Southland fic: Section 271 (Cooper/Sherman, adult)
Section 271
Southland, Cooper/Sherman, 4,228 words, adult
Summary: Not everything John Cooper does is by the book.
Notes: futurefic, of a sort; takes place once Ben's training is complete. Many thanks to troyswann and barkley for beta. Written for elishavah in Yuletide 2010. (There is an actual section 271 in the LAPD Manual, and you can read it here.)
Section 271
by Destina
All John said to Ben at the end of roll call was, "Watch yourself," but Ben had learned to decipher the Cooper Code, and what it really meant was your partner today is a real loser, buddy.
"Great," Ben muttered. He glanced across the room at Cunningham, who seemed friendly enough as he chatted up the watch commander. The guy had barely been assigned to the division five minutes, but Ben was date of the week. Every new shift was a round of speed dating, find the one you're most compatible with and try them out. So far, nothing was sticking at all, but that wasn't Ben's fault. It was Cooper's, for making most average cops suffer by comparison. Sometimes Ben caught himself watching his partner-of-the-moment and breaking down their imperfections, but it was John's cynical voice in his head.
FTO-itis, Chickie called it once - getting attached to your training officer. Ben was pretty sure that wasn't what it was, but there were some things it didn't pay to think about, so he tried not to. He tried instead to focus on the job. Just the job -- being a good cop. He was free and clear of his training, a full-fledged member of the LAPD.
Watch yourself.
That warning flashed through Ben's head about seven hours later when he was on the ground in a driveway, blood gushing from the cut on his head and gravel digging into his arms, sharp points of pain against the blur of the moment. Adrenaline flooded his system, narrowing his vision to the big hands of the huge, angry drug addict who was fixated on getting Ben's duty weapon out of his holster and killing him with it. His wife was screaming at them both at the top of her lungs. Fucking DV calls. He should have known.
Watch yourself. No other choice, when your partner is nowhere to be found as you're fighting for your life.
~~~
The nurses were flirty as hell as they picked and scraped gravel out of his elbows. Ben smiled automatically and tuned them out while they went about making him presentable. The doctor rattled off a list of minor injuries: cracked rib, sprained shoulder, couple stitches to his scalp, lots of bruising, bite mark -
"He bit me?" Ben looked up at that. He didn't remember being bitten. The idea of it sent a shiver down his spine. Who the hell could say what diseases that junkie was carrying, with all the dirty needles he'd probably used over the years.
"Uh...yes. Through your clothes, of course. Here, at the top of your shoulder." The doctor gestured, but didn't touch Ben. "He bit hard, which is why there's a deep bruise, but it doesn't appear he broke the skin. No need for bloodborne pathogens testing, or a course of treatment for..." The doctor trailed off and added quickly, "There was no path for saliva into your system. You weren't exposed."
"Oh. Good." Ben shrugged his shoulder experimentally, testing his aches and pains. His right arm hurt like a sonofabitch, but it could be worse. Much worse. Adrenaline was still working its way out of his system, and his fingertips trembled against his thighs. "I can go, then?"
"Yes. I'll write up the discharge papers and sign you out at the desk." The doctor shook his hand and smiled briefly. "Always hate to see you officers come in, but glad when you're not here long. You know what I mean."
Ben felt too tired even to attempt a smile, but he offered a lopsided version to the doctor anyway. "Thanks," he said. The doctor rattled the curtain around his exam table back into place, more or less, and Ben was alone with his thoughts.
Somewhere across the ER, he could hear a woman crying, hitched sobs and a word every now and then - David, and then, mijo. Distant sirens, too, probably bringing in more victims. Every siren was somebody's personal tragedy.
The tremors in his hands slowed. He rubbed his hands against his dusty pants legs, and noticed dried blood on the knees for the first time. Probably happened when they went to the ground, though he didn't remember the moment of impact. Bits and pieces of the incident were more vivid than others: the slow-motion moment when the husband's eyes dropped to Ben's weapon; the way the husband had shoved the wife aside and was on Ben in a split second; the abject terror of realizing Cunningham wasn't moving, and that Ben was on his own, that he had to keep his gun in its holster at all costs.
His clipboard was on the bed behind him, right where his lieutenant had set it down. Ben stared at it like his report might spontaneously begin writing itself, if he concentrated hard enough. The address had vanished from his memory, and he never did get the name of the victim - the wife. No idea what had happened to her, either.
Too many gaps to fill. He slid off the table and picked up all his equipment - belt, duty weapon, shirt, clipboard. There would be an officer outside to take him back for his bike. The report would have to wait.
The waiting room - really a corridor lined with mismatched plastic chairs - was mercifully empty. All the brass must have decided there wasn't really a big need for their political skills, and gone home to their pot roasts. Cunningham, too; nothing but a babbled apology through the curtain at Ben, and then he ran away to do his paperwork. Ben owed that chickenshit a rap in the mouth, but that would have to wait until he could actually swing his arm without doubling over in pain, so it was just as well.
