Southland - Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro.... (Cooper/Ben, NC-17, 4/4)
Part I
Part II
Part III
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
It's well after nightfall when John gets home from PT. Ben's motorcycle is in the driveway, and Ben himself is sitting on the front steps, illuminated by the porch lights, when John parks the car and gets out.
If Ben had keys, he could've waited inside. Hell, he could’ve made John dinner already. And then John has to pause, because the idea of giving Sherman keys to his house makes him feel a little dizzy. Janice would say that's the PT, which has been known to make him tired, too.
"To what do I owe the honor?" he says, meeting Ben in the driveway.
Ben's smile is broad. He's wearing a leather jacket and jeans. "I wanted to see you," he says, rocking forward on his toes.
"Didn't you just see me a few hours ago?"
"Yeah, but that was then."
John cocks his head to the side. "Boo, you are shameless."
Ben scuffs the toe of his shoe on the driveway. "I wanted to take you for a ride."
"A ride," he repeats slowly.
"On my bike."
So, not sex-related then. John's only mildly disappointed. "I just got done with PT."
"I know. It won't be long. I know you're probably tired; you don't have to if you don't want to."
John rolls his eyes. "Shit, Sherman, I'm not that tired."
Ben smiles. "So, you'll come?"
John couldn't say no to that smile. Not even if he were lying on the concrete bleeding out. "Yeah, okay."
"Great," Ben says, taking the few steps over to his bike.
He swings a leg over, grabs his helmet and pulls it on. John's never watched this part before. Never watched Ben move the kick stand or start the engine. It's strangely fascinating. And not a little hot. All that power between his legs - that's crass, but fuck it, sometimes John's crass.
And then Ben offers him the spare helmet and John balks. "You want me to ride bitch? No. Not happening."
"John," Ben's voice rises over the purr of the engine, "get on the bike."
"Are you giving me orders?"
"Do you want me to give you orders?"
John doesn't want to think about that too hard. "No."
John can see the tightness in Ben's eyes. "You're only riding bitch if you're a bitch, and I'm pretty sure you're not. Now if you want to act like one…"
John snatches the helmet away and pulls it on. "We're going to talk about this bitch thing later," he warns, climbing on behind Ben and getting settled.
"I'm sure we will," Ben says as John wraps his arms around Ben's waist. Ben reaches down and tightens the hold. "If you fall off, you're in trouble."
"If I fall off, I'm kicking your ass," John corrects as Ben walks the bike in reverse down the driveway.
When they reach the street. Ben reaches down one more time and presses his hand against where John's holding on to him. "Tighter."
John snorts. "I feel like I've heard that one before."
Ben laughs.
"Be glad I like your ass," John says.
Ben revs the engine. "I like your ass too," he says before slipping into first and taking off.
The night is cool around them as Ben navigates John's neighborhood down to Sunset. Once there, they're surrounded by cars and SUVs and limousines, and Ben flies by them all as though they're standing still.
The city is awash with neon signs and bright lights, and John gets to actually look around at them for a change. For the first time in a very long time, he's not looking for something, he's just looking.
Ben takes them up Hillhurst, and along Los Feliz. There are long stretches of nothing but trees and grass and big houses, and then they're dumped out on Franklin, past Wilton and Beachwood Canyon with all it's baby A-listers sitting outside having drinks at Birds and La Poubelle.
They cross Cahuenga, Wilcox and Highland, past the Magic Castle and on to La Brea. Ben takes a turn onto Hollywood, where the road is full of cracks and potholes. The motorcycle bounces more than a car, and John tightens his hold just that little bit.
He can feel Ben's abdominals flat underneath his fingers. The steady breathing that makes him relax more. Once again they're on Sunset, which is hard on John's eyes after the subduedness of the residential areas.
They take Laurel Canyon up to Mulholland and then ride along Mulholland for some time. John enjoys the view of the Valley from so high up in the hills. It's a long drop over the side of Mulholland, and there are long stretches with no guard rail. John looks at the city, his city, feels Ben under his hands and breathes through it.
It's Friday night, and all John really wants to do is sleep. And have sex. At this point in his life though, he's willing to put the sex on hold to get the sleep. Besides, they're at Ben's house, which means John doesn't even have to go anywhere to get laid once he wakes up.
They're stretched out on Ben's sofa, watching Deadliest Catch, and John's mostly asleep. His head's resting on Ben's shoulder.
He's had PT five times in the last two weeks, because Janice has decided he's hit some sort of plateau and wants to push him through it. John's body does not agree.
"We can go to bed if you want," Ben says.
John mumbles something into Ben's bicep.
"I don't think that was sex-related or work-related," Ben says thoughtfully, "so I need a translation."
John yawns. "I said I'm not tired."
He can feel it when Ben laughs. Ben's still laughing when the phone rings. He shifts to pick it up and John grumbles about his pillow moving.
"Hey, Liv," Ben says, the tone of his voice light. Content. "Yeah, I'm good."
John sits up. "Is that the famous Ms. Sherman?" he asks.
Ben rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "John wanted to know if it was the famous Ms. Sherman."
There's a high-pitched noise from the phone, and John has to move away from Ben because it makes his ears hurt, along with everything else.
They've had some seriously long shifts this week. It doesn't really help that they've hit what John refers to as Freak Week, which seems to be when every whack job possible decides to do something really stupid like nearly setting the Sunset Hyatt on fire by lighting firecrackers in their room, or drag racing along Hollywood at three in the fucking afternoon and crashing into an L.A. municipal bus.
And then there's the fucking Annual Meeting of Vespa owners, which is pretty much 200 kids on cheap motorbikes causing mayhem and traffic congestion every night from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.
The only good thing about any of it is Ben, who seems perfectly content to spend his days or evenings watching TV with John, eating whatever crap John has in his cupboards or whatever fifteen-course meal Ben's got in his refrigerator. Ben, who fucks like it's what he was born to do, and then is happy to fall asleep three minutes later.
"No, I don't think that's going to happen tonight," Ben says to the phone.
John raises an eyebrow. "What's not happening tonight?"
"Clubbing."
John laughs. "Give me the phone."
Ben gives him a dubious look, but relinquishes the handset. "Is this the famous Ms. Olivia Sherman who likes to crash expensive cars?" John asks.
There's a protesting noise down the line. "That only happened one time, John. You are totally being a hardass."
"Me? A hardass? Who's been telling you these lies?"
Next to him, Ben's eyes go wide. "Lies?" he scoffs.
Olivia's laugh rings in John's ear. "And Ms. Sherman is my mom. We're practically related at this point -- you can call me Liv."
"Related, huh?"
"Totally. He really likes you."
John raises an eyebrow. "And you know this how?"
"Duh," Olivia says. "It's, like, so obvious. And you like him too."
"Where are you getting your information?" John asks. Ben looks at him alarmed, reaching out to take the phone. John just dodges him by climbing off the sofa.
"Awww, you're so cute!" Olivia's tone is full of glee. "He won't stop talking about you, you know."
"I believe you mentioned that before," John says, ducking around the wall to the kitchen to avoid Ben, who's stalking him.
"He says you have a nice car. He's not normally that shallow. What did you do to him in that car exactly?"
John backs away from Ben, glancing behind him to make sure he doesn't run into a piece of furniture. "I don't think you're of age for me to tell you that information. Maybe when you're seventy."
"What is she saying to you?" Ben demands as John evades a grab at his shirt.
"Nothing," John promises.
"I hope he's getting laid a lot," Olivia says. "He needs it."
John hoots. "That's an interesting assessment."
"Give me the phone," Ben orders.
John shakes his head. "No, your sister is telling me how much you need to get laid; I think I should listen."
"That's enough!" Ben corners him by the fridge and John surrenders the phone. He laughs through whatever Ben hisses to Olivia.
"Give your sister my cell number," he tells Ben. "She can call me any time to report on you; I look forward to it."
Ben's sheets scream money. It's not the color (faded gray) or the smell (Ben, soap and sex), it's the way they feel. The way all John wants to do is spend his entire Sunday wrapped up in them. Or maybe he just wants to spend his day grinding his erection into the mattress while Ben mouths at the back of his neck and then at his shoulder.
John tenses as Ben licks a stripe down his back and then kisses the base of his spine. John finds his legs spreading all on their own, his hands digging into the sheets next to him. And then he feels it, Ben's cock sliding between the cheeks of his ass, the slick head rutting against him in that unmistakable way that has John pushing back and Ben pushing forward.
John grunts as Ben's fingers dig their way between the sheets and his hip and then he's up on all fours, making inarticulate noises as Ben's fingers wrap around his cock and stroke him off.
"C'mon," Ben's voice is gravelly with sleep. "Want you to come."
It's so early for John, it takes Ben's words a moment to sink in and then he grunts, fucking the circle of Ben's hand. Trying to give Ben what he wants.
Ben's shifting, though, now his cock is rubbing against the back of John's thigh, leaving wet smears and making it harder for John not to shove him down and fuck him senseless.
And then he remembers that it's Sunday. And they're off. And that if he wants to hold Ben Sherman down and fuck him until Ben's hoarse and sore, then he can.
It's a very happy thought.
John turns his head, and Ben's right there. Eyes heavy and his mouth just waiting to be kissed, so John does it. Pulls Ben off of him and pushes him down to the bed, Ben's wrists in his hands as he kisses Ben, fucks his mouth with his tongue until Ben’s humping John's stomach, leaving slick streaks and obscene moans in his wake.
When he pulls back, Ben's hair is in disarray and his eyes dark. He surges up, trying to kiss John again and John lets him. Lets Ben lick at his mouth and suck on his bottom lip. Ben's teeth are sharp and John growls into his mouth.
John’s cock is heavy between his legs and all he can think about is burying himself in Ben. About the pliable, begging mess that Ben's going to become for him in a matter of seconds, and then he's pulling away. When Ben tries to follow, John shakes his head. "Stay there," he orders, crawling across the bed to retrieve a nearly empty bottle of lube and a condom.
He glances over his shoulder because he can feel Ben's eyes on him, and there's Ben, watching him, waiting. Hand between his legs, stroking his dick.
John shakes his head and then crawls back over to Ben. "It's too early in the morning for you to be doing this to me," he says, pouring lube over his fingers and spreading Ben's legs wide.
"Too early for me to be doing what?" Ben's hand quickens on his cock as John reaches down and slides a slick finger between the cheeks of his ass.
Ben makes a keening noise as John teases his hole, rubbing clockwise and then counter clockwise. He grunts, trying to spread his legs even wider, and then John presses a finger inside of all that tight heat and crooks it hard. "Too early for me to be thinking about all the ways I'm going to fuck you today," John says.
"Nev -- never to early for that," Ben stutters, lifting his hips and trying to fuck himself on John's hand. It's a beautiful thing to see, especially when John adds another finger and Ben comes all over his stomach and hand.
That would be enough for most people, but then Ben reaches down, grabs John's wrist and proceeds to fuck himself with John's hand, hard and fast and so very brutal. John spends several minutes just watching Ben use his hand with absolutely no concept of what's going on beyond hottightfuck.
Eventually, he pries Ben's fingers off his wrist - John’s going to have bruises -- pulls out slowly, deliberately, and Ben makes a noise like he's dying. John can understand. Instead he shakes his head and his fingers fumble the condom, but he makes it work eventually.
When he looks up at Ben, Ben's watching him, legs bent and held open and John just smiles. Life is good. And then he gets on his knees, grabs Ben by the thigh and drags him near, closing the space between them.
Ben's eyes flutter shut as John pushes inside him, his face tensing up for moments as John presses in, and then John's in, deep seated and Ben groans his name, loudly.
