Southland - Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro… - (Cooper/Ben, NC-17, 2/4)
Part I
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
When L.A. is beautiful, there's not much that can beat it, and right at dusk with all her bright lights and neon signs, there's nothing quite as beautiful at 75 miles at hour.
John's driving home on the 101 South after dropping Sherman off, past the exit for the Hollywood Bowl and the huge neon signs for the Knickerboxer and Patron Tequila. From the speakers, Bruce is crooning 'I'm on Fire' which is strangely inappropriate and has John punching fast forward until he gets to 'Glory Days.'
Cesar always gives him shit when he gets on his blue collar soap box, but it's not a box, it's just life. John was born to working class parents - even criminals have to pay the mortgage - and there's nothing middle class about being a cop.
He's on the other side of 40 now, and it's pretty fucking late for him to be trying to figure out his life again. Ben Sherman, though, he's 23. He's so new, he still has that new car smell. He hasn't even figured out his life for the first time.
John gets off at Gower and takes the long way home. Down Sunset, across Vermont, through Los Feliz with its bourgeoisie college artists and Silverlake with its hipster, B-List stars. Echo Park doesn't have pretension. It just has itself.
The street is mostly quiet and mostly dark by the time John gets home. The Martinez twins are playing in their driveway and Paul Campbell is walking his family dog. Otherwise, lights are on and everybody's probably having dinner.
John parks Amy in the driveway, gets the mail and goes in the house. It's warm inside, stifling, and John opens a few windows to let in the air. He stands in the kitchen, listening to Mrs. Johnston's wind chimes tinkling next door, while he flips through the bills.
He tosses the junk mail in the trash and the bills on the dresser of the dish cupboard. He'll deal with those on Sunday. He feels restless, like he needs to do something. His back twinges meaningfully, and he thinks about the business card that Sherman gave him.
He'd rather have a beer instead, and he's just popping the cap on a bottle of Bud when the door bell rings. John sighs. The neighborhood has decided that Officer Cooper is in.
John sets the beer down on the kitchen table and walks back into the living room. He pauses with his hand on the knob, rolls back his shoulders and then opens the door.
Ben Sherman's on the other side of his security gate.
John's brain immediately fires up, preparing for god only knows what. He keeps himself calm, unlocks the door and pushes it open. "You get lost?" he asks dryly.
Sherman just stares.
"Boo, you okay? Something wrong with your stitches?" John can feel his forehead furrowing.
"No," Sherman says. "I just -- I forgot something."
"You forgot something." It's John's turn to stare in disbelief. "And it couldn't wait until tomorrow?"
Sherman shakes his head. "Not really." He pauses before brushing past John and stepping inside. "No."
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" John demands, closing the door behind him. Sherman's really starting to worry him. His cheeks are pink, eyes wide. If it were somebody else, John would think he was high. But John just left Sherman at home, and he was fine. Well, mostly fine.
And then Sherman reaches out, and it's like slow motion the way his fingers curl into John's shirt and tug him forward. John can see himself walking forward, one step and then another, and then Sherman's head is tilting upwards, his lips parting and his entire body moving into John's personal space until he's kissing him.
John's freezes.
Sherman's mouth is soft, persistent. His tongue flickers along the seam of John's lips, and then John opens his mouth to breathe and he's kissing Sherman back.
It's a little desperate and a lot filthy, their tongues flickering against each other. Sherman's hand slides up his chest and curls around the back of his neck, kissing him deeper, harder. He kisses the corner of John's mouth, his chin, his jaw, his neck. His body presses against John's in all kinds of interesting places: hip, chest, groin.
John starts to see stars. He has to pull away to breathe.
Sherman follows, panting against his jaw, and then John's shoving him against the wall, hard. Something falls somewhere, and John looks down at Ben Sherman with his wet, puffy mouth and his lidded eyes and John's hand splayed over his chest. Sherman's heart is beating like he's been on one of his foot chases, and John steps into him, wedging a thigh between Sherman's spread legs before kissing him again. Once, twice, fleeting kisses at the corner of Sherman's mouth and sharp bites at those full lips.
Sherman makes this pornographic noise, and John slides one hand into his hair and holds Sherman's head steady while he fucks Sherman’s mouth with his tongue.
It's dirty and shameless, and it's so good John doesn't want to stop. Ever. Sherman's hands slide down his chest, around his waist and into his back pockets, pulling John forward and down as Sherman dry humps John's leg.
John has no idea why it's called dry humping, because his cock is pressing against the front of his jeans desperately and he can feel the dampness; Sherman's mouth is so wet, he's anything but dry.