The only person left in the hallway was John, his big frame perched on the edge of a tiny chair. Some part of Ben had known it would be John. Out of the cluster fuck that this night had been, the most memorable thing was John's voice, tight and controlled, talking to Cunningham while the EMTs had their way with Ben. Cooper only had four modes on the street: fake friendly, skeptical, concerned, or loaded for bear. The tone in his voice this time was something Ben hadn't heard before.
John was still in uniform, elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of him. Raw, bruised up hands. Ben wondered when that had happened. Who it had happened to.
When John looked up, Ben smiled at him. "You forgot you're not my babysitter anymore."
John stood up, reached to take the shirt and belt from Ben, who gave them over. It was a way of avoiding the look John was giving him, head to toe, stopping on every bandaged spot. Softly, John said, "I don't like it when people break my rookies."
"Not broken, actually. Also not a rookie anymore."
John juggled Ben's stuff to his right arm and fished out his keys. "You forget what I told you at start of shift?"
Ben's shoulders tightened, his body automatically bracing for the argument it was accustomed to having with John when he took that tone. It took a second or two for the logic circuits to kick in behind the flare of anger. Ben sighed. He was already second-guessing himself on getting into that situation; there was no difference between what he was doing, and what John was saying. John was just putting it out there, no bullshit, like always.
"My bike's at the station," is all Ben said, as they moved slowly toward the door.
John held his shirt up. "Maybe you should leave the bike ride for when you can actually put your own clothes on."
"You make a lousy mother."
"Very funny." John stopped Ben with a big hand on his chest. "Tomorrow, okay? I'll take you to pick it up tomorrow. It's not going anywhere."
That quiet tone was back in his voice. Ben met his eyes, then nodded. Truth be told, he didn't feel like the hassle of going back to the station and having ten conversations with other cops on the way. John got that already, of course.
Sometimes it bothered him that wherever he was going in his own head, Cooper was there first.
~~~
The ride home was long, and mercifully, John refrained from giving Ben the third-degree. There was a part of Ben that had expected to be interrogated the second he slid into the car, but he'd forgotten: not a trainee anymore. No debriefing. No need to justify anything to John at all.
Ben shifted position in the narrow seat. His legs felt too long and the space too small, like passengers were an afterthought. His pants leg caught on an unyielding piece of metal, and when he ducked his head, he could see the culprit. Under the dash, John had a mount for a police-style radio, but there was no radio, only the space John had made ready for it. Ben wondered whether the presence of the framework, or the absence of the radio, said more about John Cooper.
They'd been spending a lot of time together, off the clock. A barbecue at John's house, and an afternoon watching football at Ben's. A while back, Cooper had plans to introduce Ben to a dude named Cesar, but by the time Ben was off probation, Cesar wasn't in the picture anymore. At least, that's what Ben assumed. John never brought it up. It wasn't something they talked about.
Ben watched traffic out of the window for a while, and he said, "All the signs were there. I should've seen them."
"What signs? That some crazy psycho freak motherfucker was going to attack you? Junkies, man. I'd call 'em scum, but that'd be an insult to the stuff in the bathtub." John glanced sideways at him. "I've been jumped before, in case you don't remember. They don't always give you the cues."
"Not that," Ben said. He was quiet a moment, then: "Cunningham. The way he wanted to ride shotgun. How he picked cover instead of contact four times out of five. All the damn...war stories, I don't know. " He huffed a laugh. "He tells even more war stories than you."
"Hey, at least mine are true." Ahead of them, a light turned yellow, and John slowed down. "You've got good instincts," John said. "They're what make you the kind of cop you are. Usually you follow 'em. So why not tonight?"
Ben shrugged, then hissed. The pain had dulled down to an ache while he'd been sitting still, but it flared up again as soon as he jerked the muscle.
Cooper eyed him, as if making sure he wasn't going to puke on himself, and then said, "You realize, I invested a shitload of time into teaching you how not to die on the streets, right?
"Is this going to be the LAPD-can't-afford-to-lose-a-valuable-resource speech? Because that's a big cliché, man."
"No. This is the I-should-break-you-in-half-for-putting-yourself-in-that-position speech. You know better." He pulled into Ben's driveway and killed the engine. "You wanted to give Cunningham the benefit of the doubt, am I right?"
Ben realized his jaw was clenched and forced himself to relax. "Maybe I wanted you to be wrong about one of these guys I'm partnering with, for a change."
John snorted and shoved open his door. Ben worked the handle of the passenger door with his fingertips for a while until it gave, and then pushed the door open with his foot. From there it was easy to slide out and not move his arm. It didn't matter, though. His ribs were screaming in protest instead. John stood at the front of the car watching him, and when Ben was clear of the car, he said, "Keys?"
"There's a spare set in the garden, under the bench."
"Remind me to talk to you about the concept of home security." John disappeared around the corner and came back with the keys, shaking mud off them. He unlocked Ben's front door and moved aside so Ben could go past him.
Then he followed Ben in and closed the door. Ben hadn't really processed that before John said, "Want me to call that girlfriend of yours?"