He lifts Ben's legs up, rests them on his shoulders and then he pulls back, waiting, waiting, and then Ben opens his eyes, looks at him, and John thrusts in.
Ben's entire back arches up, and he grabs for the sheets, cursing. John wraps his hands around Ben's thighs and holds him there, fucking his way in and letting Ben writhe underneath him as John takes him relentlessly: his balls slapping Ben's ass, the feel of Ben clenching around him, the way Ben tries to push back without any leverage to do so.
This is what he wants from Ben. All the time.
He watches as Ben's cock slaps wetly against his stomach and smacks Ben's hand away when he tries to touch himself. "Fuck, John, please -- I - I need --"
"Soon," John promises. "Soon."
Ben's eyes are blown wide with want, and John comes just from that. From the power of knowing that he can give this overeducated, rich, empathetic wonder what he needs. It shocks him, spiraling out from his spine and leaving him gasping for air.
He can barely focus enough to remember his own name, but he made a promise, and he intends to keep it… just as soon as he gets this fucking condom off. He flings it somewhere that's hopefully not on the bed and then looks up.
Ben's fingers are tangled in the sheets, his knuckles white and his lips swollen and bitten. John studies him intently, the heaving chest and the streaks of precome smeared on his stomach, and then he braces his hands on either side of Ben's hips and takes Ben's dick in his mouth and sucks hard.
If he thought Ben was intense before, it's nothing compared to now. There are fingers yanking at his hair, hands cupping the back of his skull, Ben fucking his mouth. He's taken, and now, he's giving. He spreads Ben wide, lets his fingers reach back and rub that slick, wet hole. When he looks up, Ben's watching him, his mouth open and gasping for air.
Ben stutters John’s name, which might be a warning, but John just stays where he is. Lets Ben come down his throat. He swallows and coughs, swallows more, and then he pulls off and rests his head on Ben's thigh, panting.
Ben's fingers card through his hair, and John sighs hard. He can feel Ben shaking underneath him. Shaking with whatever is going on.
What they have is good. It's better than good, which is fucking terrifying.
John doesn't do good. He's not used to having everything he wants, or even most of what he wants. John does impossible, not improbable. And this isn't even improbable, this is real.
And real things have a tendency to get really fucked up.
On Monday, John wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, literally and figuratively. He's in his own bed, alone, late, and everything except his back is hurting for a change. His mouth feels like it's full of cotton balls and all he can think about is how this is all going to end. How Ben's going to wake up today, or tomorrow, or the day after and realize that John Cooper is over the hill and underpaid, and definitely not the kind of guy you latch on to when you're 23, with daddy-issues, and have your whole life ahead of you.
He tries to shake it off at work. Tries to pay attention to the way Ben smiles at him, the way he seems to absorb every word. The way when John says "run!" Ben says, "where?" The way that Ben goes out of his way to be near John, to always look him in the eye.
It's been a long time since John's had a good thing; he's not sure what to do with it anymore.
But all the positive reinforcement doesn't work.
He claims PT on Monday night and goes home on his own.
He claims the same thing on Tuesday, too.
On Wednesday he disappears after shift, doesn't change in the locker room, just gets in his car and drives around L.A in circles until it's so late at night, it's closer to morning. His cell phone vibrates on the seat besides him for hours until the battery runs out.
On Thursday morning, Ben's already at the car when John emerges from the precinct. Even from the front door, John can feel the resolution. Ben's jaw is so tight, it makes John's teeth ache. Ben climbs into the driver's seat while John's still walking to the car, and John just knows that all hell is about to rain down on him and he only has himself to blame.
Instead of yelling though, Ben is quiet. He's quiet as they leave the parking lot. Quiet through their first, second and third arrests of the day. He's quiet through John's offers of coffee and lunch. Quiet until John's head is aching and all he wants is for this to start so it can be over with. By the end of watch, John's had enough.
His dad didn't raise a pussy. Thankfully, he didn't raise a murderer either, but he definitely didn’t raise a pussy.
"So, I'm thinking you learned that Sleeper Hold from Dr. Donaldson," John tosses out as they head back to the precinct. "Am I right?"
Ben glances at him once, twice. "Yeah," is all he says.
John nods. "He's a good guy. Good dad type. Gotta love those military guys. You know those big guys, the ones that look like they can protect you from anything. Anybody."
Ben just grunts.
"What do they call that sort of thing, where you develop a type and go with it?" John pushes.
"I. don't. fucking. know." Ben grits out. Oh, there is it. The cursing, the stress, there's that tension John's looking for.
John makes a 'hmming' noise.
"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" Ben demands. The car swerves a little.
"Nothing, Boo, just saying."
"Don’t fucking call me that!" The car swerves more and John clamps his hand down on the dashboard.
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" John pushes.
"What's wrong with me?" Ben barks in disbelief. "You ignore me for three days and then you want to know what the fuck's wrong with me?"
"I was busy," John says. He's trying for nonchalant, but it's forced. At least it feels forced to him. The problem is that Ben's jaw is twitching next to him, and he's white-knuckling the steering wheel. It's possible that John's performing a little too well.
The bottom drops out on his stomach when Ben cuts across traffic and onto a residential side street. The car screeches to a halt and John's seatbelt slams him back against the car seat. That's going to hurt later.
"Why are you doing this?" Ben pleads, turning in his seat to face John. "What did I do?"
"You didn't do anything, kid," John says. Which is technically true. He may be lying to someone he cares about, but if he deals in facts, then he can say that he's not doing anything wrong. It's okay for him to lie to himself, not so much to other people. "You were a great lay. Can't really complain about that."
Ben's eyes narrow. "What did you just say to me?"
John can feel his left eye starting to twitch. When he first went to therapy, after Laura threw him out and he had that accident that fucked up his back, his eye twitched all the time. The therapist said it was a sign of extreme strain. That he was internalizing all his frustration.
What he's saying is "only" frustrating because he knows he's lying and breaking Ben's heart.
"I said you were good in bed," John soldiers on. "We had fun. But it's over now."
Ben's entire face goes pale. "You're -- you're not serious."
"Course I am.," John scoffs, even while feeling ill. "Everybody leaves, Sherman. I thought you'd know that better than most."
"No." Ben's voice is small, hollow.
John can feel his resolve wavering badly. All he wants right now is to tell Ben that it's not true. That John doesn't mean any of it. But this is his life. His $90,000- a-year life that he's sacrificed for every day. He can't give that up just to have this. Ben has to go. John has to make him go.
"Oh, don’t tell me you thought this was real," he sneers instead. "I know your dad's a dick; I can see how he fucked you up, but I doubt mommy and daddy paid all that money to send to you to college just for you to be stupid."
John's ready for it when Ben swings for him. He grabs Ben's wrist hard. "Don't do anything stupid, son."
"Fuck. You," Ben says bitterly, yanking his hand back.
When John was in the Marines, he had this friend Pappy. Pappy was a grunt like everyone else in the company, but he had one special gift: he was the company's sniper.
And the first time John ever saw Pappy do his thing, he developed a whole new respect for the entire concept of teamwork, because a sniper works in tandem with his spotter. When it comes time to carry out an order, the sniper lays down in position, and the spotter lies on top of him. They sync up perfectly, their line of sight, their breathing, and then between one breath and the next, they take out their target.
John thinks about this right now, about taking someone out when they're not expecting it. About what it takes to do something so absolute; it makes John's chest ache. All he's tried to do from day one is make things better for Ben Sherman.
"You'll thank me for this eventually," John says, looking out the window at the trash cans lined up along the street for collection. "You'll forget all this fake, blue collar being a cop bullshit. You'll meet some girl. Settle down, pop out some kids and get a real job that mommy and daddy can tell their friends about, and this'll just be a story to tell when you're drunk at dinner parties."
John waits for the explosion.
And then he waits some more.
And then he turns toward Ben expectantly, but what he sees isn't hurt.
Perfect calm is a lot scarier than raw emotion.
"You're afraid," Ben says with something like wonder.
"What?" John can feel his own disbelief. The strain.
Ben closes the gap between them, his face so close John can see the patches Ben missed shaving this morning, the dark circles starting to form underneath his eyes. The long eyelashes and full mouth. "You're afraid I'm going to leave you."
John scoffs. "I don’t know what you're talking about."
Ben’s mouth drops open in astonishment, his voice rough when he finally speaks. "You are a serious asshole, John Cooper."
John's mouth thins into a line; the twitching in his eye has moved into a full-blown ache in his temples. He's handled this wrong. All wrong. Ben Sherman is never going to thank him for pushing him away. John really fucked up this time. "Shift's over. Take us back now." Ben stares at him for long moments. "Now!" John barks.
Ben shakes his head, slides back over to his side of the car, fastens his seatbelt and pulls away from the curb.
He doesn't say anything else to John at all.
John calls Cesar from the car after work. "I fucked up."
Cesar doesn't miss a beat. "Somebody dead?"
"Not yet."
"Then you didn't mess up that bad."
"Does it matter if I wish I were dead?"
Cesar whistles low. "Where are you?"
"On my way to the Cantina."
The Cantina is the very first gay bar Cesar ever took him to. It's got wood paneling and zero décor, but the men are hot and the beer cold.
"How long?" Cesar prods.
"Thirty minutes."
"I'll see you there."
John walks through the door nineteen minutes later. He drives faster when he's stressed out. On Wednesday night, when he spent the evening driving through the hills and the Valley, he had to stop to fill up the car twice.
Cesar's already sitting at the bar, shots lined up between two bottles of beer. It helps that his landscaping business is on the corner.
John sits down next to him, but instead of reaching for a shot, he wraps his hand around the beer and just looks at it. "I was an asshole," he says clearly.
"To me?" Cesar elbows him in the ribs. "All the time."
John rubs his thumb along the condensation on the side of the beer. "Ces," is all he says.
John can feel Cesar looking at him intently. "Wow," Cesar says. "Your shit is fucked up."
"It's Sherman."
John can hear Cesar's sharp inhalation. "Your partner? The one you work with? The one with the Carl Lewis legs and the pornographic face?"
John makes a pained noise. "He likes me."
"Yeah, and?" Cesar says. "You like him too. I knew that."
"Yeah, well," John drifts off.
"Well, what?"
John doesn't say anything, but in the background some pop star is wailing about the paparazzi.
"What'd you do?" Cesar prompts.
John finally takes a long swig from his beer.
Cesar taps John on the temple. "What. Did. You. Do. Dude?" he repeats. John just gives him this look. "Oh, fuck," Cesar breathes. "You tapped that ass, didn't you?" A pause. "Was it good?"
"He's 23," John says.
"Blew you the fuck away, huh?" Cesar says succinctly.
"I like him."
"Um, isn't this the part where you're supposed to be all happy and shit 'cause you're tapping some 23 year-old hotass? Shit, I wish I was tapping some 23 year-old ass."
"I ruined it."
"Mierda!" Cesar curses. "Why?"
"Because he's 23!" John shouts. Several patrons look up and then look away at John's glare. Every patron except one. John blinks at the skinny, greasy guy in the corner.
It's the man with the magic pills.
"Are you listening to me, Cooper?!" John flinches when Cesar smacks him on the back of the head.
"What the hell you'd do that for?"
"Because you're fucking up! Stop fucking up!"
"I don’t - I don't know what to do."
"What the hell do you mean you don't know what to do, Cooper? You were married to a chick, you know how this shit works. When you fuck up, you apologize. Do you know how that word is spelled? Do I need to get your ass a dictionary?"
Cesar keeps on berating him, but John's not paying attention. He's paying attention to the dealer, who's eyeballing him meaningfully. Who's walking to the bathroom.
"I'll be back," he says, sliding off his stool. Cesar gives him a piercing look and then looks around behind him. "Don’t do anything stupid, John," he calls after him. "I'm serious, a la chingada!"