John's hands slide down Sherman's spine, feeling the tight muscles in his back. He cups his ass and lifts Sherman just that little bit so that he's really fucking himself against John's thigh now.
Sherman grabs at John's hair, nails scraping his scalp, and John pulls away, his mouth against Sherman's ear. "You like that?" John asks, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.
Sherman makes a guttural noise, rolling his hips against John and mouthing at his throat. "What?" John prompts.
Sherman's "yes" is sibilant, teeth and tongue, and John might even have a fucking hickey tomorrow. Sherman's not just grinding, he's bouncing now. He has to be so close. John's not quite there yet, the joys of not being 20 anymore.
The thought makes John smile a lot more than it should.
It helps that Sherman's making noises like a sixteen year-old getting off for the first time. It's hot and sinful, and John wants more.
He lets go of Sherman and steps back. Sherman wobbles a little bit when he stands on his own.
When John's rubs his knuckles against the bulge in Sherman's jeans, his hips thrust forward. "You want me to touch you?" John asks, listening to the hitch in Sherman's breathing when the backs of John's fingers trail up and down the length.
Sherman's breathing is hard, labored. "Yes. Please."
John looks up at the swollen, red mouth and the flushed cheeks. It would be so easy to keep going. To pop the button on Sherman's jeans, slide his hand under the waistband of his underwear, wrap his hand around Sherman's cock. He could slide his hand down the back of Sherman's boxers, spread him open and finger that perfect ass. John could jerk Sherman off until he comes all over John's hand.
He might lick it off his fingers afterwards.
He might have Sherman lick it off instead.
But that's not going to happen.
Not now. Not tonight. Not... his brain doesn't supply the 'not ever.'
"No," he says, pulling his hand away sharply.
Sherman's mouth drops open. "No?!"
"You should go."
Sherman's face goes through a litany of everything from disbelief to anger. John's never seen him like this, and then he realizes why: Sherman's dropped his guard. He's so easy to read now: disassembled and wanting. Most of the time figuring out Sherman is like trying to find fault with a pane of glass. But this… oh, this is very different.
This is interesting.
"We have work tomorrow." John says dismissively, curling his fingers into a loose fist to keep from going back to where they strayed. "You'll pop your stitches."
"My stitches?" Sherman's radiating disappointment and frustration. John can feel it oozing into the space between them and seeping into his clothes. His cock twitches in confusion. "That's bullshit!" Sherman explodes.
John just shakes his head and takes another step away. "We'll get dinner tomorrow night or something," he says, his tone leaving little room for debate as he steps around 160 pounds of hot skin and dark eyes and opens his front door.
"You were leaving," John prompts.
There's something suspiciously caught between a pout and defiance on Sherman's lips, and John could make it go away with his mouth. Or his cock. God, John could bend Ben Sherman over the back of his sofa right now, push his jeans down around his ankles and make everything okay for Sherman for twenty minutes. And it would be so good. That perfect ass and that beautiful mouth. John has no doubt that fucking Sherman could vastly improve his life for a little while.
But that's not in his job description. He thinks he would've noticed that.
Yes, Sherman drove all the way from Coldwater Canyon to Echo Park, which is like commuting from D.C. to New York for the rest of the world, but it would never pay to encourage this sort of behavior.
Okay, that's a lie, too.
"Sherman." John gives the name a slight lilt. It's an order he's framing like a suggestion. It won't happen twice.
The look Sherman gives him is all hurt. "You could call me Ben," he says, stopping in the doorway. "It wouldn’t kill you."
John's grin has so many teeth he wishes someone would take a picture. He runs his tongue over his canines, and Sherman's eyes go just that little bit wider.
"Ben." John says the name as though he's trying it on for size, and the way Sherman's face softens doesn't hurt either. John licks his lips, just to fuck with him, and then he points to the street. "Get out."
John wakes up early the next morning with a smile on his face. It's so lame. He's still grinning when his back twinges as he gets out of bed and when his knee complains in the shower. The skin near his mouth is a little tight... like he has fucking stubble burn. He pulls on his uniform, grabs his wallet and a business card falls out of the folds.
The card for Dr. Peter Donaldson, Orthopedic Specialist is dirty at the edges, frayed. John doesn't even remember putting it in his wallet. He doesn't have to do this; his back could get better on its own, but it's been years now and faith is thin on the ground with him.
He finds himself opening his cell phone and dialing anyway.
Sherman is already waiting by the squad car when John comes out of the precinct. He jumps up automatically when he sees John, and John shakes his head. He really can't condone this sort of behavior. He can't be the cause of the enormous smile on Sherman's face - Ben's. His name is Ben.
