."
"Burglary," Ben recites as Cooper unlocks the car and Ben opens the passenger side door. He grabs a paper container from its resting place on the roof and leans inside to hand it to Cooper.
Cooper gives him a dubious look, but takes the container. "What's this?" he says as Ben slides into the car and shuts the door.
Ben gives him a small smile. "Coffee?" he says hesitantly.
Cooper's mouth twitches. "Is it coffee or isn't it? If you don't know, how the hell am I supposed to know?"
Despite the litany, he takes a sip anyway. "Fuck me, this isn't just coffee. I've tasted coffee; this is a blow job in coffee form. Is there crack in here? Where'd you get this, Brandon Walsh?"
Ben shrugs, trying not to let his immense pleasure show. "I made it."
"What, you flew down to Columbia last night after shift and picked this shit fresh?" Cooper mocks, taking a larger sip from the container and licking his lips.
Ben doesn't stare.
"Actually, I have this monkey that likes coffee beans and after he shits them out, I make coffee from them. It's pretty popular, Monkey Shit Coffee. It's like $50 a pound."
Cooper pauses with the container mid-way to his mouth. "Junior, if you're not fucking with me, you're going to wish you were."
Ben's mouth curls at the corner. "Why? Are you going to take me in the back and spank me if I'm bad, sir?"
Cooper raises an eyebrow. "It's always the rich ones that are into the kinky shit," he says, setting the coffee in the cup holder and turning on the car.
Ben chalks one up for his side.
Barry the Basehead has a friend called Casey the Crackhead. Together they also know two guys named Heroin Harry and Jake the Junkie. They all like to hang out with this guy named Sal. Sal doesn't have a catchy nickname. He's just Sal. And the thing about Sal is that where Barry likes to freebase and Casey likes crack, Sal seems to like everything. Maybe they should call him Sal the Garbage Disposal, because Sal likes dealing everything, doing everything, and when they run into him outside a check cashing store, Sal's twitching like he's on everything.
"That's his problem," Cooper says when Ben wants to take him in to detox.
"He's needs help," Ben insists. "Aren't we supposed to help?"
Cooper crosses his arms and Ben does his best not to stare, but Cooper has massive forearms. And thick fingers. Cooper's biceps are the size of Ben's calves. Not that Ben's measured, but he's estimated quite a bit.
"The sign on the car says 'protect and serve' not 'provides rehab, counseling and coddling for addicts and pussies," Cooper drills.
Ben looks away, but he can feel the muscle in his jaw twitching with all the things he wants to say and can't. Or won't.
Cooper's fingers dig into the muscle when he grabs Ben's arm. "You can't save everybody, Sherman. If you try, you'll only end up hating the job. And yourself. I don't need that."
"I don't want to save everyone," Ben insists plaintively, looking back at Cooper. He knows he's being soft. He can feel it down in his stomach. He can tell by the tightening in Cooper's jaw. "I just want to help."
Cooper exhales loudly through his nose. "One time," he capitulates. "One fucking time. Next time I don't care if it's goddamn Mother Theresa back from the dead, you hear me?"
Ben doesn't bother to hide the force of his smile, and Cooper just makes an exasperated noise as Ben puts Sal in the back of the car.
"I'm telling you now though, if he fucks up the squad car in any way, you are going to take care of it. You hear me, Ben?"
Ben nods his head automatically, but he's a little too preoccupied with the fact that Cooper just called him 'Ben'. Still, it's not really the time for him to act like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Sometimes it pays to listen to Cooper. Not only does Sal vomit in the back of the squad car, but he manages to piss all over the seat as well. It's the most disgusting series of bodily functions Ben's seen since he thought about pledging a fraternity at UCLA with his roommate Eric. Ben eventually decided against it, even though Eric went ahead, and then Ben came home one day and found Eric huddled in the corner, because the brothers at ZBT had fed him dog food laced with laxatives and he'd pretty much been shitting and vomiting his brains out all day.
Needless to say, Cooper is not pleased.
After they get back to the precinct and deposit Sal in holding, Cooper grabs Ben by the scruff of his neck and drags him back out to the parking lot.
Ben doesn't have to ask where they're going, and sure enough, Cooper man-handles him over to the squad car, flings open the back seat and says softly in Ben's ear, "You're going to clean her up. And when you're done, you're going to prove to me how clean she is by licking the backseat."