The trick is waiting when John pushes through the door. He looks just as pasty and strung out as he was the first time John saw him in the back of that squad car.
"I haven't seen you around," the trick says, digging in his pocket and pulling out two brown plastic pill bottles. "But I knew you'd be back. Kept these just for you."
"Shut the fuck up," John says, digging in his pocket for some money. His fingers brush against the twenties he has folded up and he thinks about Janice. About Laura. About how much shit he's had to go through.
"No problem, man," the trick says. "Hell, I know a good customer when I see one. I'll only charge you for one," he says, shaking the pill bottles enticingly.
John thinks about all those pills spread out on his kitchen table. The way Ben's face fell when he saw them. And then he pulls his hand out of his pocket empty. "If I catch you dealing in here again, I'm going to leave little parts of you from here to Culver City," he says. "This is your only warning."
And then he turns around and walks out.
Cesar's waiting for him at the bar. "You didn't do anything stupid, did you?" he asks as John walks up.
John chuckles dryly as he settles on his stool. "You mean in addition to all the other stupid shit I did this week?"
"Yeah."
"No," John exhales. "No, I'm good."
'Sorry' may be the hardest word, but 'I really fucked up, and I'm sorry, and I want to be with you, even though I'm old and kind of an asshole and my shit's all fucked up, and you have every right to doubt me, but all I want is to keep you safe and probably pop your dad in the mouth,' is a whole series of nearly equally difficult words, and John has no idea how to get them out.
Getting completely smashed with Cesar doesn't make it any easier. Nor does driving to Ben's house before work, punking out and turning around and going in early.
John's early for shift, Ben's right on time. John drives, Ben doesn't say anything at all. But instead of being the one stonewalling, John's clearly the one being frozen out. He's the one stealing glances and watching, waiting, looking for a clue that maybe he hasn't fucked up the best thing he's probably ever had.
Ben just looks out the window. He's not going to make this easy and that's exactly when John realizes exactly how easy Ben made it before: cake, DVDs, sleeping on the goddamn floor.
Friday is so long that when John goes to PT, he's happy to have Janice pound him into shape.
She takes one look at him and her face pulls into a frown. "Man troubles, baby?" she asks, while she has him practicing touching his toes. John mutters something to his knees. "Stand up," she orders.
John stands up too fast and all the blood rushes to his head and he has to grab onto the table behind him. "Whoa, there," she says, grabbing his arm. "Stop trying to run before you can walk. You okay?"
John shakes it off. "I'm fine. Fine."
"What happened?"
"I fu-messed up," he says at her disapproving look.
"Did you apologize?" she asks.
John looks at her blankly.
"Oh, hell no," she says, aghast. "Just for that, you can do fifteen deep knee bends."
Ben is perfectly calm during Saturday's shift. Perfectly quiet. The word 'serene' comes to mind. John, on the other hand, can't stop looking. He tries to make conversation and it's like there's a sound barrier between them.
Eventually he stops trying.
He doesn't stop thinking, though, which is why he's not paying attention when they're stopped by the Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles off Hollywood and Gower and a black kid with bright blue Nikes comes tearing across the intersection. He's followed eighteen seconds later by two Mexican boys, one of whom is carrying something silver and shiny. Ben flies out of the car behind them, and John can actually see himself reaching out for Ben's belt, trying to haul him back in the car, because John just knows that this is not going to go well.
He radios into dispatch while trying to follow Ben, but the squad car can't cut behind the car dealership and small businesses. L.A. does not have alleys. All John can do is drive around the block past where Ben and the perps disappeared behind some garbage dumpsters and then he sees that black kid with the blue Nikes. But now there are no Mexican kids and there's no Ben, and he's had enough. He runs the car up on the sidewalk and practically pins the kid to the side of the local Free Clinic.
"You picked the wrong day for this shit," Cooper says, handcuffing the kid to the safety gate outside the Clinic.
He looks around and tries to think about where Ben went. His gut says go left, so he goes left, and then he goes right, through the gap in the fence. He's not 25 anymore though. Hell, he's not even 35 anymore. There's shouting in Spanish, and then there's more shouting in Spanish and he rounds a corner to see Ben with one kid under his foot, and his weapon pointed at the other.
Which would be fine, if that other perp didn't have a gun of his own.
"Put your weapon down now!" John orders, drawing his weapon and getting the kid's attention away from Ben. Except now he's pointing his weapon at a young boy, who can't be more than sixteen. Olivia's age.
Behind the boy, Ben's face is dark and John shakes his head. The last thing he needs is Ben going all sniper-happy and ending up back in therapy. "That means you too, Sherman," he barks, waiting until Ben lowers his weapon.
The boy looks between John and Ben hysterically, his eyes frantic. "He stole my iPod! That pendejo stole my iPod."
"And so you thought you'd shoot him?' John asks incredulously. "Over a fucking iPod?!"
"It's mine!" the boy says, waving the gun around to make his point. Which is exactly when it goes off.
There's the sound of something cracking, a ricochet of some sort, and something hard lands on John's bicep. He looks over at his arm, at the blood starting to seep through the gash in his uniform sleeve and then down at the brick that apparently just cut through two layers of black polyester and white cotton.
He looks up at the kid, who's staring at him dumbfounded. "Did you really just shoot me over a fucking iPod, kid?" he asks.
The kid drops the gun on the ground, his jeans dark where he's wet himself, and then he begins to cry. Behind him, Ben's face is as white as a ghost and all John wants to do is assure him that he's okay. That despite the blood and the stupidity everything is fine.
Or as close to fine as they get.
This has got to be the worst week of John's life. And Sunday had been so good.
John sits on the hood of the car, pressing a cloth against the wound on his arm, surrounded by uniforms. There are sirens blaring all around him, and he has no idea where Ben's gone. He was there, and then the black and whites started rolling up and he vanished.
John stands up to look for him and the ground moves underneath his feet. He sits back down abruptly, just in time to find himself with a supportive hand around his waist.
He turns around and into the bespecled brown eyes of Tony the EMT. Tony grins. "Officer Cooper," he says brightly. "I was wondering when I was going to have the pleasure."
John just makes a derisive noise. "What are you, the only medic in town?"
Tony chuckles as he leads John over to the ambulance and sits him down in the back of the truck. He pulls out some scissors and begins to cut at John's uniform. "What exactly am I looking at?" he says, gently removing polyester fibers and cotton from John's arm.
"Kid shot a building, piece fell off and nicked me, I'm fine."
Tony whistles low. "Oh really?" he says, "because to me it looks like you could benefit from some stitches, a bandage, some pain killers…"
"No pain killers," John says sharply.
"Okay, no pain killers," Tony says. He lowers his voice. "Maybe just let Ben look after you and you'll be fine."
"I don't recall that being in Sherman's job description," John says tightly.
Tony's mouth twitches at the right corner. "You sure about that? Because he sure looks like he thinks it's in his job description," he says gesturing to a scraggly tree not five feet away where Ben's standing, arms crossed, face drawn and closed off.
Now would be an excellent time for John to apologize.
He opens his mouth to call Ben's name and nothing comes out.
He ends up at the hospital -- Tony can be a hardass when he wants to be -- but he doesn't get stitches, because he fucking hates stitches. He's too old to be that vain and they make his skin itch.
While he's waiting to be discharged; he lays there wondering how he went from lazy Sunday sex to going home alone.
"Want some company?" John would know that voice anywhere; he looks up at the curtain and directly into the inexorable gaze of his ex-wife. "I heard you were here," Laura says, shaking her head. "You okay?"
When John shrugs, it tugs on his bandage.
"What was it this time?" Laura says, coming to stand by his bedside.
"Falling building caused by a kid with a gun who was mad somebody stole his iPod."
"Of course it was," she looks around. "Where is he?"
"Where's who? The perp? Jail."
Laura shakes her head. "No. Ben."
John looks away. "You know he almost died today. He would've died if I hadn't been there."
"You're mad at him," Laura says thoughtfully. "Only you, John."
"He almost died!" John snaps.
Laura pats his forearm placidly, her voice dry. "Yes, being in love with a cop is a terrible thing."
John opens his mouth to protest, but can't find it in himself. Laura apparently takes this as confirmation. "You do, don't you?"
"I - yeah, probably."
"So, where is he?" she presses.
John bites the inside of his mouth.
"Are you sabotaging it?" Laura asks.
John shrugs again. It hurts.
Laura's smile is wry. "Mind if I ask why?"
"He's 23."
"We were 24."
"Yeah, and that worked out great."
"Yes, well, Ben has the plumbing you require, I don't."
John sighs. "Laura."
"John. Be happy. At least try."
John's quiet for a long time and then he scratches his neck. "Can I get a ride home?"
Laura cocks her head to the side. "Yeah, but you'll have to wait until I get off shift at five."
Ben's motorcycle is in the driveway when Laura drops him off, and for the second time today, John feels light-headed. He bangs his head softly against the headrest as Laura rolls down the window and waves to Ben sitting on the front steps. "Hi, Ben!" she hollers before telling John to get out.
John shakes his head and climbs out of the car slowly. "Thanks for the ride," he calls as Laura's Prius takes off. He really could use some pain killers right now. Anything to make what's coming more bearable.
He walks across his lawn slowly, every step a little heavier until he's standing before Ben.
"Hey," he says. "You been waiting long?"
Ben's face is tight, and a muscle jumps in John's temple. "In the house," Ben orders. "Now."
John raises an eyebrow, but when Ben stands up, he's two steps higher than John, which forces John to look up to him. "I don’t want to freak out your neighbors when I rip you a new one," Ben says sharply.
John blinks. "You're going to rip me a new one?" he says, walking up his stairs and pulling out his keys. "That should be interesting."
Ben's voice is low and comes from right behind John when he says, "If that's all I do to you, you'll be lucky."
John clears his throat, opens both doors, and then stands aside to let Ben walk through.
Ben shakes his head. "I'm not letting you out of my sight. You first."
John walks inside and kicks off his shoes. He's wearing half his uniform and a green scrubs shirt. He looks up when he hears the lock slide home on the door, and there's Ben, standing in a faded tee shirt and jeans, looking completely broken.
"You can't treat me like this," he says, his voice wavering. "You can't make me love you and then ignore me and then almost get shot and scare the shit out of me."
John can feel the shock on his face. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"The hell you didn't!" Ben hollers. "If you just wanted somebody to fuck, I know you would never choose someone you work with, so what the hell are you doing?" Ben's face is stormy and John is at a loss.
He turns and walks into the kitchen. "Where are you going?" Ben demands.
"To sit down," John says. "I got shot; I'm tired."
And the thing is, he is tired. He is so goddamn tired of having Ben and thinking he's going to lose him and then not having him and feeling like he's lost everything anyway. The chair scrapes against the linoleum and John doesn't sit down as much as he just falls.
He looks down at his hands, rough and scarred, and thinks about the way they look on Ben's body, the way Ben responds to their touch. "I'm trying to make it easier for you," he says to the table.
He flinches when another chair scrapes loudly across the lino, and then Ben's sitting so close he's practically on top of him. "What did you just say to me?"
"I said I'm trying to make it easier for you," he snaps.
Ben looks appalled. "I don't want easy! I want you! Do I need to draw you a map?"
John shakes his head. "You keep saying that, but you don't know what that means. You're young. And people change. You have your whole life ahead of you and I'm this old fuck -"
His words are cut off by Ben. "I don't care. When have I ever cared what anyone else has thought? Anyone besides you?"
John thinks about Ben's eagerness. The way he looks for John's approval. Olivia. That douchebag at the baseball game.
He can't say what the problem is though. If John says it, then it's out there, the idea, the concept. He's admitting his weakness. Saying it won't necessarily make it true, but what if it does?