But that smile on his face, the way he gets in the car and gives John those nervous glances. There are a multitude of reasons this is all bad, the most glaring being that he's Ben's training officer.
And Ben's too young.
And he dates girls.
And he's probably confused.
And John's 40.
And he has a bad back.
And he's not confused anymore.
And he's not going to be able to do all that acrobatic sex that Ben's going to want. Deserve.
God, John can just imagine the kind of acrobatic sex that Ben Sherman deserves. Blowjobs in the back of the squad car. Being fucked behind dumpsters while he calls John's name. Riding John's fingers under the lemon tree in Ben's backyard.
"JOHN!" John slams on the brakes just in time to avoid rear-ending the Escalade waiting at the red light. It's a very close call.
He looks down at Ben's hand on his arm and back up at Ben. All the color is gone from his face, making his eyes look even bluer. "You okay?" Ben says, his thumb rubbing John's forearm.
John laughs hollowly and looks up at the roof of the car. "No," he admits. "Not even a little bit."
Ben pulls his hand away; John can sense him retreating to his side of the car. He sighs to himself and pulls over to the side of the road underneath a series of jacaranda trees. They've made it approximately three miles from work and been on duty fifteen minutes. At the most.
They sit in silence, traffic passing them by in a blur of white noise. "Last night never happened," Ben says quietly. "That's what you're going to say, isn't it?"
"That's what I'm supposed to say," John admits.
"What do you want to say?"
John looks over at the wary hopefulness Ben's trying to contain. "Since when do you like men?"
"Since I met you."
There's that sinking feeling in John's gut. He hates that feeling. "I'm your first."
"Didn't you get the memo?" Ben quips. "My generation doesn't believe in sexuality: we believe you like who you like. The rest of it is just details."
"Don't give me that Oprah bullshit."
"Mrs. Ramirez watches Oprah, I don't."
"I'm not your experiment," John says flatly.
"I'm not experimenting. You're not the first guy I've kissed."
That probably shouldn't annoy John as much as it does. "I'm 40."
"And you’re my training officer."
John leans back on the headrest and focuses on his sun visor. "Now that you mention it…"
"You won't be training me forever," Ben says.
"That's fine for later," John says. "This is now."
"I want you," Ben says quietly. "Now."
It's such a simple, terrifyingly honest admission that John's entire chest goes cold. "How long?"
"Months."
John's at a loss. "I don't -- what do you get out of this?" he says, turning to look at Ben, whose mouth twitches at him as though he's being slow. Which he is, but at least he's admitting it.
"You," Ben says.
That rushing in John's ears is possibly the beginnings of a heart attack. "Fuck," he breathes. He hasn't been wanted - felt wanted in a long time. He can feel that here. Now.
Ben bites his bottom lip. "You didn't say 'no,'" he points out.
"Yeah," John sighs. "I know."
The shift is so strange that John decides to just forget the whole thing happened. He honestly doesn't remember the first half of it because he was too busy replaying the conversation he'd had with Sherman - Ben -- and how he quite possibly just decided that he wouldn't toss away his career to get surgery on his back, but he might consider it for a really nice piece of ass.
And then the second half was full of winos and petty thefts, and petty thefts by winos. And in the background of everything was Ben looking at him, which aggravated him, or Ben not looking at him, which apparently aggravated him even more.
The minute he's out of uniform and out of the precinct he calls Cesar. "You want to get a drink tonight?"
There's a long pause down the line.
"Who's this?"
John scowls down at his boots. "What do you mean 'who's this', asshole?"
There's another pause and then Cesar laughs. "Cooper, you're coming out to play on a weeknight. On any night? My god, I can't wait to hear about this one."
"Fuck you," John says. "I'll see you at seven-thirty."
Cesar is still chuckling when John hangs up. When he turns around to walk to the car, Ben's standing five feet away, disappointment writ clear before it all goes back behind the stoic mask. John hates the stoic mask.
Ben rallies with a rueful smile. "I thought you only talked to me like that."
"How do you know that wasn't a voice mail for you?" John says. He laughs when Ben pulls out his phone to check. "It's not," he confesses, "but it could've been."
Ben closes the top on his phone. "So, you're going out tonight?"
John shrugs. "Yeah, I've got a friend I've been neglecting lately."
"Oh." John can see the resignation on Ben's face. "So, I'll, uh, I'll see you on Friday then?"
"I was thinking we could hang out tomorrow," John says casually. It's their day off. "I could come by in the afternoon, if you want."
Ben's smile is so tentative that John almost kicks himself. "Yeah," he says. "We could do that."
Four double shots in, Cesar's still laughing.