"Not really seeing her anymore."
John played with the keys a moment, not looking at Ben, before setting them down on the kitchen table. Ben stood there in the middle of the room, blinking tiredly. Then he turned and started down the hall to the bathroom. "I'm going to shower."
"I'll make some coffee."
~~~
The hot water was finally starting to turn tepid when the phone rang the first time. Ben stood there under the spray and listened to it jangling from a distance. On the third ring, it stopped. John had probably picked it up. Might be Mom. The incident had probably been on the 11PM news. Considering that Ben had put the guy in the hospital with his head cracked open, there wasn't any way to tell what spin the media might put on it. He was used to Mom's midnight calls now. Ever since the shooting, any time his division made the news, his cell would predictably ring around end of shift.
Of course, his cell was smashed, so his silence would have worried her more.
The first hints of chill crept into the water, so he shut it off and stepped out to grab a towel. His hands were starting to ache. He'd gripped his gun so tightly, and then the baton he used on the suspect, he was surprised he hadn't snapped them in two. He wrapped a towel around himself and sat down on the bed.
Less than two years on the job, and he'd been involved in three shootings and several cases of serious injury.
He dressed quickly, black T-shirt and sweats. The smell of fresh coffee drew him back out to the kitchen, where he found John staring at the art on his wall, arms crossed over his undershirt. His uniform shirt hung neatly over the back of a dining room chair, but the shined shoes still would have given him away.
"Chickie called," John said, eyes narrowed as he examined the original Levine. "Said she was sorry she couldn't get to the hospital. Garbage calls."
"Just as well," Ben said, pouring a cup of coffee. He leaned a hip against the counter and said, "You an art critic now?"
Immediately, and predictably, John volunteered, "This is the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life. I think it's imprinted on my retinas." One eyebrow raised, he asked, "You pick this out yourself?"
Ben ducked his head to the side and smiled. Once again, on the mark. "Not that one, no. My mother."
"That explains it." John turned his back on it and picked up the beer he'd foraged from the fridge. "I like the photographs."
They were Ben's favorites, too. He'd been picking them out over the years, galleries, flea markets, price irrelevant. He liked the style of them, the silences contained in them.
He looked at John, at the deliberate way he was wandering around Ben's tiny house, and said, "You didn't have to stay. I've been hurt worse than this."
John's entire face darkened, and for a moment, Ben had a glimpse of the scary motherfucker John could be on the streets. Trauma was another of those topics they hadn't talked about. So far, Ben's childhood had stayed off limits, and John's family was similarly off the books. But Ben had already told John the important bits, and he knew enough about John to understand why he stayed.
John gave him an assessing look, then took a swallow of his beer and went back to prowling around the house. He stopped in front of a photo taken inside a cathedral, black and white, nothing but angles and arches, going straight up to the sky. He touched the frame, smoothing a fingertip down the glossy black metal. "So, how many commendations do you have now?" he asked, eyes locked on the photo.
"Does it matter?" Ben took a sip of coffee and watched his former partner. It was what he was familiar with, watching John. Day in, day out, the curve of his shoulder, the corner of his mouth pulled tight in anger or turned up in a smirk, the patch of skin half-visible at the hollow of his neck, or his hands on the wheel. A life observed in profile for almost two years, but now they were face to face, and the whole picture was coming clear.
"I heard you had offers from vice and narcotics, special squads, some others." Implied, but not said outright, was the fact that Ben hadn't told John about any of them, but John knew anyway.
Ben had his reasons, both for turning down the assignments, and for keeping it from John. He knew John thought he had great potential and wanted him to succeed in his career. It had been flattering to get those offers, to know he could write his own ticket.
But what kept him awake at night, what he thought about the most, were the calls with the women and kids, the ones where he was able to intervene, make a difference. Working right there in the trenches to help people when they need it most. The idea of sitting in a car conducting surveillance for hours on end, or waiting weeks to build a case on a pimp to get him off the streets...those things weren't for him. Not right now.
"I like patrol." Ben's hands were steady around the warm mug."Maybe you're just a bad influence on me."
"Oh, there's no doubt about that."
Before Ben could answer, the phone startled him, shrill and demanding. John turned away and slowly poured the rest of his beer out down the sink. Ben reached for the handset.
"Hello?"
"Oh my god, Ben, why the hell haven't you answered your phone? Chloe and I have been trying to call you for hours! Did you see that thing on the news? Were you there?"
"It's okay," Ben said automatically. Comforting a hysterical sister was like cruising on autopilot for him after all these years. "Yes, I was there."
"Are you hurt? Ben, I-"
"I'm fine," Ben said. "Everything is just fine. Okay? I have to go now, John is here." John, who was watching Ben again, arms folded, leaning against the sink.
"Oh," Olivia said. "Your partner, John?"
"Yeah."
"Well. That's good." There was a long pause, and it dawned on Ben that Olivia was working out the puzzle of why John was there at two in the morning. In that way, she was ahead of Ben.