John takes a deep shuddering breath when Ben rests his forehead on John's shoulder. "Why are you doubting me?" Ben asks quietly, the air from his words brushing against John's bicep, against the skin not covered by his bandage. "I thought -- I thought we were doing okay."
"What am I supposed to do when you leave?" John asks quietly.
Ben lifts his head and looks at John quizzically. "Where am I going?"
John's laugh is like razor blades in his throat. "You're 23, you're going to want someone else when you come out of your sex coma and realize that I'm not rich and educated, that I'm just some fucking guy that likes sleeping next to you."
Ben slumps back in his chair. "I'm not leaving you, John. I don't want to marry some vapid chick from my parents' zip code and pop out kids that I'll only see every other week once I get divorced. I don't know where you got this idea. There is no fall back plan -- this is my plan: to be a cop. To do something I love. To maybe do it with someone I care about. It's the only plan I have."
John looks at Ben for a long time. The lines on his forehead have gotten deeper since John's met him; he worries too much.
Ben sighs. "It’s okay to be afraid. I'm afraid, too."
John snorts. "The hell you are. I've seen you run after perps. You ever heard of people with a death-wish?"
"I don't have a death-wish!"
"Ben, if you ever, ever leave that car to chase somebody down without my say so again I will put you on a fucking leash and only let you out on holidays and your mother's birthday."
Ben opens and closes his mouth, and then a troubled look crosses his face. "You're not going to leave me for this Cesar guy, are you?"
John gapes. "Why would I leave the best thing I have?" he says, honestly at a loss. Ben stares at him. Oh, he didn't mean to let that one out. "You just want stability," he says lamely.
"Is that such a goddamn crime?"
"No, "John concedes.
"Knowing how we are," Ben presses. "Isn't this the best thing we could do?"
"And how exactly are 'we'?" John tosses back.
"Fucked up. Needy. Stubborn," Ben pauses. "A little in love."
A little in love. A lot in love. John shakes his head. "Can you stop being so smart and insightful for a minute? It's fucking annoying, Sherman."
Ben arches an eyebrow. "You'd prefer I be stupid and sex-crazed instead?"
"Stupid, no. But I don't think I've complained about the sex-crazed part."
"That's a good point," Ben says, right before he closes the space between them and kisses John. John holds still for a minute, feeling Ben's mouth again his, the press of his lips, the flicker of his tongue, and then he opens his mouth and lets Ben in. He only pulls away to haul Ben to his feet and steer him towards the bedroom.
It takes a little while, though. Ben keeps pushing him against flat surfaces and rubbing against him, keeps yanking at John's clothes to get them off, keeps tossing his own clothes all over the place.
John hisses when Ben tries to pull his shirt off by tugging it over his head. Ben freezes and then pulls back. "Stay there," he orders before running back into the living room clad only in his boxer-briefs, leaving John pressed against the wall in the hallway between his living room and bedroom.
He's only wearing the stupid scrub top and his underwear. He could be in his room in seconds. "You're thinking about moving." Ben's voice calls from his left, and John takes an automatic step back when he sees the scissors Ben's brandishing.
"It wouldn't be worth it," Ben teases. "If you got injured, I'd end up not getting laid. Hold still," he orders, grabbing the hem of John's shirt. Ben then cuts John out of the scrubs; John's cock approves whole-heartedly.
And then Ben's pushing John down the hall to his bedroom, and John falls back on his bed, scooting back to watch Ben kick off his underwear.
The bed bounces when Ben climbs on, bouncing more when he pulls John's briefs down and flings them behind him. He seems very determined, and John's breath catches as Ben's hands slide up his chest, followed by his mouth. He tugs gently on John's nipples with his teeth and then laves away the ache before leaving mouth-sized bruises on John's collarbone. John arches up when Ben presses his knee between John's legs and then grinds back down.
It takes him a while to realize Ben's pinned him to the bed, not with his hands, but with his eyes. "I need you - this," Ben confesses. "Don't keep doing this. Please."
John pushes himself up on his elbows and tugs Ben's mouth toward his own, trying to apologize the only way he knows how. He doesn't have anything else to give besides himself.
Some indeterminate time later, John's on his hands and knees on his bed, Ben draped over him, his cock bumping against John's ass as Ben mouths at his back. Ben's hands are everywhere, ghosting over his ribs, twisting John's nipples, his cock painting wet streaks on John's skin.
"Fuck me," John says hoarsely.
Ben freezes. "What?"
"Do you have a hearing problem?"
Ben's fingers dance along his ribs. "No, I just -- you want - you want me to do that?"
"Why? You got a problem with that?"
"No! No, definitely not."
John chuckles. "Good. Just, you know, go slow."
And Ben does go slow. Agonizingly slow. Opening John up with his mouth, spreading him wide and laving at John's asshole, filthy and wet and so hot, before pressing in and fucking John with his tongue. It's so dirty that John gasps at the blunt pressure, at the way Ben tugs at John's balls and fucks John's ass with his mouth. He rips his own sheets, and all he can say is "more."
And then Ben uses his fingers, rubbing and probing, teasing John before sliding in, using so much slick that John can feel it running between his legs, but the mess doesn't matter. The mess makes it better. Ben's searching and he knows what he's searching for, where it should be, what it should feel like.
The tip of his finger brushes John's prostate, that little throbbing bud, and when John pushes back, gasping, Ben pulls away and adds two more fingers instead of one. The stretch makes John's eyes cross. "Oh, fuck, Ben, c'mon," he begs.
His vision goes blurry when Ben's weight shifts behind him, and the fingers in John's ass are joined by an insistent tongue. These whimpering noises are coming from John's throat; he can't remember being so open ever.
His cock is this weight between his legs, but he can barely hold himself up with his injured arm and it's just too much. He collapses down on his chest. Trying to block out the pain, not think about the drugs he could take for it, and instead focus on Ben kissing his arm, his shoulder, the way he nuzzles the side of John's face.
"Lift your hips," he whispers in John's ear, and John complies.
He's being rearranged, his legs spread a little bit wider, more too-cold lube, and then there's this blunt pressure, too much, too fast, too good, stop, go, "Jesus, fuck, hurry up," John demands.
"Let me do this," Ben says, and John exhales a long breath. Tries not to think about the stretch, the burn, the way Ben's cock is so wide. John's own tongue is too heavy for him to reply, and he moans into the sheets.
He rocks on his knees as Ben pulls him back bit-by-bit until he's all the way in and John can't breathe at all. And then it gets a little easier, his lungs giving him just a little more to work with, and then they're moving together, Ben fucking in and John pushing back.
The burn is this gorgeous thing. Ben stretching him open; Ben's balls slapping against his ass, and John trying to take as much as Ben has.
He tries to shift his weight, to touch himself, and then Ben's hand in there, his grip too tight, his thumb too rough against the head of John's cock. It's everything John wouldn't want from anyone else, and it's perfect right now, and then he's coming, gasping into his sheets, every muscle in his body going tight with the strain.
He can feel Ben's hand sliding up his back, griping his shoulder and pulling him back, reseating himself and fucking John open all over again. Short, hard thrusts that are punctuated by Ben's grunts. He knows when Ben's coming because of the fingernails digging into his skin and the way his breathing hitches when he's all the way gone. Seconds later, Ben calls John’s name and he's jerked back hard.
At least the PT's made this possible.
John collapses on damp sheets, blinking blearily when Ben curls up beside him. "Okay?" Ben says, stroking John’s hairline.
John wheezes. "If that was just okay, I can't wait to see what else you've got."
Ben's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Give me ten minutes and I'll show you."
"In ten minutes, I'm going to be asleep," John says. "What I really need is for your ass to move over so I can get out of this wet spot."
Ben's smile is soft, but he moves back, letting John into his space. "You're very demanding, aren't you?"
"It's why you like me," John says, settling his head on Ben's pillow.
Ben grins, lying down close enough that John can count his eyelashes. "Yeah, it's one of the reasons I like you."
"I know," John admits as Ben wraps around him. "You're not too bad yourself."
Epilogue
John straightens his tie in the mirror for the third time and stares at his reflection. Maybe he should've gone with the gray instead of the green. Maybe he should stay the fuck home.
The man in the mirror raises his eyebrows in response to such a pussy thought.
John sees what he is: a 40 (soon to be 41) year-old flatfoot, who happens to be gay and fucking his soon not-to-be-a-trainee-anymore partner. He's got lines and scars, and thankfully, all his own hair with no signs of going bald. He's got a pension, a physical therapist, and a mortgage on his house.
He's old. Too old for this shit.
Ben clears his throat, and John looks over at the small smile that Ben seems to keep on reserve just for him. "You ready to go?" he asks, jangling his keys meaningfully from the doorway of the bathroom.
John sighs. "Are you sure about this?"
Ben shakes his head. "For the thirteenth time, 'yes, I'm sure about this'."
"We don't have to do this, you know."
"Yes, we do."
"No, we don't," John insists.
Ben takes hold of John's tie and tugs him forward. He brushes a light kiss over John's mouth. A promise. Later. "Yes, we do," he says turning on his heel and walking away. "Stop being such a whiny bitch."
"Whiny bitch!" John retorts. "Who the fuck are you calling a 'whiny bitch'?" he demands, stalking after Ben into his own living room.
"You're being a whiny bitch now," Ben teases, his cheeks flushed.
John points at Ben. "I'm going to remember this, smart ass," he says, stomping into the kitchen to get the flowers he bought earlier.
"Of course you are," Ben says. "I'm counting on it."
"Where's my jacket?" John says, looking around the living room in aggravation.
Ben points to where John's suit jacket is folded over his forearm. "I've got it."
John sighs and walks over to where Ben's waiting by the front door. He looks down at the flowers in his hand and then back up at Ben. "Really. You don't have to do this."
"Yes," Ben says emphatically. "I do. -- It's Thanksgiving. I'm taking you to meet my mom, and we're going to have dinner. She's been cooking all day, and I've been talking about you for months. She just wants to meet you when you're not keeping me from beating my dad into the furniture. Don't be nervous."
"I'm not nervous," John protests.
"Yes, you are. It's why I lo -like you so much."
John raises an eyebrow. "You 'like' me, huh?"
Ben rolls his eyes. "You know I do. Shut up and come on," he says, turning around and walking out the front door.
John follows, pulling the door closed behind him. "You know I only let you talk to me like that because I like you too."
Ben pauses on the walkway in front of the house and turns back. "Yeah," he says with that smile. "I do."
-end-
A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, or not, a writer despaired, for she had no new shiny fandom to play with. And then a show was brought to air called Southland, and the writer said, "Oh, this is… this is pretty good. No, wait, this is kind of awesome. I wonder if anybody else is watching it?", and it turns out they were. And not just any anybodys, but people the writer adored and respected, and one of those people (serialkarma) said "wouldn't it be nice if someone wrote an epic for this awesome show?", and the writer thought, "Yeah, that would be hella awesome… Maybe I could do that." 100+ pages later, we have this. I am more proud of this story than anything else I've ever written, and like I said, if I never wrote anything else, that would be okay, because I wrote this. So… this is dedicated firstly to serialkarma, who was all "Hey!" and to lazlet who seconded the motion and played the 'how many pages' game with me. It is also for sparky77 who provided all kinds of "GO TEAM YOU!" motivation.
More importantly this story would never have made it anywhere without the awe-inspiring brains, heart and fortitude of anywherebeyond, romanticalgirl, serialkarma and sparky77, who beta read it and encouraged me and told me it didn't suck. Thank you so very, very much to you guys for helping me get here. ♥
Title from 'Midnight' by A Tribe Called Quest and the astute nature of Mr. Jimi Goodwin. Ilu, Jimi.
