Southland Fic: john, he trains to sing the blues
note: I should really be in bed. But I love Southland and thought the finale was all sorts of brilliant; if you haven’t seen the show, watch it. It does not disappoint. I need icons too. Anyways, my foray into this.
john, he trains to sing the blues
the thing is, she’s always wanted to be a cop. a manual for desktop calendars - officer chickie brown has a lot of days. southland: post-finale fic. spoilers for derailed. 1,272 words, pg13.
-
The thing is, she's always wanted to be a cop.
A real good cop - the kind that actually does something, something tangible, and gets to come home at night and sleep it off to come back the next day, just 'cause she can do it again. And then, again.
She was eight then, skinned knees and pigtails.
-
"Mom. Mom."
Her kid's all hands at the hospital, wide-eyed and flushed as his fingers rush the cuts on her face. There are seventeen stitches cutting into her cheek, a break, and a few wrung into the bridge of her nose.
They tell her she’s gonna talk funny. She can't even imagine what she looks like to him. The neighbor ran him over here and he's still breathing funny, little huffs like he used to do when he was a baby. She’s trying to smile though as the nurse finishes checking her out, but it hurts like fuck to smile all the same.
"S'okay," she says softly. Her hands rise and curl around his wrists. They’re shaking, and she ignores it, "Really. I'm okay. Just a little banged up - I've been thinking about the ice cream we have at home. Still there?"
"Still there," he mumbles.
Behind him, the nurse smiles in pity. Her hands are throwing away the gauzes and dirty bandages, a few from the paramedics and the ride over here. They tell her Dewey's somewhere upstairs, waiting. She’s trying not to think about him. It should've been a new year's resolution. Again. She tries not to remember the car either.
She kisses her kid's forehead then, "Something to look forward to then."
-
There was a time where she didn't think about it all this way.
Dewey is Dewey. Dewey was Dewey.
He stuck by her when the assholes left her, buried back in a space of her closet. He’d come over in the morning, in wrinkles and smiling back his Jack, just for her. He was a good cop then. She had a baby crying upstairs, like clockwork and into tide phases.
Dewey would try and make her laugh. The baby too.
"You're too good, Chick," he'd say. "You're too damn good."
-
And she really is - a good cop.
She takes a week, a few days, and cleans her house from top to bottom, reorganizes frames and old boxes, and then breaks a sweat in the kitchen, making cookies for her kid. He’s off outside, surfing with his friends into the weekend. Housework gives her something to do.
But her house is corner of the beach, hidden in between wide palms and a neighborhood that has a dead end. A step into paradise, or something. This is all her money, some savings, and a little bit of practicality. She does well for herself, real well for them both. She loves her kid too fucking much. He’s a good kid. She hopes that he decides to become a teacher or something, something good in the right sort of way.
It’s the saying, she knows. Like father, like daughter. She’s a walking cliché, a cop's kid. Daddy’s little girl, just decked in her blues; he never wanted it for her, although, she's never been really sure. When she turned nine, she was already pouring Jack down the sink.
She has that kind of story. She hates it too.
-
The uniform feels a little rusty, and on a Tuesday.
She tries not to think about it though. She’s already been back a couple days and another round weeks. She’s got deskwork and a new car, a pending and transfer that walks her all the way down to the shrink's office, in some corner of the building. It’s a lady shrink, Cooper warns her, as if it matters. Sherman only smiles.
There was a detective shot, and he’s in critical condition; there’s a rumor about an affair. She tries to keep her head straight. She doesn’t need the shrink keeping her too long.
The office is nothing more than two windows and a battered desk, a woman behind it with a few pieces of paper that make her certifiable and department-bred. She’s on the phone when Chickie takes a seat in front of the desk. Everything is neatly pressed, her blouse to the photographs worked into the corner.
"Sorry," she says, hanging up. "My kids' school. Something about the flu."
Chickie shrugs and says nothing. Been here, done that. Dewey carries four major offenses, two before her and two with her. She knows how this is going to play. Lady shrinks, male shrinks - they're all the same, they all want to save the world and one cop at a time.
"You have kids, right?"
This is what shrinks do. Chickie plays. "Uh-uh. Just one - a boy."