He'd taken one look at John's face when he walked into the bar and ordered double shots of tequila. John had knocked back his first shot before he'd even settled on his stool. Then he ordered another shot and announced that he'd met someone. Then he ordered another and announced that that someone also happened to be his 23 year-old trainee with a body like Adonis and a mouth like a trained whore.
Cesar stops him with the fourth shot midway to his mouth.
"You really like him," Cesar says in awe.
John shrugs.
"A lot," Cesar translates.
"It's fucked up," is all John will concede.
"Are you gonna quit?"
John gives Cesar a glare and does the fourth shot.
"Is he gonna quit?" Cesar prods.
"He's a fucked up kid who's never had anything stable in his entire life; now he's got the force. "
"Sounds familiar."
"Shut up," John says.
The tequila is finally starting to seep in.
He stares at the mirror on the wall, looking at Cesar's reflection watching him. "How serious are you?" Cesar asks eventually.
John takes the beer Cesar's been nursing and swallows down about a quarter.
"Hmmm," Cesar says as John hands back the bottle. "How serious is he?"
John belches.
Cesar pats John on the shoulder. "Well, it's always good to have you talk about your feelings, dude."
John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "This is a disaster."
"Hey, if it were easy, everybody would be doing it," Cesar says.
John just waves the bartender over to order another round.
Evolution is a bitch.
John has a 7:30 a.m. appointment in Beverly Hills with Dr. Peter Donaldson. He leaves the house at 6:30 in the morning and arrives at 7000 Wilshire Boulevard by 7:13 a.m. L.A. traffic is a lot more manageable when most people are still asleep. In this instance 'manageable' means that John only wants to punch someone in the head every 4 minutes instead of every 2.
John sits in his car in the parking lot trying to figure out what the hell he's doing and if he's ruining everything. He can't afford surgery. He can't even afford intensive therapy. Everything he does has to be done through the union. He can't pay this out of pocket.
There's no reason for him to be wasting his time like this, but when he called and the assistant heard his name, she'd put him directly through to Dr. Donaldson, who'd said he could see him before he went to surgery at Cedars-Sinai. That he would make time for John because Ben had asked. The doctor had assured him that it was just a consult, that it didn't cost anything, that they were just meeting. How hard could a meeting be?
John's still sitting in his car at 7:31 a.m. -- but it's always better to know. You can't fix it until you know what the problem is and fear of the unknown will kill you.
He nearly breaks the door handle getting out of the car.
John pegs Donaldson the minute he walks into the waiting room, introduces himself and extends his hand for John to shake. He's tall, very tall. Probably on the other side of 6'2". He looks good, whatever his age is. Maybe forty, maybe fifty. There's nothing soft on him, the cropped cut of his brown hair shot through with gray, the square of his shoulders.
He's former military. The only question is which branch.
John follows the doctor into his office. Large, efficient, not ostentatious by any means. There are diplomas on the wall. Neatly spaced, perfectly hung. But they're interspersed with photos of large groups of people. Not family. Well, not the kind that share the same blood, but the kind that are forged in blood.
"Navy? Marines?" Donaldson says gesturing for John to take a seat in the guest chair on the other side of his desk.
"Always a Marine," John says, sitting down slowly. His back has twisted itself into all new positions of pain in the last few hours. John didn't sleep well last night. Too keyed up. Too ready for battle. Too worried.
"Navy," Donaldson says conversationally. "Did some time with the SEALS. Miss it every day. You?"
Navy SEALS. Oh, this is the guy who taught Sherman the Sleeper Hold. Camp his ass.
John chuckles. He thinks of surviving on crap food, little sleep and people yelling at him all day. "Marine grunt. It's like what I do now, only now with better pay. But yeah," he says, thinking of his friends back in division. "Yeah, sometimes I miss it."
Donaldson nods. "So, do you want to tell me why you're here… or do you want me to tell you why I think you're here?"
"No bullshit, huh?" John says with a wry smile.
"You want bullshit, go see an Army man," Donaldson says. "You want it done right, you'll see me."
John nods.
"How long?" Donaldson asks.
"How long…" Oh, how long has it been like this. John has to think. "Years."
"Too long," Donaldson says mildly.
"I can't afford you," John says. He's not going to get his hopes up. He won't take anybody's charity.
Donaldson shakes his head. "Son, Ben's never asked me for anything a day in his goddamn life. He wanted me to see you; so now I've got to fix you."
John opens his mouth and Donaldson holds up his hand. "I do work for the VA in Westwood all the time. Consider this me doing my duty for my country."
John can feel the bulldog expression on his face. The desire to fight about it. To not take anything from anyone. "I know what you're gonna say," Donaldson presses, "but you're out there protecting this city. Protecting my ex-wife, my two kids and Ben. Your country owes you this, so if some of my better-off clients are footing the bill? Let'em."