Part II
Part III
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
It's well after nightfall when John gets home from PT. Ben's motorcycle is in the driveway, and Ben himself is sitting on the front steps, illuminated by the porch lights, when John parks the car and gets out.
If Ben had keys, he could've waited inside. Hell, he could’ve made John dinner already. And then John has to pause, because the idea of giving Sherman keys to his house makes him feel a little dizzy. Janice would say that's the PT, which has been known to make him tired, too.
"To what do I owe the honor?" he says, meeting Ben in the driveway.
Ben's smile is broad. He's wearing a leather jacket and jeans. "I wanted to see you," he says, rocking forward on his toes.
"Didn't you just see me a few hours ago?"
"Yeah, but that was then."
John cocks his head to the side. "Boo, you are shameless."
Ben scuffs the toe of his shoe on the driveway. "I wanted to take you for a ride."
"A ride," he repeats slowly.
"On my bike."
So, not sex-related then. John's only mildly disappointed. "I just got done with PT."
"I know. It won't be long. I know you're probably tired; you don't have to if you don't want to."
John rolls his eyes. "Shit, Sherman, I'm not that tired."
Ben smiles. "So, you'll come?"
John couldn't say no to that smile. Not even if he were lying on the concrete bleeding out. "Yeah, okay."
"Great," Ben says, taking the few steps over to his bike.
He swings a leg over, grabs his helmet and pulls it on. John's never watched this part before. Never watched Ben move the kick stand or start the engine. It's strangely fascinating. And not a little hot. All that power between his legs - that's crass, but fuck it, sometimes John's crass.
And then Ben offers him the spare helmet and John balks. "You want me to ride bitch? No. Not happening."
"John," Ben's voice rises over the purr of the engine, "get on the bike."
"Are you giving me orders?"
"Do you want me to give you orders?"
John doesn't want to think about that too hard. "No."
John can see the tightness in Ben's eyes. "You're only riding bitch if you're a bitch, and I'm pretty sure you're not. Now if you want to act like one…"
John snatches the helmet away and pulls it on. "We're going to talk about this bitch thing later," he warns, climbing on behind Ben and getting settled.
"I'm sure we will," Ben says as John wraps his arms around Ben's waist. Ben reaches down and tightens the hold. "If you fall off, you're in trouble."
"If I fall off, I'm kicking your ass," John corrects as Ben walks the bike in reverse down the driveway.
When they reach the street. Ben reaches down one more time and presses his hand against where John's holding on to him. "Tighter."
John snorts. "I feel like I've heard that one before."
Ben laughs.
"Be glad I like your ass," John says.
Ben revs the engine. "I like your ass too," he says before slipping into first and taking off.
The night is cool around them as Ben navigates John's neighborhood down to Sunset. Once there, they're surrounded by cars and SUVs and limousines, and Ben flies by them all as though they're standing still.
The city is awash with neon signs and bright lights, and John gets to actually look around at them for a change. For the first time in a very long time, he's not looking for something, he's just looking.
Ben takes them up Hillhurst, and along Los Feliz. There are long stretches of nothing but trees and grass and big houses, and then they're dumped out on Franklin, past Wilton and Beachwood Canyon with all it's baby A-listers sitting outside having drinks at Birds and La Poubelle.
They cross Cahuenga, Wilcox and Highland, past the Magic Castle and on to La Brea. Ben takes a turn onto Hollywood, where the road is full of cracks and potholes. The motorcycle bounces more than a car, and John tightens his hold just that little bit.
He can feel Ben's abdominals flat underneath his fingers. The steady breathing that makes him relax more. Once again they're on Sunset, which is hard on John's eyes after the subduedness of the residential areas.
They take Laurel Canyon up to Mulholland and then ride along Mulholland for some time. John enjoys the view of the Valley from so high up in the hills. It's a long drop over the side of Mulholland, and there are long stretches with no guard rail. John looks at the city, his city, feels Ben under his hands and breathes through it.
It's Friday night, and all John really wants to do is sleep. And have sex. At this point in his life though, he's willing to put the sex on hold to get the sleep. Besides, they're at Ben's house, which means John doesn't even have to go anywhere to get laid once he wakes up.
They're stretched out on Ben's sofa, watching Deadliest Catch, and John's mostly asleep. His head's resting on Ben's shoulder.
He's had PT five times in the last two weeks, because Janice has decided he's hit some sort of plateau and wants to push him through it. John's body does not agree.
"We can go to bed if you want," Ben says.
John mumbles something into Ben's bicep.
"I don't think that was sex-related or work-related," Ben says thoughtfully, "so I need a translation."
John yawns. "I said I'm not tired."
He can feel it when Ben laughs. Ben's still laughing when the phone rings. He shifts to pick it up and John grumbles about his pillow moving.
"Hey, Liv," Ben says, the tone of his voice light. Content. "Yeah, I'm good."
John sits up. "Is that the famous Ms. Sherman?" he asks.
Ben rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "John wanted to know if it was the famous Ms. Sherman."
There's a high-pitched noise from the phone, and John has to move away from Ben because it makes his ears hurt, along with everything else.
They've had some seriously long shifts this week. It doesn't really help that they've hit what John refers to as Freak Week, which seems to be when every whack job possible decides to do something really stupid like nearly setting the Sunset Hyatt on fire by lighting firecrackers in their room, or drag racing along Hollywood at three in the fucking afternoon and crashing into an L.A. municipal bus.
And then there's the fucking Annual Meeting of Vespa owners, which is pretty much 200 kids on cheap motorbikes causing mayhem and traffic congestion every night from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.
The only good thing about any of it is Ben, who seems perfectly content to spend his days or evenings watching TV with John, eating whatever crap John has in his cupboards or whatever fifteen-course meal Ben's got in his refrigerator. Ben, who fucks like it's what he was born to do, and then is happy to fall asleep three minutes later.
"No, I don't think that's going to happen tonight," Ben says to the phone.
John raises an eyebrow. "What's not happening tonight?"
"Clubbing."
John laughs. "Give me the phone."
Ben gives him a dubious look, but relinquishes the handset. "Is this the famous Ms. Olivia Sherman who likes to crash expensive cars?" John asks.
There's a protesting noise down the line. "That only happened one time, John. You are totally being a hardass."
"Me? A hardass? Who's been telling you these lies?"
Next to him, Ben's eyes go wide. "Lies?" he scoffs.
Olivia's laugh rings in John's ear. "And Ms. Sherman is my mom. We're practically related at this point -- you can call me Liv."
"Related, huh?"
"Totally. He really likes you."
John raises an eyebrow. "And you know this how?"
"Duh," Olivia says. "It's, like, so obvious. And you like him too."
"Where are you getting your information?" John asks. Ben looks at him alarmed, reaching out to take the phone. John just dodges him by climbing off the sofa.
"Awww, you're so cute!" Olivia's tone is full of glee. "He won't stop talking about you, you know."
"I believe you mentioned that before," John says, ducking around the wall to the kitchen to avoid Ben, who's stalking him.
"He says you have a nice car. He's not normally that shallow. What did you do to him in that car exactly?"
John backs away from Ben, glancing behind him to make sure he doesn't run into a piece of furniture. "I don't think you're of age for me to tell you that information. Maybe when you're seventy."
"What is she saying to you?" Ben demands as John evades a grab at his shirt.
"Nothing," John promises.
"I hope he's getting laid a lot," Olivia says. "He needs it."
John hoots. "That's an interesting assessment."
"Give me the phone," Ben orders.
John shakes his head. "No, your sister is telling me how much you need to get laid; I think I should listen."
"That's enough!" Ben corners him by the fridge and John surrenders the phone. He laughs through whatever Ben hisses to Olivia.
"Give your sister my cell number," he tells Ben. "She can call me any time to report on you; I look forward to it."
Ben's sheets scream money. It's not the color (faded gray) or the smell (Ben, soap and sex), it's the way they feel. The way all John wants to do is spend his entire Sunday wrapped up in them. Or maybe he just wants to spend his day grinding his erection into the mattress while Ben mouths at the back of his neck and then at his shoulder.
John tenses as Ben licks a stripe down his back and then kisses the base of his spine. John finds his legs spreading all on their own, his hands digging into the sheets next to him. And then he feels it, Ben's cock sliding between the cheeks of his ass, the slick head rutting against him in that unmistakable way that has John pushing back and Ben pushing forward.
John grunts as Ben's fingers dig their way between the sheets and his hip and then he's up on all fours, making inarticulate noises as Ben's fingers wrap around his cock and stroke him off.
"C'mon," Ben's voice is gravelly with sleep. "Want you to come."
It's so early for John, it takes Ben's words a moment to sink in and then he grunts, fucking the circle of Ben's hand. Trying to give Ben what he wants.
Ben's shifting, though, now his cock is rubbing against the back of John's thigh, leaving wet smears and making it harder for John not to shove him down and fuck him senseless.
And then he remembers that it's Sunday. And they're off. And that if he wants to hold Ben Sherman down and fuck him until Ben's hoarse and sore, then he can.
It's a very happy thought.
John turns his head, and Ben's right there. Eyes heavy and his mouth just waiting to be kissed, so John does it. Pulls Ben off of him and pushes him down to the bed, Ben's wrists in his hands as he kisses Ben, fucks his mouth with his tongue until Ben’s humping John's stomach, leaving slick streaks and obscene moans in his wake.
When he pulls back, Ben's hair is in disarray and his eyes dark. He surges up, trying to kiss John again and John lets him. Lets Ben lick at his mouth and suck on his bottom lip. Ben's teeth are sharp and John growls into his mouth.
John’s cock is heavy between his legs and all he can think about is burying himself in Ben. About the pliable, begging mess that Ben's going to become for him in a matter of seconds, and then he's pulling away. When Ben tries to follow, John shakes his head. "Stay there," he orders, crawling across the bed to retrieve a nearly empty bottle of lube and a condom.
He glances over his shoulder because he can feel Ben's eyes on him, and there's Ben, watching him, waiting. Hand between his legs, stroking his dick.
John shakes his head and then crawls back over to Ben. "It's too early in the morning for you to be doing this to me," he says, pouring lube over his fingers and spreading Ben's legs wide.
"Too early for me to be doing what?" Ben's hand quickens on his cock as John reaches down and slides a slick finger between the cheeks of his ass.
Ben makes a keening noise as John teases his hole, rubbing clockwise and then counter clockwise. He grunts, trying to spread his legs even wider, and then John presses a finger inside of all that tight heat and crooks it hard. "Too early for me to be thinking about all the ways I'm going to fuck you today," John says.
"Nev -- never to early for that," Ben stutters, lifting his hips and trying to fuck himself on John's hand. It's a beautiful thing to see, especially when John adds another finger and Ben comes all over his stomach and hand.
That would be enough for most people, but then Ben reaches down, grabs John's wrist and proceeds to fuck himself with John's hand, hard and fast and so very brutal. John spends several minutes just watching Ben use his hand with absolutely no concept of what's going on beyond hottightfuck.
Eventually, he pries Ben's fingers off his wrist - John’s going to have bruises -- pulls out slowly, deliberately, and Ben makes a noise like he's dying. John can understand. Instead he shakes his head and his fingers fumble the condom, but he makes it work eventually.
When he looks up at Ben, Ben's watching him, legs bent and held open and John just smiles. Life is good. And then he gets on his knees, grabs Ben by the thigh and drags him near, closing the space between them.
Ben's eyes flutter shut as John pushes inside him, his face tensing up for moments as John presses in, and then John's in, deep seated and Ben groans his name, loudly.
He lifts Ben's legs up, rests them on his shoulders and then he pulls back, waiting, waiting, and then Ben opens his eyes, looks at him, and John thrusts in.