Nothing he could say would un-dig that hole of assumptions, so he just added, "Really, I'm fine. I'll call you in the morning, okay? I'll explain everything then."
"All right. If you're sure you're not hurt." Ben heard a tiny worried quaver in Olivia's voice.
"I'm good. Let Mom and Chloe know that my cell isn't working. I'll get a new one tomorrow. Bye." He jammed the handset back in the cradle.
It was two in the morning, and John was still there, far away from his stash of booze and painkillers and his comfortable bed, and Ben was exhausted but not sleepy, wired and too much in tune with every nuance of the way John was watching him, how his eyes tracked Ben everywhere.
The tremors were back in Ben's hands, but John's watchful gaze wasn't to blame. If anything, Ben wanted to lean into it, let John soothe the ragged edges Ben was tired of concealing.
He cleared his throat. "My sister. I think maybe she took it wrong that you were here."
John nodded, looked down at the floor. Then back up at Ben, to say, "Did she?"
For a long moment, Ben looked at John, considering. Too many times in his life, he hadn't been the one to choose how or when the big events would play out. There was a slow burn of want in Ben's body, and it had been there for a long time, back before he'd known John well enough to tell whether or not he shared that same want.
There was really only one answer; John himself had said it once. "We live in the gray, right?" He tilted his chin up and smoothed his hands along the soft worn fabric of his sweatpants.
John stepped closer and rested a hand on Ben's arm, then slid it up to his shoulder. He dragged a gentle thumb over the bite-bruise throbbing at the juncture of Ben's neck and shoulder.
In turn, Ben reached out with one finger, traced it slowly over the purpling bruises on the knuckles of John's right hand, the shape of them curved around Cunningham's name as clearly as if John had told him their source.
John exhaled a long, slow breath, and then he said, "What the fuck are we doing?"
In point of fact, that was all Ben had been thinking about for the last few days. But before he could answer, John slid his hands up under Ben's T-shirt, warm palms flat against his bruised, damaged skin, and pulled him in. And then John's mouth was on his, decisive, nothing gray or tentative about the way he made his way in. Ben leaned in to him, caught his belt in both hands and yanked him closer, no halfway, nothing uncertain at all.
The sound John made went straight to Ben's dick, but just then, John broke off and took his hands off Ben. "Christ," John said, staring at him.
They stood there, breathing hard, and Ben forced himself to be still. He'd chosen. Now John had to choose. John didn't move away, just penned him there, hands grasping the counter, and bowed his head. Ben knew it for what it was: regaining control. Ben shifted position, let the length of his body brush against John's, just to hear his hissed sharp breath.
Strained, John said, "As your former training officer, I should tell you that section 271 of the manual says-"
Ben cut him off. "I know what the goddamned manual says. I'm not planning to call the Chief and tell him you've got your..."
Ben trailed off, startled by John pressing forward, a hand on his ass and his mouth next to Ben's ear. "Got my what?"
Ben shivered, and as that shiver worked its way down his body, it twitched every strained and sore muscle. "Damn," he said, wincing.
"This is not the right time for this conversation," John said. He straightened, and started to move away, but Ben caught him easily with two fingers slipped into the waistband of his trousers.
"Can we just...can there not be any more conversation?" Ben asked, a little desperately.
John chuckled. "I don't live quite that much in the gray." The way he was looking at Ben, there didn't seem to be much doubt about his intentions, and all kinds of things were running through Ben's head about lines and boundaries and other assorted stuff that usually kept him from getting laid. But John said, "I need sleep, and you need to rest, and then we can try round two. That good for you?"
"You're already here," Ben said.
"And I'm about to be gone." Almost as if to prove himself a liar, John stepped into his space again, and they were kissing, a subtle push and pull for control even in the way they touched each other.
This time, when John backed off, he put sufficient distance between them. He rounded the kitchen counter, picked up his shirt and shrugged it on, not bothering to button it. "You know,
I was entertaining the idea of not being an FTO anymore, just so you could have a decent partner. But now..."
"I know. We can't work together."
"...I was going to say, you're getting a decent partner either way." John grinned at him.
Under the force of that grin, Ben was having some difficulty remembering why John was leaving. "I'll find one, eventually."
"That's the spirit." John grabbed his keys. At the door, he said, "You're a good cop, Ben Sherman. I'm not going to let anybody fuck that up."
"Even me?" Ben said drily.
John's expression changed, from amusement to something harder for Ben to capture, and he answered, "Even me. Good night."
When the door closed behind him, Ben stuck his finger into his coffee and grimaced. It was stone cold. Too late to make another pot. Nothing left to do but swallow a handful of Advil and go to bed, where he would catalog all the ways this thing with John was a bad idea, all the things he'd done wrong in the field that day, all the lies he was going to tell Chloe and Olivia when they grilled him about John.
By morning, he could have those things wrapped up and shoved into their appropriate boxes, but one thing he couldn't compartmentalize was John Cooper. There wasn't going to be a box big enough for John.