Ben opens his mouth to protest, but the thin line of Cooper's mouth and way he narrows his eyes leaves very little room for discussion. This is not really the time for Ben's body to react to Cooper's proximity or the way his knuckles are brushing the nape of Ben's neck.
Instead, Ben spends the rest of his afternoon trekking back and forth from the parking lot to the bathrooms with Lysol and a bucket and about a thousand paper towels. He has to climb into the car to really clean up the mess, and it's truly disgusting. Even more disgusting than cleaning up Eric.
Ben gets vomit on his uniform, and he finds himself gagging at the way the Lysol makes the vomit and urine smell sickeningly sweet.
By the time he's done, his fingers are pink, raw and swollen with cleaning fluid, and he smells so bad he feels like he's the one that's been living on the streets for weeks.
In the locker room, he ends up getting in the shower fully clothed just to get rid of some of the stench. It would be perfectly easy for him to just toss out this uniform and buy another, or even buy ten others, but if he wants to be like everybody else then he can't flaunt his money.
He stands under the spray until his clothes are drenched and then he pulls them off and goes through most of a bar of soap and half a bottle of shampoo just to get clean.
The hot water runs out before he stops feeling like a disgusting mess, but he gets out anyway. Dewey and Cooper are at their lockers when he comes around the corner, and Dewey makes a series of vomiting noises in between laughing his ass off.
Ben ignores him in favor of sticking his befouled uniform in a plastic bag and pulling on a pair of briefs.
"Damn, who the fuck tore your ass up, Canada?" Dewey hollers.
Ben carries on getting dressed.
"Sherman, he's talking to you," Cooper says.
Cooper's tone doesn't leave much room for interpretation. Only he could make Ben respond to the heckling. "What?" he says, turning with a sigh.
"That scar on the back of your leg, kid," Dewey says. "What the fuck is that? That looks like it goes all the way up your ass. You still got your nuts?"
If Cooper wasn't actually watching him, Ben would just turn back away. Instead he shrugs. "Vaulting a fence takes practice."
Dewey shakes his head. "The fence won that one, Junior. Shit. I bet you can sing just like Mariah Carey now."
It's probably Ben's imagination that Cooper's smiling.
Cooper's leaning against the wall outside the locker room when Ben emerges. He's wearing a plain white button down shirt and jeans. The shirt fits without being tight and the jeans don't hang down to his knees or look like a second skin like every other guy Ben's seen in the last three years. There's a duffle bag at his feet. None of this should be nearly as hot as it is.
Ben waves at Cooper, which could possibly be construed as 'hi' or 'bye' or 'do me now.'
Cooper pushes off the wall, and nods towards the door. "We're getting a drink," he says flatly.
Since the matter doesn't seem open to debate, Ben just says, "Okay."
Cooper's mouth curls up at the right corner as he slides into the booth across from Ben. "I know what you were trying to do today."
Ben looks at Cooper blankly. "What I was trying to do when?"
The beer Cooper pushes across the table towards Ben leaves wet streaks on the woodwork. In the background, some sort of wannabe rocker warbles about how he's gonna be a big star and his girl's gonna be sorry she left him for some other guy.
"Look, Melrose Place," Cooper says, "if you want to save the world with your kumbaya, karmic bullshit, join the Peace Corps. You keep it out of my squad car though, you hear me?"
Ben traces the condensation rolling down the side of his beer.
In Ben's periphery Cooper's hand taps on the table. "Sherman, you listening to me?"
"Yes, sir," Ben nods and takes a long pull on his beer, glancing past Cooper's head at the wood paneling and the other people milling around. They're all attractive in that L.A. way if you go for hipsters and self-obsessed struggling actors or rich men and women trying to pick up hipsters and self-obsessed struggling actors.
There's a dearth of really good dive bars in L.A. Every bar wants to cater to a specific group: gay, Mexican, Thai, hippies, people who fuck apple pies, there's a bar for everybody, so of course there are bars for cops.
The bar Cooper's taken Ben to doesn't seem like much of a cop bar. When the song changes in the background, it's a different guy but he's singing the same song, except this time it's about how his man did him wrong.
Ben's antennae twinge of their own accord.
Ben's pretty sure cops don't listen to music about men doing other men wrong.
"I know you're trying," Cooper starts again.