Ben's entire back arches up, and he grabs for the sheets, cursing. John wraps his hands around Ben's thighs and holds him there, fucking his way in and letting Ben writhe underneath him as John takes him relentlessly: his balls slapping Ben's ass, the feel of Ben clenching around him, the way Ben tries to push back without any leverage to do so.
This is what he wants from Ben. All the time.
He watches as Ben's cock slaps wetly against his stomach and smacks Ben's hand away when he tries to touch himself. "Fuck, John, please -- I - I need --"
"Soon," John promises. "Soon."
Ben's eyes are blown wide with want, and John comes just from that. From the power of knowing that he can give this overeducated, rich, empathetic wonder what he needs. It shocks him, spiraling out from his spine and leaving him gasping for air.
He can barely focus enough to remember his own name, but he made a promise, and he intends to keep it… just as soon as he gets this fucking condom off. He flings it somewhere that's hopefully not on the bed and then looks up.
Ben's fingers are tangled in the sheets, his knuckles white and his lips swollen and bitten. John studies him intently, the heaving chest and the streaks of precome smeared on his stomach, and then he braces his hands on either side of Ben's hips and takes Ben's dick in his mouth and sucks hard.
If he thought Ben was intense before, it's nothing compared to now. There are fingers yanking at his hair, hands cupping the back of his skull, Ben fucking his mouth. He's taken, and now, he's giving. He spreads Ben wide, lets his fingers reach back and rub that slick, wet hole. When he looks up, Ben's watching him, his mouth open and gasping for air.
Ben stutters John’s name, which might be a warning, but John just stays where he is. Lets Ben come down his throat. He swallows and coughs, swallows more, and then he pulls off and rests his head on Ben's thigh, panting.
Ben's fingers card through his hair, and John sighs hard. He can feel Ben shaking underneath him. Shaking with whatever is going on.
What they have is good. It's better than good, which is fucking terrifying.
John doesn't do good. He's not used to having everything he wants, or even most of what he wants. John does impossible, not improbable. And this isn't even improbable, this is real.
And real things have a tendency to get really fucked up.
On Monday, John wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, literally and figuratively. He's in his own bed, alone, late, and everything except his back is hurting for a change. His mouth feels like it's full of cotton balls and all he can think about is how this is all going to end. How Ben's going to wake up today, or tomorrow, or the day after and realize that John Cooper is over the hill and underpaid, and definitely not the kind of guy you latch on to when you're 23, with daddy-issues, and have your whole life ahead of you.
He tries to shake it off at work. Tries to pay attention to the way Ben smiles at him, the way he seems to absorb every word. The way when John says "run!" Ben says, "where?" The way that Ben goes out of his way to be near John, to always look him in the eye.
It's been a long time since John's had a good thing; he's not sure what to do with it anymore.
But all the positive reinforcement doesn't work.
He claims PT on Monday night and goes home on his own.
He claims the same thing on Tuesday, too.
On Wednesday he disappears after shift, doesn't change in the locker room, just gets in his car and drives around L.A in circles until it's so late at night, it's closer to morning. His cell phone vibrates on the seat besides him for hours until the battery runs out.
On Thursday morning, Ben's already at the car when John emerges from the precinct. Even from the front door, John can feel the resolution. Ben's jaw is so tight, it makes John's teeth ache. Ben climbs into the driver's seat while John's still walking to the car, and John just knows that all hell is about to rain down on him and he only has himself to blame.
Instead of yelling though, Ben is quiet. He's quiet as they leave the parking lot. Quiet through their first, second and third arrests of the day. He's quiet through John's offers of coffee and lunch. Quiet until John's head is aching and all he wants is for this to start so it can be over with. By the end of watch, John's had enough.
His dad didn't raise a pussy. Thankfully, he didn't raise a murderer either, but he definitely didn’t raise a pussy.
"So, I'm thinking you learned that Sleeper Hold from Dr. Donaldson," John tosses out as they head back to the precinct. "Am I right?"
Ben glances at him once, twice. "Yeah," is all he says.
John nods. "He's a good guy. Good dad type. Gotta love those military guys. You know those big guys, the ones that look like they can protect you from anything. Anybody."
Ben just grunts.
"What do they call that sort of thing, where you develop a type and go with it?" John pushes.
"I. don't. fucking. know." Ben grits out. Oh, there is it. The cursing, the stress, there's that tension John's looking for.
John makes a 'hmming' noise.
"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" Ben demands. The car swerves a little.
"Nothing, Boo, just saying."
"Don’t fucking call me that!" The car swerves more and John clamps his hand down on the dashboard.
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" John pushes.
"What's wrong with me?" Ben barks in disbelief. "You ignore me for three days and then you want to know what the fuck's wrong with me?"
"I was busy," John says. He's trying for nonchalant, but it's forced. At least it feels forced to him. The problem is that Ben's jaw is twitching next to him, and he's white-knuckling the steering wheel. It's possible that John's performing a little too well.
The bottom drops out on his stomach when Ben cuts across traffic and onto a residential side street. The car screeches to a halt and John's seatbelt slams him back against the car seat. That's going to hurt later.
"Why are you doing this?" Ben pleads, turning in his seat to face John. "What did I do?"
"You didn't do anything, kid," John says. Which is technically true. He may be lying to someone he cares about, but if he deals in facts, then he can say that he's not doing anything wrong. It's okay for him to lie to himself, not so much to other people. "You were a great lay. Can't really complain about that."
Ben's eyes narrow. "What did you just say to me?"
John can feel his left eye starting to twitch. When he first went to therapy, after Laura threw him out and he had that accident that fucked up his back, his eye twitched all the time. The therapist said it was a sign of extreme strain. That he was internalizing all his frustration.
What he's saying is "only" frustrating because he knows he's lying and breaking Ben's heart.
"I said you were good in bed," John soldiers on. "We had fun. But it's over now."
Ben's entire face goes pale. "You're -- you're not serious."
"Course I am.," John scoffs, even while feeling ill. "Everybody leaves, Sherman. I thought you'd know that better than most."
"No." Ben's voice is small, hollow.
John can feel his resolve wavering badly. All he wants right now is to tell Ben that it's not true. That John doesn't mean any of it. But this is his life. His $90,000- a-year life that he's sacrificed for every day. He can't give that up just to have this. Ben has to go. John has to make him go.
"Oh, don’t tell me you thought this was real," he sneers instead. "I know your dad's a dick; I can see how he fucked you up, but I doubt mommy and daddy paid all that money to send to you to college just for you to be stupid."
John's ready for it when Ben swings for him. He grabs Ben's wrist hard. "Don't do anything stupid, son."
"Fuck. You," Ben says bitterly, yanking his hand back.
When John was in the Marines, he had this friend Pappy. Pappy was a grunt like everyone else in the company, but he had one special gift: he was the company's sniper.
And the first time John ever saw Pappy do his thing, he developed a whole new respect for the entire concept of teamwork, because a sniper works in tandem with his spotter. When it comes time to carry out an order, the sniper lays down in position, and the spotter lies on top of him. They sync up perfectly, their line of sight, their breathing, and then between one breath and the next, they take out their target.
John thinks about this right now, about taking someone out when they're not expecting it. About what it takes to do something so absolute; it makes John's chest ache. All he's tried to do from day one is make things better for Ben Sherman.
"You'll thank me for this eventually," John says, looking out the window at the trash cans lined up along the street for collection. "You'll forget all this fake, blue collar being a cop bullshit. You'll meet some girl. Settle down, pop out some kids and get a real job that mommy and daddy can tell their friends about, and this'll just be a story to tell when you're drunk at dinner parties."
John waits for the explosion.
And then he waits some more.
And then he turns toward Ben expectantly, but what he sees isn't hurt.
Perfect calm is a lot scarier than raw emotion.
"You're afraid," Ben says with something like wonder.
"What?" John can feel his own disbelief. The strain.
Ben closes the gap between them, his face so close John can see the patches Ben missed shaving this morning, the dark circles starting to form underneath his eyes. The long eyelashes and full mouth. "You're afraid I'm going to leave you."
John scoffs. "I don’t know what you're talking about."
Ben’s mouth drops open in astonishment, his voice rough when he finally speaks. "You are a serious asshole, John Cooper."
John's mouth thins into a line; the twitching in his eye has moved into a full-blown ache in his temples. He's handled this wrong. All wrong. Ben Sherman is never going to thank him for pushing him away. John really fucked up this time. "Shift's over. Take us back now." Ben stares at him for long moments. "Now!" John barks.
Ben shakes his head, slides back over to his side of the car, fastens his seatbelt and pulls away from the curb.
He doesn't say anything else to John at all.
John calls Cesar from the car after work. "I fucked up."
Cesar doesn't miss a beat. "Somebody dead?"
"Not yet."
"Then you didn't mess up that bad."
"Does it matter if I wish I were dead?"
Cesar whistles low. "Where are you?"
"On my way to the Cantina."
The Cantina is the very first gay bar Cesar ever took him to. It's got wood paneling and zero décor, but the men are hot and the beer cold.
"How long?" Cesar prods.
"Thirty minutes."
"I'll see you there."
John walks through the door nineteen minutes later. He drives faster when he's stressed out. On Wednesday night, when he spent the evening driving through the hills and the Valley, he had to stop to fill up the car twice.
Cesar's already sitting at the bar, shots lined up between two bottles of beer. It helps that his landscaping business is on the corner.
John sits down next to him, but instead of reaching for a shot, he wraps his hand around the beer and just looks at it. "I was an asshole," he says clearly.
"To me?" Cesar elbows him in the ribs. "All the time."
John rubs his thumb along the condensation on the side of the beer. "Ces," is all he says.
John can feel Cesar looking at him intently. "Wow," Cesar says. "Your shit is fucked up."
"It's Sherman."
John can hear Cesar's sharp inhalation. "Your partner? The one you work with? The one with the Carl Lewis legs and the pornographic face?"
John makes a pained noise. "He likes me."
"Yeah, and?" Cesar says. "You like him too. I knew that."
"Yeah, well," John drifts off.
"Well, what?"
John doesn't say anything, but in the background some pop star is wailing about the paparazzi.
"What'd you do?" Cesar prompts.
John finally takes a long swig from his beer.
Cesar taps John on the temple. "What. Did. You. Do. Dude?" he repeats. John just gives him this look. "Oh, fuck," Cesar breathes. "You tapped that ass, didn't you?" A pause. "Was it good?"
"He's 23," John says.
"Blew you the fuck away, huh?" Cesar says succinctly.
"I like him."
"Um, isn't this the part where you're supposed to be all happy and shit 'cause you're tapping some 23 year-old hotass? Shit, I wish I was tapping some 23 year-old ass."
"I ruined it."
"Mierda!" Cesar curses. "Why?"
"Because he's 23!" John shouts. Several patrons look up and then look away at John's glare. Every patron except one. John blinks at the skinny, greasy guy in the corner.
It's the man with the magic pills.
"Are you listening to me, Cooper?!" John flinches when Cesar smacks him on the back of the head.
"What the hell you'd do that for?"
"Because you're fucking up! Stop fucking up!"
"I don’t - I don't know what to do."
"What the hell do you mean you don't know what to do, Cooper? You were married to a chick, you know how this shit works. When you fuck up, you apologize. Do you know how that word is spelled? Do I need to get your ass a dictionary?"
Cesar keeps on berating him, but John's not paying attention. He's paying attention to the dealer, who's eyeballing him meaningfully. Who's walking to the bathroom.
"I'll be back," he says, sliding off his stool. Cesar gives him a piercing look and then looks around behind him. "Don’t do anything stupid, John," he calls after him. "I'm serious, a la chingada!"