He was still thinking about that in the morning, when the doorbell rang.
end
Southland, Cooper/Sherman, 4,228 words, adult
Summary: Not everything John Cooper does is by the book.
Notes: futurefic, of a sort; takes place once Ben's training is complete. Many thanks to troyswann and barkley for beta. Written for elishavah in Yuletide 2010. (There is an actual section 271 in the LAPD Manual, and you can read it here.)
Section 271
by Destina
All John said to Ben at the end of roll call was, "Watch yourself," but Ben had learned to decipher the Cooper Code, and what it really meant was your partner today is a real loser, buddy.
"Great," Ben muttered. He glanced across the room at Cunningham, who seemed friendly enough as he chatted up the watch commander. The guy had barely been assigned to the division five minutes, but Ben was date of the week. Every new shift was a round of speed dating, find the one you're most compatible with and try them out. So far, nothing was sticking at all, but that wasn't Ben's fault. It was Cooper's, for making most average cops suffer by comparison. Sometimes Ben caught himself watching his partner-of-the-moment and breaking down their imperfections, but it was John's cynical voice in his head.
FTO-itis, Chickie called it once - getting attached to your training officer. Ben was pretty sure that wasn't what it was, but there were some things it didn't pay to think about, so he tried not to. He tried instead to focus on the job. Just the job -- being a good cop. He was free and clear of his training, a full-fledged member of the LAPD.
Watch yourself.
That warning flashed through Ben's head about seven hours later when he was on the ground in a driveway, blood gushing from the cut on his head and gravel digging into his arms, sharp points of pain against the blur of the moment. Adrenaline flooded his system, narrowing his vision to the big hands of the huge, angry drug addict who was fixated on getting Ben's duty weapon out of his holster and killing him with it. His wife was screaming at them both at the top of her lungs. Fucking DV calls. He should have known.
Watch yourself. No other choice, when your partner is nowhere to be found as you're fighting for your life.
~~~
The nurses were flirty as hell as they picked and scraped gravel out of his elbows. Ben smiled automatically and tuned them out while they went about making him presentable. The doctor rattled off a list of minor injuries: cracked rib, sprained shoulder, couple stitches to his scalp, lots of bruising, bite mark -
"He bit me?" Ben looked up at that. He didn't remember being bitten. The idea of it sent a shiver down his spine. Who the hell could say what diseases that junkie was carrying, with all the dirty needles he'd probably used over the years.
"Uh...yes. Through your clothes, of course. Here, at the top of your shoulder." The doctor gestured, but didn't touch Ben. "He bit hard, which is why there's a deep bruise, but it doesn't appear he broke the skin. No need for bloodborne pathogens testing, or a course of treatment for..." The doctor trailed off and added quickly, "There was no path for saliva into your system. You weren't exposed."
"Oh. Good." Ben shrugged his shoulder experimentally, testing his aches and pains. His right arm hurt like a sonofabitch, but it could be worse. Much worse. Adrenaline was still working its way out of his system, and his fingertips trembled against his thighs. "I can go, then?"
"Yes. I'll write up the discharge papers and sign you out at the desk." The doctor shook his hand and smiled briefly. "Always hate to see you officers come in, but glad when you're not here long. You know what I mean."
Ben felt too tired even to attempt a smile, but he offered a lopsided version to the doctor anyway. "Thanks," he said. The doctor rattled the curtain around his exam table back into place, more or less, and Ben was alone with his thoughts.
Somewhere across the ER, he could hear a woman crying, hitched sobs and a word every now and then - David, and then, mijo. Distant sirens, too, probably bringing in more victims. Every siren was somebody's personal tragedy.
The tremors in his hands slowed. He rubbed his hands against his dusty pants legs, and noticed dried blood on the knees for the first time. Probably happened when they went to the ground, though he didn't remember the moment of impact. Bits and pieces of the incident were more vivid than others: the slow-motion moment when the husband's eyes dropped to Ben's weapon; the way the husband had shoved the wife aside and was on Ben in a split second; the abject terror of realizing Cunningham wasn't moving, and that Ben was on his own, that he had to keep his gun in its holster at all costs.
His clipboard was on the bed behind him, right where his lieutenant had set it down. Ben stared at it like his report might spontaneously begin writing itself, if he concentrated hard enough. The address had vanished from his memory, and he never did get the name of the victim - the wife. No idea what had happened to her, either.
Too many gaps to fill. He slid off the table and picked up all his equipment - belt, duty weapon, shirt, clipboard. There would be an officer outside to take him back for his bike. The report would have to wait.
The waiting room - really a corridor lined with mismatched plastic chairs - was mercifully empty. All the brass must have decided there wasn't really a big need for their political skills, and gone home to their pot roasts. Cunningham, too; nothing but a babbled apology through the curtain at Ben, and then he ran away to do his paperwork. Ben owed that chickenshit a rap in the mouth, but that would have to wait until he could actually swing his arm without doubling over in pain, so it was just as well.