The blue collar man getting one over on the white collar man. John knows this line of thinking. Everybody who has ever served their country and gotten paid in pennies and dimes and missing body parts and lost friends knows this line of thinking.
He thinks about this and then nods. "Okay."
John parks at the bottom of the driveway and walks up. There's music playing that gets louder the closer he gets to the house. It's not John's kind of music, it's a little too bitchy hipster, but John can see Ben lying on his back under the belly of his motorcycle, tools scattered around him, and if his off-key singing is anything to go by, it works for him.
"Spending quality time together," John observes, walking around to where Ben's head is resting on the pavement. Sherman -- Ben grins up at him broadly. He's got grease and dirt smeared on his face.
"Hey," he says, scooting out from underneath the bike. "You made it."
"I said I was coming," John says, his eyes sweeping over Ben Sherman in all his sleeveless shirt and ragged jeans glory. He has dirty pool written all over him.
Hell, he's even managed to get dirt on the bandage covering his stitches.
"Yeah, you did," Ben agrees.
The music changes from country-ish to Motown. John smiles at the strains of Stevie Wonder. "Now this is more like it," he says.
"You like Motown?" Ben says, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.
John laughs. "You're just spreading the dirt around now."
A muscle in Ben's jaw twitches. "That's what happens when people work, they get dirty."
John nods vaguely. "So, did you invite me over to watch you work or are you going to feed me?"
"Ah," Ben says, crouching down and gathering up his tools. "You're only here for the food."
John chuckles. "Something like that," he says, watching Ben walk into the garage. There're sweat stains on the back of his shirt. He's been outside a while.
John inhales deeply; he's feeling a little light-headed. Ben has a lot of skin on display and John's been at the doctor's for a while getting evaluated. "John?"
John shakes his head. "Yeah?"
Ben's standing in the garage, watching him quizzically. "You coming?"
"Did you call 911?"
Ben looks confused and then he scoffs. "Call 911 and make a cop come. Cute."
"You started it," John says, following Ben into the house.
Five feet inside the kitchen, Ben pulls his shirt off, leaving John with a generous view of tan skin, broad back muscles and dirty arms. "I'm going to take a shower," Ben tosses over his shoulder. "Help yourself."
John swallows. "Did you make me a cake again?" he hollers after Ben.
"You wish," Ben calls back.
John makes a snorting noise. He wouldn't mind another homemade chocolate cake with vanilla icing. He doesn't know anybody who would. Instead he busies himself by grabbing a beer out of Ben's refrigerator and flipping through a few magazines on the counter: Architectural Digest, Newsweek, American Motorcycle.
Eventually, he migrates to the living room where he turns on the TV and kicks his shoes under the coffee table. There's a Law & Order marathon on TNT, an NCIS marathon on USA and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on TCM.
John first saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with his mom at the dollar movie theatre when he was 14. Watching Paul Newman in black and white was John's first inkling that perhaps he wasn't quite as into girls as he could've been. John watched Paul hobble around on his crutches, railing at Elizabeth Taylor and drinking himself into a depression.
He didn't realize until years later that the reason Paul's character was so distraught was that he'd been in love with his best friend - a guy. His friend had killed himself when Elizabeth Taylor found out they were lovers.
It was just subtle enough to go over his head until he realized what the hell was going on with himself.
He settles himself on the sofa, watching the movie and nursing his beer. After an indeterminate amount of time the sofa shifts with additional weight and John looks over at Ben beside him.
Ben's hair is damp, and he's wearing a faded tee shirt and sweatpants. He smells good. Like apples and soap. His thigh is pressed firmly against John's, and there are holes in his sleeves.
John pokes his index finger through an errant hole, stroking Ben's bicep lightly.
When Ben looks up at him, he's clearly amused. "I know there's a hole there."
"I'm making it bigger," John says. His finger keeps stroking all on its own.
Ben licks his lips and leans in, John pulls back just that little bit, making Ben lean in more. Work that bit harder.
"I thought we were having lunch," he teases.
Ben's eyes narrow. "Shut up," he says, climbing on top of John and straddling his hips.
John's hands move away from Ben's arms and migrate to Ben's ass. He can feel the muscles underneath the cotton sweatpants, moving, shifting, pushing back against John's hands. Ben leans in, breathing on him, licking his lips again.
"You want me to shut up?" he says, as Ben brushes his mouth against John's own.
"Fuck yes," Ben breathes before diving in, his mouth warm and welcoming. He licks his way inside John's mouth, stroking, sucking on John's tongue. His kisses taste like toothpaste and faintly of coffee, and he wraps his hands around the back of John's neck as he grinds down on his lap like one of those girls from MTV videos.