"I'll do better," Ben says softly. And then he looks Cooper in the eye and repeats it again. "I will do better."
"You're not doing a bad job," Cooper says. "But you gotta listen to me. I know you're probably used to knowing everything and being top dog, but around here you're nothing but a puppy chewing on my shoelaces, d'you hear me?"
Ben looks down at his beer. "Yeah, I hear you."
He glances up to see Cooper take another pull on his beer. His throat is this long, tan column, his Adam's Apple moving up and down as he swallows.
"I don't need you to be brain dead," Cooper says, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "I just need you to use your goddamn overeducated, underutilized brain sometime. Shootin' like a goddamn sniper doesn't mean anything if you pull the trigger at the wrong time or shoot yourself in the foot."
Ben's mouth twists into a wry smile. "I'll try to keep all my toes. Just for you."
Cooper snorts. "Don't do me any favors, kid."
"I suppose that means you don't want to do shots with me either. I mean I know you old guys can't really hold your liquor. I wouldn't want you think I was doing you any favors or anything."
Cooper's leans across the table, his eyes very bright despite the sparse lighting. "Anything you got, Junior, bring it on."
Ben leans in further than he should. "Don't say I didn't warn you, old man."
"Old man?" Cooper spits. "You're going down."
Ben chuckles at the irony because it's a bit too late for that.
He's heard these things happen gradually. That first you find yourself thinking about stupid stuff: the way someone holds a pen, or the way they cock their head when they're talking on their cell phone or the way they hold their gun. And then a couple months later you look across a table or a room and you have that epiphany, "Crap. I'm in love with X."
That didn't happen to Ben though. For Ben Sherman to fall for John Cooper, it took about a day.
Okay, more like a day and a half.
There are all different kinds of tequila: gold, silver, patron. Pretty much everyone has a type they favor. Ben's been very good friends with Jose Cuervo for several years now, but he's never done too well with silver. Patron is fine, and pretty much all of them are bearable as long he doesn't mix them together.
Cooper, however, is sadistic. He drinks all kinds of tequila. And he drinks them well. And he drinks them together. The asshole. And this is what Ben mumbles over and over again when Cooper has to help him up off of the bathroom floor.
Cooper's wearing loafers, perfectly polished, nice black loafers. They look shiny, which apparently Ben says out loud since Cooper laughs riotously right after Ben has this thought.
Cooper is warm and solid, and when he folds Ben into passenger seat of his car to drive him home, Ben might possibly sniff him. It seems like it takes a long time for Cooper to get in the car beside him.
"'m fine," Ben insists when Cooper leans over to fasten his seatbelt for him. "I can do it."
Cooper just laughs as he turns on the car and pulls out onto the surface streets. "Of course you are, Hot Shot, what's your name?"
Ben looks down at his knees. "I hate silver tequila."
"That's your name? 'I hate silver tequila'? Does that fit on your Driver's License?"
It's possible that Ben sticks out his tongue.
"What's wrong, can't keep up with us old guys?"
Ben's head rolls for a long time to look at Cooper. "Where'd you learn to drink like that?"
"The military, son," Cooper says. "When you can't drink for six months and then get libo in Australia, you learn a lot about drinking copious amounts."
"You're military?"
"Marines," Cooper says.
"The few, the proud, the dragon slayers," Ben hiccups. "Do they really give you a sword?"
"You've been watching too much TV," Cooper says.
Ben stares at Cooper's profile in the faint blue light from the dashboard. It's warm in Cooper's car and there's some faint classic rock coming from the speakers, Ben closes his eyes and waits for the world to stop moving.
Ben wakes up the next morning with a hangover the size of a small country. Or at least the size of the UCLA Marching Band and just as fucking loud. If he didn't have the afternoon shift, he would call in sick. Actually, that's a lie, he would never give Cooper the satisfaction of calling out sick just because he had a few drinks too many. It's not as though Ben did anything embarrassing like trying to climb on Cooper and stick his tongue down his throat... did he?
The thought alone sends Ben scurrying for the bathroom again.
A few minutes praying to the porcelain god and Ben's head is much clearer. His throat feels like he's tried to send fingernails the wrong way, but he's sure he didn't do anything that embarrassing. Not that getting trashed and Cooper driving him home wasn't embarrassing enough.