The only person left in the hallway was John, his big frame perched on the edge of a tiny chair. Some part of Ben had known it would be John. Out of the cluster fuck that this night had been, the most memorable thing was John's voice, tight and controlled, talking to Cunningham while the EMTs had their way with Ben. Cooper only had four modes on the street: fake friendly, skeptical, concerned, or loaded for bear. The tone in his voice this time was something Ben hadn't heard before.
John was still in uniform, elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of him. Raw, bruised up hands. Ben wondered when that had happened. Who it had happened to.
When John looked up, Ben smiled at him. "You forgot you're not my babysitter anymore."
John stood up, reached to take the shirt and belt from Ben, who gave them over. It was a way of avoiding the look John was giving him, head to toe, stopping on every bandaged spot. Softly, John said, "I don't like it when people break my rookies."
"Not broken, actually. Also not a rookie anymore."
John juggled Ben's stuff to his right arm and fished out his keys. "You forget what I told you at start of shift?"
Ben's shoulders tightened, his body automatically bracing for the argument it was accustomed to having with John when he took that tone. It took a second or two for the logic circuits to kick in behind the flare of anger. Ben sighed. He was already second-guessing himself on getting into that situation; there was no difference between what he was doing, and what John was saying. John was just putting it out there, no bullshit, like always.
"My bike's at the station," is all Ben said, as they moved slowly toward the door.
John held his shirt up. "Maybe you should leave the bike ride for when you can actually put your own clothes on."
"You make a lousy mother."
"Very funny." John stopped Ben with a big hand on his chest. "Tomorrow, okay? I'll take you to pick it up tomorrow. It's not going anywhere."
That quiet tone was back in his voice. Ben met his eyes, then nodded. Truth be told, he didn't feel like the hassle of going back to the station and having ten conversations with other cops on the way. John got that already, of course.
Sometimes it bothered him that wherever he was going in his own head, Cooper was there first.
~~~
The ride home was long, and mercifully, John refrained from giving Ben the third-degree. There was a part of Ben that had expected to be interrogated the second he slid into the car, but he'd forgotten: not a trainee anymore. No debriefing. No need to justify anything to John at all.
Ben shifted position in the narrow seat. His legs felt too long and the space too small, like passengers were an afterthought. His pants leg caught on an unyielding piece of metal, and when he ducked his head, he could see the culprit. Under the dash, John had a mount for a police-style radio, but there was no radio, only the space John had made ready for it. Ben wondered whether the presence of the framework, or the absence of the radio, said more about John Cooper.
They'd been spending a lot of time together, off the clock. A barbecue at John's house, and an afternoon watching football at Ben's. A while back, Cooper had plans to introduce Ben to a dude named Cesar, but by the time Ben was off probation, Cesar wasn't in the picture anymore. At least, that's what Ben assumed. John never brought it up. It wasn't something they talked about.
Ben watched traffic out of the window for a while, and he said, "All the signs were there. I should've seen them."
"What signs? That some crazy psycho freak motherfucker was going to attack you? Junkies, man. I'd call 'em scum, but that'd be an insult to the stuff in the bathtub." John glanced sideways at him. "I've been jumped before, in case you don't remember. They don't always give you the cues."
"Not that," Ben said. He was quiet a moment, then: "Cunningham. The way he wanted to ride shotgun. How he picked cover instead of contact four times out of five. All the damn...war stories, I don't know. " He huffed a laugh. "He tells even more war stories than you."
"Hey, at least mine are true." Ahead of them, a light turned yellow, and John slowed down. "You've got good instincts," John said. "They're what make you the kind of cop you are. Usually you follow 'em. So why not tonight?"
Ben shrugged, then hissed. The pain had dulled down to an ache while he'd been sitting still, but it flared up again as soon as he jerked the muscle.
Cooper eyed him, as if making sure he wasn't going to puke on himself, and then said, "You realize, I invested a shitload of time into teaching you how not to die on the streets, right?
"Is this going to be the LAPD-can't-afford-to-lose-a-valuable-resource speech? Because that's a big cliché, man."
"No. This is the I-should-break-you-in-half-for-putting-yourself-in-that-position speech. You know better." He pulled into Ben's driveway and killed the engine. "You wanted to give Cunningham the benefit of the doubt, am I right?"
Ben realized his jaw was clenched and forced himself to relax. "Maybe I wanted you to be wrong about one of these guys I'm partnering with, for a change."
John snorted and shoved open his door. Ben worked the handle of the passenger door with his fingertips for a while until it gave, and then pushed the door open with his foot. From there it was easy to slide out and not move his arm. It didn't matter, though. His ribs were screaming in protest instead. John stood at the front of the car watching him, and when Ben was clear of the car, he said, "Keys?"
"There's a spare set in the garden, under the bench."
"Remind me to talk to you about the concept of home security." John disappeared around the corner and came back with the keys, shaking mud off them. He unlocked Ben's front door and moved aside so Ben could go past him.
Then he followed Ben in and closed the door. Ben hadn't really processed that before John said, "Want me to call that girlfriend of yours?"