The trick is waiting when John pushes through the door. He looks just as pasty and strung out as he was the first time John saw him in the back of that squad car.
"I haven't seen you around," the trick says, digging in his pocket and pulling out two brown plastic pill bottles. "But I knew you'd be back. Kept these just for you."
"Shut the fuck up," John says, digging in his pocket for some money. His fingers brush against the twenties he has folded up and he thinks about Janice. About Laura. About how much shit he's had to go through.
"No problem, man," the trick says. "Hell, I know a good customer when I see one. I'll only charge you for one," he says, shaking the pill bottles enticingly.
John thinks about all those pills spread out on his kitchen table. The way Ben's face fell when he saw them. And then he pulls his hand out of his pocket empty. "If I catch you dealing in here again, I'm going to leave little parts of you from here to Culver City," he says. "This is your only warning."
And then he turns around and walks out.
Cesar's waiting for him at the bar. "You didn't do anything stupid, did you?" he asks as John walks up.
John chuckles dryly as he settles on his stool. "You mean in addition to all the other stupid shit I did this week?"
"Yeah."
"No," John exhales. "No, I'm good."
'Sorry' may be the hardest word, but 'I really fucked up, and I'm sorry, and I want to be with you, even though I'm old and kind of an asshole and my shit's all fucked up, and you have every right to doubt me, but all I want is to keep you safe and probably pop your dad in the mouth,' is a whole series of nearly equally difficult words, and John has no idea how to get them out.
Getting completely smashed with Cesar doesn't make it any easier. Nor does driving to Ben's house before work, punking out and turning around and going in early.
John's early for shift, Ben's right on time. John drives, Ben doesn't say anything at all. But instead of being the one stonewalling, John's clearly the one being frozen out. He's the one stealing glances and watching, waiting, looking for a clue that maybe he hasn't fucked up the best thing he's probably ever had.
Ben just looks out the window. He's not going to make this easy and that's exactly when John realizes exactly how easy Ben made it before: cake, DVDs, sleeping on the goddamn floor.
Friday is so long that when John goes to PT, he's happy to have Janice pound him into shape.
She takes one look at him and her face pulls into a frown. "Man troubles, baby?" she asks, while she has him practicing touching his toes. John mutters something to his knees. "Stand up," she orders.
John stands up too fast and all the blood rushes to his head and he has to grab onto the table behind him. "Whoa, there," she says, grabbing his arm. "Stop trying to run before you can walk. You okay?"
John shakes it off. "I'm fine. Fine."
"What happened?"
"I fu-messed up," he says at her disapproving look.
"Did you apologize?" she asks.
John looks at her blankly.
"Oh, hell no," she says, aghast. "Just for that, you can do fifteen deep knee bends."
Ben is perfectly calm during Saturday's shift. Perfectly quiet. The word 'serene' comes to mind. John, on the other hand, can't stop looking. He tries to make conversation and it's like there's a sound barrier between them.
Eventually he stops trying.
He doesn't stop thinking, though, which is why he's not paying attention when they're stopped by the Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles off Hollywood and Gower and a black kid with bright blue Nikes comes tearing across the intersection. He's followed eighteen seconds later by two Mexican boys, one of whom is carrying something silver and shiny. Ben flies out of the car behind them, and John can actually see himself reaching out for Ben's belt, trying to haul him back in the car, because John just knows that this is not going to go well.
He radios into dispatch while trying to follow Ben, but the squad car can't cut behind the car dealership and small businesses. L.A. does not have alleys. All John can do is drive around the block past where Ben and the perps disappeared behind some garbage dumpsters and then he sees that black kid with the blue Nikes. But now there are no Mexican kids and there's no Ben, and he's had enough. He runs the car up on the sidewalk and practically pins the kid to the side of the local Free Clinic.
"You picked the wrong day for this shit," Cooper says, handcuffing the kid to the safety gate outside the Clinic.
He looks around and tries to think about where Ben went. His gut says go left, so he goes left, and then he goes right, through the gap in the fence. He's not 25 anymore though. Hell, he's not even 35 anymore. There's shouting in Spanish, and then there's more shouting in Spanish and he rounds a corner to see Ben with one kid under his foot, and his weapon pointed at the other.
Which would be fine, if that other perp didn't have a gun of his own.
"Put your weapon down now!" John orders, drawing his weapon and getting the kid's attention away from Ben. Except now he's pointing his weapon at a young boy, who can't be more than sixteen. Olivia's age.
Behind the boy, Ben's face is dark and John shakes his head. The last thing he needs is Ben going all sniper-happy and ending up back in therapy. "That means you too, Sherman," he barks, waiting until Ben lowers his weapon.
The boy looks between John and Ben hysterically, his eyes frantic. "He stole my iPod! That pendejo stole my iPod."
"And so you thought you'd shoot him?' John asks incredulously. "Over a fucking iPod?!"
"It's mine!" the boy says, waving the gun around to make his point. Which is exactly when it goes off.
There's the sound of something cracking, a ricochet of some sort, and something hard lands on John's bicep. He looks over at his arm, at the blood starting to seep through the gash in his uniform sleeve and then down at the brick that apparently just cut through two layers of black polyester and white cotton.
He looks up at the kid, who's staring at him dumbfounded. "Did you really just shoot me over a fucking iPod, kid?" he asks.
The kid drops the gun on the ground, his jeans dark where he's wet himself, and then he begins to cry. Behind him, Ben's face is as white as a ghost and all John wants to do is assure him that he's okay. That despite the blood and the stupidity everything is fine.
Or as close to fine as they get.
This has got to be the worst week of John's life. And Sunday had been so good.
John sits on the hood of the car, pressing a cloth against the wound on his arm, surrounded by uniforms. There are sirens blaring all around him, and he has no idea where Ben's gone. He was there, and then the black and whites started rolling up and he vanished.
John stands up to look for him and the ground moves underneath his feet. He sits back down abruptly, just in time to find himself with a supportive hand around his waist.
He turns around and into the bespecled brown eyes of Tony the EMT. Tony grins. "Officer Cooper," he says brightly. "I was wondering when I was going to have the pleasure."
John just makes a derisive noise. "What are you, the only medic in town?"
Tony chuckles as he leads John over to the ambulance and sits him down in the back of the truck. He pulls out some scissors and begins to cut at John's uniform. "What exactly am I looking at?" he says, gently removing polyester fibers and cotton from John's arm.
"Kid shot a building, piece fell off and nicked me, I'm fine."
Tony whistles low. "Oh really?" he says, "because to me it looks like you could benefit from some stitches, a bandage, some pain killers…"
"No pain killers," John says sharply.
"Okay, no pain killers," Tony says. He lowers his voice. "Maybe just let Ben look after you and you'll be fine."
"I don't recall that being in Sherman's job description," John says tightly.
Tony's mouth twitches at the right corner. "You sure about that? Because he sure looks like he thinks it's in his job description," he says gesturing to a scraggly tree not five feet away where Ben's standing, arms crossed, face drawn and closed off.
Now would be an excellent time for John to apologize.
He opens his mouth to call Ben's name and nothing comes out.
He ends up at the hospital -- Tony can be a hardass when he wants to be -- but he doesn't get stitches, because he fucking hates stitches. He's too old to be that vain and they make his skin itch.
While he's waiting to be discharged; he lays there wondering how he went from lazy Sunday sex to going home alone.
"Want some company?" John would know that voice anywhere; he looks up at the curtain and directly into the inexorable gaze of his ex-wife. "I heard you were here," Laura says, shaking her head. "You okay?"
When John shrugs, it tugs on his bandage.
"What was it this time?" Laura says, coming to stand by his bedside.
"Falling building caused by a kid with a gun who was mad somebody stole his iPod."
"Of course it was," she looks around. "Where is he?"
"Where's who? The perp? Jail."
Laura shakes her head. "No. Ben."
John looks away. "You know he almost died today. He would've died if I hadn't been there."
"You're mad at him," Laura says thoughtfully. "Only you, John."
"He almost died!" John snaps.
Laura pats his forearm placidly, her voice dry. "Yes, being in love with a cop is a terrible thing."
John opens his mouth to protest, but can't find it in himself. Laura apparently takes this as confirmation. "You do, don't you?"
"I - yeah, probably."
"So, where is he?" she presses.
John bites the inside of his mouth.
"Are you sabotaging it?" Laura asks.
John shrugs again. It hurts.
Laura's smile is wry. "Mind if I ask why?"
"He's 23."
"We were 24."
"Yeah, and that worked out great."
"Yes, well, Ben has the plumbing you require, I don't."
John sighs. "Laura."
"John. Be happy. At least try."
John's quiet for a long time and then he scratches his neck. "Can I get a ride home?"
Laura cocks her head to the side. "Yeah, but you'll have to wait until I get off shift at five."
Ben's motorcycle is in the driveway when Laura drops him off, and for the second time today, John feels light-headed. He bangs his head softly against the headrest as Laura rolls down the window and waves to Ben sitting on the front steps. "Hi, Ben!" she hollers before telling John to get out.
John shakes his head and climbs out of the car slowly. "Thanks for the ride," he calls as Laura's Prius takes off. He really could use some pain killers right now. Anything to make what's coming more bearable.
He walks across his lawn slowly, every step a little heavier until he's standing before Ben.
"Hey," he says. "You been waiting long?"
Ben's face is tight, and a muscle jumps in John's temple. "In the house," Ben orders. "Now."
John raises an eyebrow, but when Ben stands up, he's two steps higher than John, which forces John to look up to him. "I don’t want to freak out your neighbors when I rip you a new one," Ben says sharply.
John blinks. "You're going to rip me a new one?" he says, walking up his stairs and pulling out his keys. "That should be interesting."
Ben's voice is low and comes from right behind John when he says, "If that's all I do to you, you'll be lucky."
John clears his throat, opens both doors, and then stands aside to let Ben walk through.
Ben shakes his head. "I'm not letting you out of my sight. You first."
John walks inside and kicks off his shoes. He's wearing half his uniform and a green scrubs shirt. He looks up when he hears the lock slide home on the door, and there's Ben, standing in a faded tee shirt and jeans, looking completely broken.
"You can't treat me like this," he says, his voice wavering. "You can't make me love you and then ignore me and then almost get shot and scare the shit out of me."
John can feel the shock on his face. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"The hell you didn't!" Ben hollers. "If you just wanted somebody to fuck, I know you would never choose someone you work with, so what the hell are you doing?" Ben's face is stormy and John is at a loss.
He turns and walks into the kitchen. "Where are you going?" Ben demands.
"To sit down," John says. "I got shot; I'm tired."
And the thing is, he is tired. He is so goddamn tired of having Ben and thinking he's going to lose him and then not having him and feeling like he's lost everything anyway. The chair scrapes against the linoleum and John doesn't sit down as much as he just falls.
He looks down at his hands, rough and scarred, and thinks about the way they look on Ben's body, the way Ben responds to their touch. "I'm trying to make it easier for you," he says to the table.
He flinches when another chair scrapes loudly across the lino, and then Ben's sitting so close he's practically on top of him. "What did you just say to me?"
"I said I'm trying to make it easier for you," he snaps.
Ben looks appalled. "I don't want easy! I want you! Do I need to draw you a map?"
John shakes his head. "You keep saying that, but you don't know what that means. You're young. And people change. You have your whole life ahead of you and I'm this old fuck -"
His words are cut off by Ben. "I don't care. When have I ever cared what anyone else has thought? Anyone besides you?"
John thinks about Ben's eagerness. The way he looks for John's approval. Olivia. That douchebag at the baseball game.
He can't say what the problem is though. If John says it, then it's out there, the idea, the concept. He's admitting his weakness. Saying it won't necessarily make it true, but what if it does?