Ben kisses like he's going into battle, hard and rough, and then pulling away to dive back in. He's fast and his teeth are sharp, and John has to move one hand away from Ben's very firm ass to take hold of his chin and keep him still.
"Slow down," John orders, even as Ben's hips keep moving. It's very hard to focus when he's got Ben humping his lap and yanking at his shirt. He can hear the ripping of buttons and cotton. He didn't really like this shirt too much anyway. It was just one he thought he looked good in.
Ben's eyes sweep over his face with just the slightest trace of anxiety; his body clearly doesn't care.
"I'm not going anywhere," John says.
Ben's entire face softens and his body stills.
He looks at John for several seconds and then he nods. "Okay."
John's hand slides to the nape of Ben's neck. "C'mere," he says, pulling Ben back in. This kiss is a lot less aggressive and a lot more filthy. It's wet and slick and they spend long minutes just enjoying it, the slide of tongues, the press of lips.
Ben goes back to work on John's shirt, unbuttoning until his hands are sliding over John's bare skin, his thumbs teasing John's nipples. John grunts against Ben's mouth, swallowing down his noises until Ben pulls away and mouths along the side of his throat, making these little soft moans.
He's rutting against John perfectly. His ass pressing down on John's cock, rubbing his dick against John's stomach. John pulls on Ben's hair, kisses him again. He can feel Ben's cock poking him through the thin sweatpants and when he pulls away from Ben's mouth, he can look down and see the strain against the cotton. See the damp spot near the waistband.
No underwear. Nice.
He runs the tip of his thumb along Ben's erection, and Ben whimpers. He does it again, and Ben wraps an arm around John's neck and rolls his hips into the touch.
John's left hand slips underneath Ben's shirt and strokes the bare skin at the base of his spine.
"C'mon," he says as Ben breathes through his mouth. "You're so close, aren't you?"
Ben grunts.
"I know you are," John coaxes, using the edge of his thumbnail. "C'mon, Ben."
Ben makes this choking sound and then he shudders against John, his fingers digging into John's skin as he comes in his pants.
Well, that didn't take long, but fuck it was hot.
Ah, 23.
John strokes Ben through it, feeling him relax in his arms. He would laugh, because really, that's quite a trigger, but then Ben's moving away, yanking off his shirt and sliding off the sofa and onto his knees on the floor.
"Ben."
"Stand up," Ben says sharply, and John finds himself getting to his feet automatically. If a little gradually.
Kneeling before him, Ben deftly unzips John's jeans and pulls them down to the floor. He slides his palms up John's thighs before his hands busy themselves rubbing John's erection through his briefs.
John's brain has a thought that Ben giving orders might lead down a bad road of insurrection and insubordination, but he'll man up just for the occasion. And then Ben leans in and nuzzles John's cock through the cotton, his tongue licking a long stripe up the length and John's hands clench beside his body.
Ben mouths at John's cock more, spitting on the cotton, getting it damp and then sucking at the wet spot where the head of John's cock is. John grunts, ghosting a hand over the back of Ben's skull, his fingers lightly brushing the soft hair.
Ben's skull fits perfectly in the palm of John's hand as Ben hooks his thumbs into the waistband of John's briefs and pulls them all the way down to pool around his ankles.
When Ben shifts on his knees, John can see how shallow his breathing is, and then he wraps his hand around John's cock and John can't see much of anything except the way Ben mouths at his cock enthusiastically, his tongue moving obscenely over the head, licking at the underside. It's not just the sight, it's the feel, and it's not just the feel, it's the sound.
Ben's loud, and noisy, and so very messy when he goes down on John, sucking lewdly until he goes too far and gags. John makes a noise when Ben pulls back, strands of saliva trailing from John's cock to his mouth as he looks up at John expectantly.
"You don't have to do this," John says. His voice sounds unsteady, even to him.
Ben's "I want to" is so guttural that John feels it in his stomach. His hand shakes a little when he rubs his thumb over Ben's slick mouth, and then his hand is back on Ben's head, urging him on. "Do it then."
Ben sucks him down, his head bobbing back and forth, his cheeks hollowing dramatically. If Ben was honest - which John knows he was - and John's the first guy Ben's been with - which is a little scary - then John's gotten sickeningly lucky.
John can feel the spit and the precome sliding between his legs, behind his balls, and then Ben's mouth is gone, and he's just rubbing his lips along the length. John's head falls back when Ben's sucks one of his balls and then the other into the wet heat of the mouth.