He takes a shower, washing his hair twice. He brushes his teeth three times, shaves and then goes to get dressed, but he's missing his wallet, which is a whole new issue.
It turns out his wallet is with his jeans, and his jeans are in a heap by the front door along with his shoes, socks and underwear.
The front door is closed, but it's not locked.
He distinctly remembers undressing himself; he hopes he didn't do it as part of a show for Cooper. The thought alone keeps him preoccupied during the entire taxi ride to pick up his car. His brain keeps fizzing and crackling and all he can do is pick up some coffee from Starbucks, which is a fucking abomination.
Cooper's smiling when Ben arrives at the precinct. He's still smiling after Ben's changed into his uniform and joined him in the squad car. It's scary. And irritating as fuck.
"Okay, I got drunk," Ben says about 30 seconds after they pull out of the parking lot. "Stop acting like you've never gotten drunk before."
Cooper just laughs. "Son, there's a big difference between the way working class people get drunk and the way rich people get drunk. If your palate wasn't so damn picky, I wouldn't've had to pick you up off the floor."
"You didn't pick me up..." Ben's argument dies off in face of a very obvious flashback of his arm slung around Cooper's neck and Cooper's arm around his waist. Cooper smelled good, like soap and aftershave.
Shit.
"You were saying?" Cooper mocks.
Ben just scowls. And then Cooper reaches over and ruffles his hair. "You keep acting like a goddamn human being and not some rich asshole, I may have to start liking you or something."
Ben ducks his head, but it doesn't hide his smile.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cooper glancing at him, but then dispatch calls about an 11-84 415 off of Crenshaw and Olympic involving trashcans and a naked man.
Ben stares at the radio. "Did I hear that right? They need somebody to direct traffic because some naked guy is disturbing the peace with trashcans?"
Cooper smirks. "Gotta love this job."
They have tacos for lunch. Although lunch is really more like dinner. Before they leave the taco stand, Ben grabs a few pieces of cake that are wrapped up in cellophane and tosses a fiver at the counter.
He doesn't know how the cake tastes, but if they're as good as the tacos then they're in good hands.
He hands a piece to Cooper when they get in the car, and Cooper eyes him shrewdly. "You keep bringing me stuff and I'm going to think you want something."
Ben snorts, but doesn't say anything since his mouth is full of white cake. Cooper peers at him a little closer than he should and Ben tries to swallow. The cake is dry going down.
He can't feel if he's flushing, because he's trying to control the twitching of the muscle in his jaw.
Thank god for dispatch and armed robberies.
Okay, forget what Ben said about thanking god for armed robberies, because any time that people are shooting at Cooper is not anything to be thankful for.
He's not worried about himself, there's something comforting about the heaviness of a 9mm in Ben's hand. He has control with a weapon that he doesn't seem to have in other parts of his life. The gun will do what he wants it to, when he wants it to. He can't control much of anything else.
He'll never be big like Cooper or an asshole like his dad -- thank God. He'll never be as innocent as Olivia or as forgiving as his mom, but he can shoot, and when some jackass wings Cooper, Ben can put a bullet in him and take him down.
The next few minutes are a mess of calling dispatch and black and whites flooding the scene, because Cooper's been shot and it doesn't matter what he says, Ben is fucking worried.
"I'm fine," Cooper says, batting him away in exasperation as they sit on the hood of the car and wait for the EMTs. Ben's perched on Cooper's left, his hand on Cooper's arm, keeping pressure on Copper's bicep where he got winged by the bullet
Ben purses his lips and presses down harder on Cooper's arm. "No, you're not, sir." Cooper winces fractionally, but Ben knows he's not supposed to notice that.
"I thought we'd got past the 'sir' thing."
"Okay, you're not fine, John. Now shut the fuck up and stop arguing with me."
Cooper raises an eyebrow. "Maybe you've forgotten who's in charge here."
"No, sir," Ben says tightly.
Cooper shakes his head. "I already had a wife, Ben. I decided that wasn't for me."
There are so many sirens, Ben can hardly carry his part of the conversation. He leans in closer to hear what John's saying. "What wasn't for you? Marriage?"
"No. Women."
Ben loosens his grip automatically, pulling back slightly. John eyes him. "Is this going to be a problem?
"No," Ben says quietly
"Good."