"Not really seeing her anymore."
John played with the keys a moment, not looking at Ben, before setting them down on the kitchen table. Ben stood there in the middle of the room, blinking tiredly. Then he turned and started down the hall to the bathroom. "I'm going to shower."
"I'll make some coffee."
~~~
The hot water was finally starting to turn tepid when the phone rang the first time. Ben stood there under the spray and listened to it jangling from a distance. On the third ring, it stopped. John had probably picked it up. Might be Mom. The incident had probably been on the 11PM news. Considering that Ben had put the guy in the hospital with his head cracked open, there wasn't any way to tell what spin the media might put on it. He was used to Mom's midnight calls now. Ever since the shooting, any time his division made the news, his cell would predictably ring around end of shift.
Of course, his cell was smashed, so his silence would have worried her more.
The first hints of chill crept into the water, so he shut it off and stepped out to grab a towel. His hands were starting to ache. He'd gripped his gun so tightly, and then the baton he used on the suspect, he was surprised he hadn't snapped them in two. He wrapped a towel around himself and sat down on the bed.
Less than two years on the job, and he'd been involved in three shootings and several cases of serious injury.
He dressed quickly, black T-shirt and sweats. The smell of fresh coffee drew him back out to the kitchen, where he found John staring at the art on his wall, arms crossed over his undershirt. His uniform shirt hung neatly over the back of a dining room chair, but the shined shoes still would have given him away.
"Chickie called," John said, eyes narrowed as he examined the original Levine. "Said she was sorry she couldn't get to the hospital. Garbage calls."
"Just as well," Ben said, pouring a cup of coffee. He leaned a hip against the counter and said, "You an art critic now?"
Immediately, and predictably, John volunteered, "This is the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life. I think it's imprinted on my retinas." One eyebrow raised, he asked, "You pick this out yourself?"
Ben ducked his head to the side and smiled. Once again, on the mark. "Not that one, no. My mother."
"That explains it." John turned his back on it and picked up the beer he'd foraged from the fridge. "I like the photographs."
They were Ben's favorites, too. He'd been picking them out over the years, galleries, flea markets, price irrelevant. He liked the style of them, the silences contained in them.
He looked at John, at the deliberate way he was wandering around Ben's tiny house, and said, "You didn't have to stay. I've been hurt worse than this."
John's entire face darkened, and for a moment, Ben had a glimpse of the scary motherfucker John could be on the streets. Trauma was another of those topics they hadn't talked about. So far, Ben's childhood had stayed off limits, and John's family was similarly off the books. But Ben had already told John the important bits, and he knew enough about John to understand why he stayed.
John gave him an assessing look, then took a swallow of his beer and went back to prowling around the house. He stopped in front of a photo taken inside a cathedral, black and white, nothing but angles and arches, going straight up to the sky. He touched the frame, smoothing a fingertip down the glossy black metal. "So, how many commendations do you have now?" he asked, eyes locked on the photo.
"Does it matter?" Ben took a sip of coffee and watched his former partner. It was what he was familiar with, watching John. Day in, day out, the curve of his shoulder, the corner of his mouth pulled tight in anger or turned up in a smirk, the patch of skin half-visible at the hollow of his neck, or his hands on the wheel. A life observed in profile for almost two years, but now they were face to face, and the whole picture was coming clear.
"I heard you had offers from vice and narcotics, special squads, some others." Implied, but not said outright, was the fact that Ben hadn't told John about any of them, but John knew anyway.
Ben had his reasons, both for turning down the assignments, and for keeping it from John. He knew John thought he had great potential and wanted him to succeed in his career. It had been flattering to get those offers, to know he could write his own ticket.
But what kept him awake at night, what he thought about the most, were the calls with the women and kids, the ones where he was able to intervene, make a difference. Working right there in the trenches to help people when they need it most. The idea of sitting in a car conducting surveillance for hours on end, or waiting weeks to build a case on a pimp to get him off the streets...those things weren't for him. Not right now.
"I like patrol." Ben's hands were steady around the warm mug."Maybe you're just a bad influence on me."
"Oh, there's no doubt about that."
Before Ben could answer, the phone startled him, shrill and demanding. John turned away and slowly poured the rest of his beer out down the sink. Ben reached for the handset.
"Hello?"
"Oh my god, Ben, why the hell haven't you answered your phone? Chloe and I have been trying to call you for hours! Did you see that thing on the news? Were you there?"
"It's okay," Ben said automatically. Comforting a hysterical sister was like cruising on autopilot for him after all these years. "Yes, I was there."
"Are you hurt? Ben, I-"
"I'm fine," Ben said. "Everything is just fine. Okay? I have to go now, John is here." John, who was watching Ben again, arms folded, leaning against the sink.
"Oh," Olivia said. "Your partner, John?"
"Yeah."
"Well. That's good." There was a long pause, and it dawned on Ben that Olivia was working out the puzzle of why John was there at two in the morning. In that way, she was ahead of Ben.