John takes a deep shuddering breath when Ben rests his forehead on John's shoulder. "Why are you doubting me?" Ben asks quietly, the air from his words brushing against John's bicep, against the skin not covered by his bandage. "I thought -- I thought we were doing okay."
"What am I supposed to do when you leave?" John asks quietly.
Ben lifts his head and looks at John quizzically. "Where am I going?"
John's laugh is like razor blades in his throat. "You're 23, you're going to want someone else when you come out of your sex coma and realize that I'm not rich and educated, that I'm just some fucking guy that likes sleeping next to you."
Ben slumps back in his chair. "I'm not leaving you, John. I don't want to marry some vapid chick from my parents' zip code and pop out kids that I'll only see every other week once I get divorced. I don't know where you got this idea. There is no fall back plan -- this is my plan: to be a cop. To do something I love. To maybe do it with someone I care about. It's the only plan I have."
John looks at Ben for a long time. The lines on his forehead have gotten deeper since John's met him; he worries too much.
Ben sighs. "It’s okay to be afraid. I'm afraid, too."
John snorts. "The hell you are. I've seen you run after perps. You ever heard of people with a death-wish?"
"I don't have a death-wish!"
"Ben, if you ever, ever leave that car to chase somebody down without my say so again I will put you on a fucking leash and only let you out on holidays and your mother's birthday."
Ben opens and closes his mouth, and then a troubled look crosses his face. "You're not going to leave me for this Cesar guy, are you?"
John gapes. "Why would I leave the best thing I have?" he says, honestly at a loss. Ben stares at him. Oh, he didn't mean to let that one out. "You just want stability," he says lamely.
"Is that such a goddamn crime?"
"No, "John concedes.
"Knowing how we are," Ben presses. "Isn't this the best thing we could do?"
"And how exactly are 'we'?" John tosses back.
"Fucked up. Needy. Stubborn," Ben pauses. "A little in love."
A little in love. A lot in love. John shakes his head. "Can you stop being so smart and insightful for a minute? It's fucking annoying, Sherman."
Ben arches an eyebrow. "You'd prefer I be stupid and sex-crazed instead?"
"Stupid, no. But I don't think I've complained about the sex-crazed part."
"That's a good point," Ben says, right before he closes the space between them and kisses John. John holds still for a minute, feeling Ben's mouth again his, the press of his lips, the flicker of his tongue, and then he opens his mouth and lets Ben in. He only pulls away to haul Ben to his feet and steer him towards the bedroom.
It takes a little while, though. Ben keeps pushing him against flat surfaces and rubbing against him, keeps yanking at John's clothes to get them off, keeps tossing his own clothes all over the place.
John hisses when Ben tries to pull his shirt off by tugging it over his head. Ben freezes and then pulls back. "Stay there," he orders before running back into the living room clad only in his boxer-briefs, leaving John pressed against the wall in the hallway between his living room and bedroom.
He's only wearing the stupid scrub top and his underwear. He could be in his room in seconds. "You're thinking about moving." Ben's voice calls from his left, and John takes an automatic step back when he sees the scissors Ben's brandishing.
"It wouldn't be worth it," Ben teases. "If you got injured, I'd end up not getting laid. Hold still," he orders, grabbing the hem of John's shirt. Ben then cuts John out of the scrubs; John's cock approves whole-heartedly.
And then Ben's pushing John down the hall to his bedroom, and John falls back on his bed, scooting back to watch Ben kick off his underwear.
The bed bounces when Ben climbs on, bouncing more when he pulls John's briefs down and flings them behind him. He seems very determined, and John's breath catches as Ben's hands slide up his chest, followed by his mouth. He tugs gently on John's nipples with his teeth and then laves away the ache before leaving mouth-sized bruises on John's collarbone. John arches up when Ben presses his knee between John's legs and then grinds back down.
It takes him a while to realize Ben's pinned him to the bed, not with his hands, but with his eyes. "I need you - this," Ben confesses. "Don't keep doing this. Please."
John pushes himself up on his elbows and tugs Ben's mouth toward his own, trying to apologize the only way he knows how. He doesn't have anything else to give besides himself.
Some indeterminate time later, John's on his hands and knees on his bed, Ben draped over him, his cock bumping against John's ass as Ben mouths at his back. Ben's hands are everywhere, ghosting over his ribs, twisting John's nipples, his cock painting wet streaks on John's skin.
"Fuck me," John says hoarsely.
Ben freezes. "What?"
"Do you have a hearing problem?"
Ben's fingers dance along his ribs. "No, I just -- you want - you want me to do that?"
"Why? You got a problem with that?"
"No! No, definitely not."
John chuckles. "Good. Just, you know, go slow."
And Ben does go slow. Agonizingly slow. Opening John up with his mouth, spreading him wide and laving at John's asshole, filthy and wet and so hot, before pressing in and fucking John with his tongue. It's so dirty that John gasps at the blunt pressure, at the way Ben tugs at John's balls and fucks John's ass with his mouth. He rips his own sheets, and all he can say is "more."
And then Ben uses his fingers, rubbing and probing, teasing John before sliding in, using so much slick that John can feel it running between his legs, but the mess doesn't matter. The mess makes it better. Ben's searching and he knows what he's searching for, where it should be, what it should feel like.
The tip of his finger brushes John's prostate, that little throbbing bud, and when John pushes back, gasping, Ben pulls away and adds two more fingers instead of one. The stretch makes John's eyes cross. "Oh, fuck, Ben, c'mon," he begs.
His vision goes blurry when Ben's weight shifts behind him, and the fingers in John's ass are joined by an insistent tongue. These whimpering noises are coming from John's throat; he can't remember being so open ever.
His cock is this weight between his legs, but he can barely hold himself up with his injured arm and it's just too much. He collapses down on his chest. Trying to block out the pain, not think about the drugs he could take for it, and instead focus on Ben kissing his arm, his shoulder, the way he nuzzles the side of John's face.
"Lift your hips," he whispers in John's ear, and John complies.
He's being rearranged, his legs spread a little bit wider, more too-cold lube, and then there's this blunt pressure, too much, too fast, too good, stop, go, "Jesus, fuck, hurry up," John demands.
"Let me do this," Ben says, and John exhales a long breath. Tries not to think about the stretch, the burn, the way Ben's cock is so wide. John's own tongue is too heavy for him to reply, and he moans into the sheets.
He rocks on his knees as Ben pulls him back bit-by-bit until he's all the way in and John can't breathe at all. And then it gets a little easier, his lungs giving him just a little more to work with, and then they're moving together, Ben fucking in and John pushing back.
The burn is this gorgeous thing. Ben stretching him open; Ben's balls slapping against his ass, and John trying to take as much as Ben has.
He tries to shift his weight, to touch himself, and then Ben's hand in there, his grip too tight, his thumb too rough against the head of John's cock. It's everything John wouldn't want from anyone else, and it's perfect right now, and then he's coming, gasping into his sheets, every muscle in his body going tight with the strain.
He can feel Ben's hand sliding up his back, griping his shoulder and pulling him back, reseating himself and fucking John open all over again. Short, hard thrusts that are punctuated by Ben's grunts. He knows when Ben's coming because of the fingernails digging into his skin and the way his breathing hitches when he's all the way gone. Seconds later, Ben calls John’s name and he's jerked back hard.
At least the PT's made this possible.
John collapses on damp sheets, blinking blearily when Ben curls up beside him. "Okay?" Ben says, stroking John’s hairline.
John wheezes. "If that was just okay, I can't wait to see what else you've got."
Ben's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Give me ten minutes and I'll show you."
"In ten minutes, I'm going to be asleep," John says. "What I really need is for your ass to move over so I can get out of this wet spot."
Ben's smile is soft, but he moves back, letting John into his space. "You're very demanding, aren't you?"
"It's why you like me," John says, settling his head on Ben's pillow.
Ben grins, lying down close enough that John can count his eyelashes. "Yeah, it's one of the reasons I like you."
"I know," John admits as Ben wraps around him. "You're not too bad yourself."
Epilogue
John straightens his tie in the mirror for the third time and stares at his reflection. Maybe he should've gone with the gray instead of the green. Maybe he should stay the fuck home.
The man in the mirror raises his eyebrows in response to such a pussy thought.
John sees what he is: a 40 (soon to be 41) year-old flatfoot, who happens to be gay and fucking his soon not-to-be-a-trainee-anymore partner. He's got lines and scars, and thankfully, all his own hair with no signs of going bald. He's got a pension, a physical therapist, and a mortgage on his house.
He's old. Too old for this shit.
Ben clears his throat, and John looks over at the small smile that Ben seems to keep on reserve just for him. "You ready to go?" he asks, jangling his keys meaningfully from the doorway of the bathroom.
John sighs. "Are you sure about this?"
Ben shakes his head. "For the thirteenth time, 'yes, I'm sure about this'."
"We don't have to do this, you know."
"Yes, we do."
"No, we don't," John insists.
Ben takes hold of John's tie and tugs him forward. He brushes a light kiss over John's mouth. A promise. Later. "Yes, we do," he says turning on his heel and walking away. "Stop being such a whiny bitch."
"Whiny bitch!" John retorts. "Who the fuck are you calling a 'whiny bitch'?" he demands, stalking after Ben into his own living room.
"You're being a whiny bitch now," Ben teases, his cheeks flushed.
John points at Ben. "I'm going to remember this, smart ass," he says, stomping into the kitchen to get the flowers he bought earlier.
"Of course you are," Ben says. "I'm counting on it."
"Where's my jacket?" John says, looking around the living room in aggravation.
Ben points to where John's suit jacket is folded over his forearm. "I've got it."
John sighs and walks over to where Ben's waiting by the front door. He looks down at the flowers in his hand and then back up at Ben. "Really. You don't have to do this."
"Yes," Ben says emphatically. "I do. -- It's Thanksgiving. I'm taking you to meet my mom, and we're going to have dinner. She's been cooking all day, and I've been talking about you for months. She just wants to meet you when you're not keeping me from beating my dad into the furniture. Don't be nervous."
"I'm not nervous," John protests.
"Yes, you are. It's why I lo -like you so much."
John raises an eyebrow. "You 'like' me, huh?"
Ben rolls his eyes. "You know I do. Shut up and come on," he says, turning around and walking out the front door.
John follows, pulling the door closed behind him. "You know I only let you talk to me like that because I like you too."
Ben pauses on the walkway in front of the house and turns back. "Yeah," he says with that smile. "I do."
-end-
A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, or not, a writer despaired, for she had no new shiny fandom to play with. And then a show was brought to air called Southland, and the writer said, "Oh, this is… this is pretty good. No, wait, this is kind of awesome. I wonder if anybody else is watching it?", and it turns out they were. And not just any anybodys, but people the writer adored and respected, and one of those people (serialkarma) said "wouldn't it be nice if someone wrote an epic for this awesome show?", and the writer thought, "Yeah, that would be hella awesome… Maybe I could do that." 100+ pages later, we have this. I am more proud of this story than anything else I've ever written, and like I said, if I never wrote anything else, that would be okay, because I wrote this. So… this is dedicated firstly to serialkarma, who was all "Hey!" and to lazlet who seconded the motion and played the 'how many pages' game with me. It is also for sparky77 who provided all kinds of "GO TEAM YOU!" motivation.
More importantly this story would never have made it anywhere without the awe-inspiring brains, heart and fortitude of anywherebeyond, romanticalgirl, serialkarma and sparky77, who beta read it and encouraged me and told me it didn't suck. Thank you so very, very much to you guys for helping me get here. ♥
Title from 'Midnight' by A Tribe Called Quest and the astute nature of Mr. Jimi Goodwin. Ilu, Jimi.