She doesn't add. She doesn't look at the other woman either; the stare is familiar, somewhere between the PTA and the department barbeques. Singles come in all forms, parents to bachelors to exes. The parents get the most stares. Chickie knows this. So does the shrink.
"I got two. Two girls. Teenagers too - " the shrink plays with a file on the desk. Something about her, something about Dewey. They’re not a department secret. They never have been.
And that thought makes her pull back, between girls and teenagers. Her hands fold over her face, her fingers pressing into her stitches. She’s gotta go back to the doctor's sometime at the end of the week. One of her final check ups. It should be a joke. Shrinks don't get jokes.
"Teenagers," she says then. Her lips purse. Her voice is drawn tightly into a smile. "I remember being one."
-
She will spend a lot of time in the hospital parking lot, waiting. She tries not to hate Dewey. She should.
The job shows her a lot of addicts. She doesn’t see him.
She won’t go inside.
-
Sometime soon, Sherman does buy her a beer.
It's nowhere particular, a nameless city bar; they're the easiest to forget and remember, here and there like a desk calendar. He doesn't bring the motorcycle. She doesn't think about fucking him either. That's for retirement parties. And her stitches, they're still around anyway, waiting to fade a little faster.
She’s wearing jeans and trying not to think about her kid. She tries not to call him Ben. She wants to. Her fingers strangle the neck of her beer and Sherman's staring off to the side, paying no attention to the band at the front. They’re not any good. And after awhile, she thinks about telling him, all house bands become the same.
"How'd it go?"
"It went."
He nods, "That's the word."
She tries to smile, but doesn't. She thinks of Cooper and how he'd shake his head at the two of them. Chickie, he'd say. Sherman, he'd add. And somewhere, up there, there'd be a word to wisdom about how partners should just be partners and how intermingling is a fucking stupid idea.
Here they are. "It usually is," she says.
He presses his fingers into his bottle. She tries not to watch.
-
Listen, they don’t fuck. They really don’t.
She might want to and she doesn’t know if it’s important, if it should be and if she should fall into it anyway. Cooper’s gonna know, even if they did. She doesn’t know if she cares. She does it enough.
Her habits are too good. She has a kid.
It doesn't keep her sane enough.
-
There once was a first day.
Chickie was late.
“We’ll have a good day,” Dewey grins hard. He drinks anyway.
john, he trains to sing the blues
the thing is, she’s always wanted to be a cop. a manual for desktop calendars - officer chickie brown has a lot of days. southland: post-finale fic. spoilers for derailed. 1,272 words, pg13.
-
The thing is, she's always wanted to be a cop.
A real good cop - the kind that actually does something, something tangible, and gets to come home at night and sleep it off to come back the next day, just 'cause she can do it again. And then, again.
She was eight then, skinned knees and pigtails.
-
"Mom. Mom."
Her kid's all hands at the hospital, wide-eyed and flushed as his fingers rush the cuts on her face. There are seventeen stitches cutting into her cheek, a break, and a few wrung into the bridge of her nose.
They tell her she’s gonna talk funny. She can't even imagine what she looks like to him. The neighbor ran him over here and he's still breathing funny, little huffs like he used to do when he was a baby. She’s trying to smile though as the nurse finishes checking her out, but it hurts like fuck to smile all the same.
"S'okay," she says softly. Her hands rise and curl around his wrists. They’re shaking, and she ignores it, "Really. I'm okay. Just a little banged up - I've been thinking about the ice cream we have at home. Still there?"
"Still there," he mumbles.
Behind him, the nurse smiles in pity. Her hands are throwing away the gauzes and dirty bandages, a few from the paramedics and the ride over here. They tell her Dewey's somewhere upstairs, waiting. She’s trying not to think about him. It should've been a new year's resolution. Again. She tries not to remember the car either.
She kisses her kid's forehead then, "Something to look forward to then."
-
There was a time where she didn't think about it all this way.
Dewey is Dewey. Dewey was Dewey.
He stuck by her when the assholes left her, buried back in a space of her closet. He’d come over in the morning, in wrinkles and smiling back his Jack, just for her. He was a good cop then. She had a baby crying upstairs, like clockwork and into tide phases.
Dewey would try and make her laugh. The baby too.
"You're too good, Chick," he'd say. "You're too damn good."
-
And she really is - a good cop.