Porn star mouth doesn't cover it because the noises Ben's making are without reservation or pretense, the slurping and sucking, the way his hand curls around John's hip pulling him closer. There are sticky fingertips behind John's balls, stroking, exploring the crease of his ass. He grunts in approval of Ben's initiative.
John can't stop looking and then he can't keep from looking away. It's too much, too good. His hand tightens on the back of Ben's head, and Ben makes an approving moan. John thrusts his hips forward just that bit more, and Ben makes another noise. And then John realizes what Ben wants.
John's hips do it of their own accord, fucking Ben's mouth as he holds him still. But the sight of those flushed cheeks and full, slick lips wrapped around his cock is just too much to watch for any length of time. He tries to say something, to push Ben away, but Ben's fingernails dig into the skin of John’s thighs, and far too soon John's coming hard enough to have to sit down.
He collapses back on the sofa, panting up at Ben's high ceilings. He reaches out blindly and pulls Ben back on top of him.
Ben's cheeks and chin are wet with spit and come. He looks completely fucked out -- at least that's what John's assuming until Ben kisses him with something that could only be called serious intent. He can taste himself on Ben's tongue: salty, slightly bitter. He keeps following Ben when he pulls back to breathe, and then Ben gets up on his knees again and pushes his sweats down his thighs.
John stares open-mouthed. Ben's cock is fully hard again, glistening and dark. He's exposed from his head down to his knees: muscles, scars, that white bandage on his arm and all that skin. As John watches, Ben wraps his hand around his dick, thumbs the head and begins jerking himself off rapidly.
"Oh, god," John sighs, his body feebly trying for round two. "Really, Sherman?"
Ben pants with his mouth open, his eyes fixed firmly on John's and John keeps that eye contact as he runs his palms up the back of Ben's thighs and spreads him open. Ben's hand and breath both stutter as John rubs the tips of his fingers over Ben's asshole, and John does it again and again, tracing that little furl with the tip of his middle finger just so Ben will make that perfectly wanton "uhhhhh" noise.
Ben grunts when John applies that little bit of dry pressure, just the barest hint of his finger pressing in, and then Ben falls forward, bracing himself on one hand and gasping against John's throat as he fucks his own hand and John teases him mercilessly.
John can see it already.
Ben underneath him, his hands pinned above his head, legs spread as wide as possible, head thrown back as John fucks him boneless. The slick slide of his cock in Ben's ass, how tight he's going to be just for John. The sweat on his chest, the flush of his skin, the way he's going to yell when John puts his tongue up his ass.
"You want that, don’t you," John says, his mouth brushing the shell of Ben's ear. "You want me to fuck you over and over again until you can't walk. Until you can't move. Until that's all you can think about."
"Yes, fuck yes," Ben groans, and then there's this sob in John's ear and Ben collapses on top of him, shaking and writhing in John's arms.
Jesus.
John strokes Ben's spine, kisses his temple. He can feel Ben panting against his neck, the occasional shudder racking his body.
"Are you always this easy?" John says eventually.
Ben mutters something against his throat.
John slaps him lightly on the ass. "What was that?"
Ben twitches. "Shut up."
John chuckles as Ben pulls away, arching his back and stretching before collapsing back on top of John. "So that would be a yes?" he says. He's too old to be smushed on the couch by a 23 year-old nympho with his pants down around his ankles.
At least Ben's couch is nice. "Your fault," Ben yawns.
"My fault?" John says incredulously.
"Yeah," Ben says. "It's all you."
Ben's a little slow on Friday, and John doesn't bother to hide the smirk that's made itself comfortable on his face. "You okay there, rookie?" John asks innocently when Ben fumbles his notepad and drops it on the ground after they get done taking notes for a liquor store robbery.
Ben puts his hand on the side of the car and crouches down gingerly. "I'm fine," he says, looking up at John once he retrieves his notepad.
"You look like something's wrong with your knees." John teases. "Are they bothering you?"
Ben raises an eyebrow. "They're fine. I'm fine."
John takes a step into Ben's personal space and his cock twitches curiously. Ben's placed just at that height that he also attains on his knees. "Yeah, you don't look half bad," John says in a low tone.
Ben's eyes widen and he swipes his tongue over his upper lip. "You think so?" he says standing up.
They're close. Not too close, but close enough that John can see the sweat starting to bead on Ben's brow, and Ben can probably see that John is looking at his mouth and not much else. "I guess I do."
Ben's breath comes out in his harsh exhalation. The natural flush on his cheeks is spreading again. There's a crackle on their radios.
"Six-Adam-forty-three, this is dispatch, we have a 56 in progress at Sycamore and Fountain."
Oh crime, where would John be without it?