"What the fuck's wrong with you that you get shot by a crackhead stealing a goddamn Nutty Butty?!" Dewey hollers as he and Chickie pull up in their squad car. "I was trying to get myself some ass, and instead I have to come over here and save your ass."
When John flips Dewey the bird, Ben snorts softly. In retaliation, John punches him on the thigh.
Clearly he really is fine.
This time it's Ben waiting on Cooper, but it's in a hospital, not at the locker room, and it's outside a surgical curtain. Ben can't help twitching every time someone rushes by him; hospitals make him nervous. Nothing good ever happens in one.
There's no sound coming from the other side of the curtain except the occasional squeak of what Ben assumes is a chair or a gurney, and a soft murmur of what's probably Cooper telling the doctor to hurry the fuck up.
All around him people are bustling around, doing their jobs, and all Ben can do is think about Cooper and Cooper coming out to him, and what that possibly -- probably...
Okay, it doesn't mean anything except in Ben's head.
The thing is, Ben's in his head, like, a lot of the time.
He looks up when the curtain is yanked back. Cooper has a white bandage wrapped around his bicep and a doctor is pulling off his surgical gloves. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" Cooper says, goading Ben. "You look like somebody got shot."
Ben purses his lips. "Asshole."
Cooper points in Ben's face. "Just 'cause you saved my life doesn't mean you can talk to me like that, kid." His dictate is softened by the smile on his face.
Ben can feel his face flushing. Fucking hormones.
"If you need anything or your arm starts to bother you, John, call me." Ben glances over Cooper's shoulder at the doctor, who is very tall, and what could be called attractive, if you went for dark, handsome and well-educated.
If Ben scowls, he'll never admit it. Cooper glances over his shoulder. "No offense, doc, but I hate seeing you."
The doctor laughs. His teeth are too white. They're probably caps. "Oh well, can't blame me for trying. I have twenty parking tickets; the laws on my side of town were written by monkeys."
Cooper chuckles. "You know the laws are the same for everyone, even you rich fuckers."
The doctor shakes his head. "You're fine. Make sure he takes his medication every four hours and he'll be back at work in a few days." It takes Ben a minute to realize the doctor is talking to him.
"Fuck that, doc," Cooper says, "I'll be back on the street tomorrow."
"Then I'll see you to repair your stitches tomorrow afternoon," the doctor says wryly.
"You do that," Cooper says, nodding for Ben to follow him.
If Ben glares at the doctor as they're leaving, that's his right. If he has to see Cooper flirt with another man again ever, it will be too soon.
Ben has to take Cooper to the precinct so everyone can see he's okay, and because Cooper wants to grab some stuff from his locker. This is clearly a bad idea, but Ben has yet to figure out how to tell Cooper 'no', probably because there aren't many instances where he has the opportunity.
Naturally, the field trip to the station degenerates into thirty minutes in the locker room, trying to change his clothes with everybody talking shit about Cooper getting shot and Ben being some sort of marksman. And then they have to go out and see other people, including their commander, and all Ben really wants to do is get Cooper the hell out of there. If he hovers a lot more than is strictly necessary, well, fuck everybody. Their partners didn't get shot today and his did.
Finally, Cooper seems to get the hint and grabs Ben away from his conversation with Chickie. "C'mon, I'm ready for the Sherman Express to take me home."
Chickie grins at him. "You better do what the man says, Ben. He gets really bitchy when people don't listen to him."
Ben smirks. "Yeah, I've figured that out." He's totally not expecting it when Cooper smacks him on the ass. "Shit!"
"Shut the fuck up, you mouthy fuck and come on," Cooper orders.
If Ben's smiling about Cooper ordering him around, he'll never tell.
Cooper's house is traditional L.A.: a one level ranch with a driveway, palm trees and a small yard. The lawn is immaculate and there are even flowers near the house.
Ben's been to Echo Park enough to know that Cooper's neighborhood isn't necessarily indicative of how everyone else is living, but it certainly seems the norm for Cooper's block.
It pays to have a cop in the area.
Ben parks in the driveway, and by the time he's turned off the engine, Cooper and his duffle bag are halfway up the steps. Ben shakes his head and follows when Cooper opens his wrought iron safety door and leaves the front door wide open.