Nothing he could say would un-dig that hole of assumptions, so he just added, "Really, I'm fine. I'll call you in the morning, okay? I'll explain everything then."
"All right. If you're sure you're not hurt." Ben heard a tiny worried quaver in Olivia's voice.
"I'm good. Let Mom and Chloe know that my cell isn't working. I'll get a new one tomorrow. Bye." He jammed the handset back in the cradle.
It was two in the morning, and John was still there, far away from his stash of booze and painkillers and his comfortable bed, and Ben was exhausted but not sleepy, wired and too much in tune with every nuance of the way John was watching him, how his eyes tracked Ben everywhere.
The tremors were back in Ben's hands, but John's watchful gaze wasn't to blame. If anything, Ben wanted to lean into it, let John soothe the ragged edges Ben was tired of concealing.
He cleared his throat. "My sister. I think maybe she took it wrong that you were here."
John nodded, looked down at the floor. Then back up at Ben, to say, "Did she?"
For a long moment, Ben looked at John, considering. Too many times in his life, he hadn't been the one to choose how or when the big events would play out. There was a slow burn of want in Ben's body, and it had been there for a long time, back before he'd known John well enough to tell whether or not he shared that same want.
There was really only one answer; John himself had said it once. "We live in the gray, right?" He tilted his chin up and smoothed his hands along the soft worn fabric of his sweatpants.
John stepped closer and rested a hand on Ben's arm, then slid it up to his shoulder. He dragged a gentle thumb over the bite-bruise throbbing at the juncture of Ben's neck and shoulder.
In turn, Ben reached out with one finger, traced it slowly over the purpling bruises on the knuckles of John's right hand, the shape of them curved around Cunningham's name as clearly as if John had told him their source.
John exhaled a long, slow breath, and then he said, "What the fuck are we doing?"
In point of fact, that was all Ben had been thinking about for the last few days. But before he could answer, John slid his hands up under Ben's T-shirt, warm palms flat against his bruised, damaged skin, and pulled him in. And then John's mouth was on his, decisive, nothing gray or tentative about the way he made his way in. Ben leaned in to him, caught his belt in both hands and yanked him closer, no halfway, nothing uncertain at all.
The sound John made went straight to Ben's dick, but just then, John broke off and took his hands off Ben. "Christ," John said, staring at him.
They stood there, breathing hard, and Ben forced himself to be still. He'd chosen. Now John had to choose. John didn't move away, just penned him there, hands grasping the counter, and bowed his head. Ben knew it for what it was: regaining control. Ben shifted position, let the length of his body brush against John's, just to hear his hissed sharp breath.
Strained, John said, "As your former training officer, I should tell you that section 271 of the manual says-"
Ben cut him off. "I know what the goddamned manual says. I'm not planning to call the Chief and tell him you've got your..."
Ben trailed off, startled by John pressing forward, a hand on his ass and his mouth next to Ben's ear. "Got my what?"
Ben shivered, and as that shiver worked its way down his body, it twitched every strained and sore muscle. "Damn," he said, wincing.
"This is not the right time for this conversation," John said. He straightened, and started to move away, but Ben caught him easily with two fingers slipped into the waistband of his trousers.
"Can we just...can there not be any more conversation?" Ben asked, a little desperately.
John chuckled. "I don't live quite that much in the gray." The way he was looking at Ben, there didn't seem to be much doubt about his intentions, and all kinds of things were running through Ben's head about lines and boundaries and other assorted stuff that usually kept him from getting laid. But John said, "I need sleep, and you need to rest, and then we can try round two. That good for you?"
"You're already here," Ben said.
"And I'm about to be gone." Almost as if to prove himself a liar, John stepped into his space again, and they were kissing, a subtle push and pull for control even in the way they touched each other.
This time, when John backed off, he put sufficient distance between them. He rounded the kitchen counter, picked up his shirt and shrugged it on, not bothering to button it. "You know,
I was entertaining the idea of not being an FTO anymore, just so you could have a decent partner. But now..."
"I know. We can't work together."
"...I was going to say, you're getting a decent partner either way." John grinned at him.
Under the force of that grin, Ben was having some difficulty remembering why John was leaving. "I'll find one, eventually."
"That's the spirit." John grabbed his keys. At the door, he said, "You're a good cop, Ben Sherman. I'm not going to let anybody fuck that up."
"Even me?" Ben said drily.
John's expression changed, from amusement to something harder for Ben to capture, and he answered, "Even me. Good night."
When the door closed behind him, Ben stuck his finger into his coffee and grimaced. It was stone cold. Too late to make another pot. Nothing left to do but swallow a handful of Advil and go to bed, where he would catalog all the ways this thing with John was a bad idea, all the things he'd done wrong in the field that day, all the lies he was going to tell Chloe and Olivia when they grilled him about John.
By morning, he could have those things wrapped up and shoved into their appropriate boxes, but one thing he couldn't compartmentalize was John Cooper. There wasn't going to be a box big enough for John.
He was still thinking about that in the morning, when the doorbell rang.
end