She takes a week, a few days, and cleans her house from top to bottom, reorganizes frames and old boxes, and then breaks a sweat in the kitchen, making cookies for her kid. He’s off outside, surfing with his friends into the weekend. Housework gives her something to do.
But her house is corner of the beach, hidden in between wide palms and a neighborhood that has a dead end. A step into paradise, or something. This is all her money, some savings, and a little bit of practicality. She does well for herself, real well for them both. She loves her kid too fucking much. He’s a good kid. She hopes that he decides to become a teacher or something, something good in the right sort of way.
It’s the saying, she knows. Like father, like daughter. She’s a walking cliché, a cop's kid. Daddy’s little girl, just decked in her blues; he never wanted it for her, although, she's never been really sure. When she turned nine, she was already pouring Jack down the sink.
She has that kind of story. She hates it too.
-
The uniform feels a little rusty, and on a Tuesday.
She tries not to think about it though. She’s already been back a couple days and another round weeks. She’s got deskwork and a new car, a pending and transfer that walks her all the way down to the shrink's office, in some corner of the building. It’s a lady shrink, Cooper warns her, as if it matters. Sherman only smiles.
There was a detective shot, and he’s in critical condition; there’s a rumor about an affair. She tries to keep her head straight. She doesn’t need the shrink keeping her too long.
The office is nothing more than two windows and a battered desk, a woman behind it with a few pieces of paper that make her certifiable and department-bred. She’s on the phone when Chickie takes a seat in front of the desk. Everything is neatly pressed, her blouse to the photographs worked into the corner.
"Sorry," she says, hanging up. "My kids' school. Something about the flu."
Chickie shrugs and says nothing. Been here, done that. Dewey carries four major offenses, two before her and two with her. She knows how this is going to play. Lady shrinks, male shrinks - they're all the same, they all want to save the world and one cop at a time.
"You have kids, right?"
This is what shrinks do. Chickie plays. "Uh-uh. Just one - a boy."
She doesn't add. She doesn't look at the other woman either; the stare is familiar, somewhere between the PTA and the department barbeques. Singles come in all forms, parents to bachelors to exes. The parents get the most stares. Chickie knows this. So does the shrink.
"I got two. Two girls. Teenagers too - " the shrink plays with a file on the desk. Something about her, something about Dewey. They’re not a department secret. They never have been.
And that thought makes her pull back, between girls and teenagers. Her hands fold over her face, her fingers pressing into her stitches. She’s gotta go back to the doctor's sometime at the end of the week. One of her final check ups. It should be a joke. Shrinks don't get jokes.
"Teenagers," she says then. Her lips purse. Her voice is drawn tightly into a smile. "I remember being one."
-
She will spend a lot of time in the hospital parking lot, waiting. She tries not to hate Dewey. She should.
The job shows her a lot of addicts. She doesn’t see him.
She won’t go inside.
-
Sometime soon, Sherman does buy her a beer.
It's nowhere particular, a nameless city bar; they're the easiest to forget and remember, here and there like a desk calendar. He doesn't bring the motorcycle. She doesn't think about fucking him either. That's for retirement parties. And her stitches, they're still around anyway, waiting to fade a little faster.
She’s wearing jeans and trying not to think about her kid. She tries not to call him Ben. She wants to. Her fingers strangle the neck of her beer and Sherman's staring off to the side, paying no attention to the band at the front. They’re not any good. And after awhile, she thinks about telling him, all house bands become the same.
"How'd it go?"
"It went."
He nods, "That's the word."
She tries to smile, but doesn't. She thinks of Cooper and how he'd shake his head at the two of them. Chickie, he'd say. Sherman, he'd add. And somewhere, up there, there'd be a word to wisdom about how partners should just be partners and how intermingling is a fucking stupid idea.
Here they are. "It usually is," she says.
He presses his fingers into his bottle. She tries not to watch.
-
Listen, they don’t fuck. They really don’t.
She might want to and she doesn’t know if it’s important, if it should be and if she should fall into it anyway. Cooper’s gonna know, even if they did. She doesn’t know if she cares. She does it enough.
Her habits are too good. She has a kid.
It doesn't keep her sane enough.
-
There once was a first day.
Chickie was late.
“We’ll have a good day,” Dewey grins hard. He drinks anyway.