"Okay, what do you need?" Ben says, trooping in behind Cooper and turning to shut the doors behind him. "Are you hungry? Is your arm hurting? Do you need something to --"
Ben's totally not expecting Cooper to be right behind him when he turns around. He's expecting it even less when Cooper plants a hand on his chest and presses him against the wall. There's no force behind the action. No pressure to make Ben stay where Cooper's put him, but Ben glances down at Cooper's hand splayed against his white tee shirt and his heart speeds up to foot chase levels.
"What're you doing, Ben?"
It's very hard for Ben to stop looking at Cooper's hand, to stop thinking about how warm it is through the cotton of his shirt. He swallows. "What am I doing where?"
"Here."
Ben's smile doesn't completely form. "In case you missed it, you got shot today. I'm here to make sure you don't bleed out all over the place."
Cooper's mouth twitches. "It's a graze. Seven fucking stitches. I may take them out myself tomorrow; it wouldn't be the first time."
Ben leans into Cooper's fingers curling against his chest. "How many of those pain pills have you taken so far?" he says. "It's every four hours, not every forty minutes."
Ben licks his lips, watching Cooper's eyes following his tongue and that's enough for him. "I want to kiss you," Ben says quietly, "so if you're going to tell me 'no', now would be a good time."
Cooper makes a scoffing noise, but he takes a step forward, right into Ben's space and when Ben tilts his head back, Cooper's right there. Still, Ben's the one to press forward, to propel himself up just enough to kiss Cooper on the mouth. Cooper makes this noise, whether it's in surprise or invitation, Ben goes with it, parting his lips and flicking his tongue against Cooper's mouth until he opens up for him.
Cooper tastes like nachos and cake and coffee, and his fingers tighten enough in Ben's shirt that Ben can feel the collar tightening around his neck. Ben's hands start at Cooper's waist, gripping his shirt and sliding up his chest, until he can wrap a hand around the back of Cooper's neck and hold him there.
Ben kisses Cooper like it might be the last thing he ever does, which, it just might be if he's doing this wrong. He presses himself against as much of Cooper as possible, shamelessly rutting against Cooper's thigh, and making encouraging noises when Cooper grips his ass with his free hand.
Ben has to pull away momentarily to breathe, his lungs taking huge shuddering breaths to keep his brain from totally blacking out with lust and oxygen-deprivation. He can feel Cooper's exhalations against his forehead
"What the hell are you doing, Sherman?" Cooper says in a low voice. "This isn't going to get you to detective."
Ben scowls at Cooper's chest and then up at Cooper himself. "You think I care about that right now?"
Cooper doesn't quite meet his eyes, but his fingers release Ben's shirt. "You're just fucked up because you had to shoot somebody again. I don’t need that."
Ben doesn't even pretend not to be insulted. "You think I'm pissed off that some junkie died? I care that you almost died. Asshole."
Cooper snorts. "Weren't you just trying to save a different junkie?"
Ben socks Cooper in the chest. "You are so fucking difficult, Jesus. Why the hell did I have to fall for you of all people?"
Cooper inhales sharply. "You don't know what you're saying. Do you even know what you're doing?"
Ben takes Cooper's hand from where it's fallen to his side and presses it over his very prominent erection. "You'd be surprised."
Cooper's fingers curl around Ben and Ben's entire body tenses in anticipation.
"You think you'd surprise me?" Cooper's voice is deep. Scratchy. Promising all kinds of things that make Ben's cock twitch happily.
"Yeah, I do."
"Try me." Cooper rubs Ben with his palm and Ben arches into it, thrusting his hips against Cooper's hand again and again, watching Cooper watch what his hand is doing.
Ben bites his lip, grunting at the stimulation. When Cooper looks up at him, Ben kisses him again, wet and dirty, and Cooper groans loudly.
Ben fingers go to Cooper's pants intuitively, trying to unfasten the buttons, to get to the zipper. He curses loudly when Cooper bats his hands away. "What the fuck?!"
"Shut up, Ben," Cooper says, unbuttoning Ben's pants with one hand.
"John," Ben pleads, making a very undignified noise when Cooper pushes his jeans and briefs down and wraps a large, sweaty hand around Ben's cock. Little stars dance behind Ben's eyes when he bangs his head against the wall. "Oh, fuck, yes," he says as Cooper strokes his cock.
Ben's eyes are instinctively drawn to his dick in Cooper's hand. The way Cooper's thumb circles the head and presses against the underside. His cock is dark with blood and Cooper's hand is tan and marked with old scars. He can't get past the juxtaposition. He can't stop trying to fuck Cooper's fist.
His hands open and close at his sides. He wants to grab at Cooper, but Cooper got shot and Ben -- fuck.
He tries to claw at the wall behind him, which is fruitless. Fucking paint.
"Look at me." Ben's head snaps up automatically. Cooper's voice never leaves room for hesitation, and Ben takes a stuttering breath at Cooper's flushed face and swollen mouth. "Is this what you want? You want my hands on you?"
Ben makes a keening noises.
"What was that?" Cooper demands.
"Yes!" Ben snaps. "Yes, fuck."
Ben's hands are grabbing at his own thighs now, he can feel the bruises he's leaving. Cooper smirks. "You want me? Show me."
So Ben does. Or tries. He grabs at Cooper, momentarily ignoring his injury, his hands go everywhere, under Cooper's shirt, gripping at his shoulders, biting at Cooper's mouth. He's game for everything he possibly can do to get more of Cooper's hand on his cock and Cooper's mouth on his.
In a very small amount of time he comes hard enough to almost blackout. When he comes to, his fingers are tangled in Cooper's belt loops and Cooper's panting against his temple. "Fuck, Ben."
Ben snorts. "God, yes."
Cooper pulls back. "You want that, too?"
Ben smirks as he slides down to his knees. "I want a lot of things," he says, unfastening Cooper's pants and pulling them down to his knees. Cooper's thighs are thick and muscled, impressive without being obscene.
"I'm your training officer." John's words are thready as Ben's fingers slide up the back of his thighs, and his voice dies off when Ben pulls down his briefs and wraps his hand around his cock.
Cooper grunts as Ben blows softly, his tongue licking over the slick head enthusiastically. "Ben." Cooper's tenor is somewhere between pleading and ordering.
"You won't be training me forever," Ben promises right before he takes Cooper in his mouth and begins sucking in earnest.
"Oh, fuck," Cooper hisses, thrusting his hips towards Ben's mouth. Ben's hands have moved from Cooper's thighs to his ass, kneading the muscle there, holding on, but in no way restraining the way Cooper's using his mouth.
Ben's technique is pretty much nonexistent. There's saliva and precome running down his chin and neck, making his shirt stick to his chest. He's gagging and slurping loudly and loving every minute.
Cooper's hands are soft on his head, not holding but mostly stroking his hair. Filthy compliments about Ben's mouth falling from his lips.
Ben can feel the muscles tense when Cooper's about to come and when Cooper tries to push him away, Ben moves in. Cooper comes in Ben's mouth and on his chin, and when Ben pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Oh, god," Cooper says softly, his fingers tracing the side of Ben's face. "Where the hell did you come from?"
Ben leans into Cooper's hand at the same time he looks up and grins. "Beverly Hills. I thought you knew."
Cooper laughs, offering Ben a hand up. "I thought I knew, but I'm starting to think I was wrong."
"John Cooper is admitting he was wrong? I suppose the world is ending now," Ben says, gesturing out the nearest window. "If I'm going to die soon, you better fuck me first."
Cooper looks at Ben's disheveled state. "You cleaned up vomit from the squad car, took out a crackhead and just sucked my cock. I may even fuck you twice."
Ben can't stop the strength of his smile. "Promise?"
Copper shakes his head, tugging Ben's shirt off. "I suppose I better. God only knows what you'll do if I don't."
"I believe in high standards," Ben says, kicking off his clothes in some semblance of persuading Cooper get naked as quickly as possible.
Cooper pauses. "Well, at least I've taught you something."
Ben smirks. "I'm sure there are some things you've forgotten."
"You think so?"
"You should take off your clothes so we can find out."
"You know there might be hope for you yet, Sherman."
Ben grins. "You're too kind, really."
"I know," Cooper says magnanimously.
Ben almost punches him in the arm, but the white bandage makes him think twice. "Do I need to worry that you can't get it up again, because you got shot?" he mocks instead.
Cooper chuckles. "No, but you might want to worry that you won't be able to walk tomorrow when I'm done with you."
Ben can only hope.
-end-
Beta by sparky77. Mistakes by me. Title from Amy Winehouse's 'Fuck Me Pumps'. Awesome provided by Southland.