They end up pulling double shifts over the next few days. When the L.A. element goes all out, it really goes all out. Assault, trespassing, six burglaries, cars in swimming pools, a stampede at a sample sale in Beverly Hills, one triple gangland murder, two car jackings and a partridge in a pear tree.
John's too busy solving crimes to let his mind wander to thoughts of Ben Sherman naked. Or getting Ben naked.
Actually, John wishes he was too busy solving crimes to think about Ben sitting next to him for six-eight-ten hour stretches. It's just that they're together all the time: in the car, out of the car, at the scene, after the scene, when Ben's wriggling in his seat because he's been in the car too long or when he's tired, his eyelids drooping until he forces himself to be alert.
It's two in the afternoon, and John's been awake since the dinosaurs were still roaming the earth. Sherman - Ben - god, whoever - is getting coffee. John doesn't even like coffee. He doesn't care at this point.
He yawns and stretches his arm along the back of the passenger seat. Twenty seconds later, Ben's back with two large black coffees. All sugar and all cream for John. He drank enough black coffee in the Marines. Or as John directed, "If I can see through it, I don't want it."
Ben slides into the car and John yawns again. Ben's nose wrinkles when he smiles. "Is the great Officer Cooper tired? I didn't know you got tired," he says, handing John his coffee.
"Shut the fuck up, rookie," John bitches, sniffing his coffee.
All he can smell is sugar. Perfect.
Ben laughs and leans back in his seat, the nape of his neck brushing against the side of John's hand. John rubs his thumb along the soft skin behind Ben's ear once, twice, three times. Ben stares at him with his coffee midway to his mouth, holding perfectly still under John's hand.
The radio crackles. "We have a 187 at 358 Gould Avenue, Laurel Canyon. Suspects have fled on foot. All units respond."
The moment is over. John tosses the coffee out the window, turns back around, shifts the car into drive and something twinges in his back. The pain is sharp enough that John has to exhale hard before he pulls into traffic.
John has three pills in his wallet. There are more at home. He hasn't taken one in weeks, not since he met with Donaldson, but he thinks about them. In fact, they're all he's thinking about during the massive manhunt through the copious backyards of lower Sunset, all through the takedown and the news cameras, which only come with death in the 90210 zip code.
When they get back to the precinct all he needs is five minutes alone to forget his pain. Except that every time he turns around, Ben's nearby: sweaty and tired, clean and wet, mostly just watching. Possibly waiting.
And then he's gone.
One minute John's stuffing dirty uniforms in his duffle bag and the next Ben's vanished from the changing room. He's not loitering in the hall or in the parking lot, and his motorcycle is gone from its place in the lot. The ache in John's gut has absolutely nothing to do with his back.
The drive home is mindless. He doesn't know what he's listening to on the radio, what the traffic is like or how long it takes to get there. Just that one minute he's in the precinct and the next he's home, exhausted and hurting.
He collects all the pills that he has, bottles and singles and miscellaneous pills that he can't even quite identify and he puts them on the kitchen table. There are a lot of them. Too many of them. John runs his fingers over them, square blue ones, round white ones, long capsules, green circles, and then he goes and gets a beer from the fridge and he leans against his kitchen counter and stares.
He looks up when there's a pounding on the security gate.
He didn’t even close the front door.
"Hey," Ben says, opening the door and stepping inside.
Correction: not only did he not close the front door, he didn't even lock the security gate.
Ben's holding a paper bag, and he gives John a tentative smile as he winds his way through the living room. "You don't look good," he says carefully. "Your back's been bothering you."
John takes another pull from his beer. "My back'll be better after another couple of these," he says, belching loudly.
Ben's mouth thins into a line. "I went to the store and got you some of this holistic stuff that my mom likes," he says as John turns away to get another beer from the fridge.
John stops with his hand on the refrigerator handle. "You told your mom about me?"
"What the hell are you doing with those?" Ben says sharply.
John doesn't play stupid.
"I'm making a collage," he says as they both eyeball the pile of pills on the kitchen table.
"That's not funny."
"I wasn't laughing." John retrieves two more beers. He pops the caps and offers one to Ben, who crosses his arms, folding the paper bag underneath one bicep.
"If you don't want a beer just say so," John says.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Ben's tone is surprising only in that it's a real question.
"My back hurts," John says. "When my back hurts, I take something for it."
Ben's eyes are huge. "You don't take all of these."
"Not at one time," John mocks. "But I've taken all of them before."
"Jesus."
"Oh, I don't think he's here right now."
Ben rubs his temple. "John, you can't - don't take these. Please. Please don't take anymore of these."
John laughs harshly and sets his beer on the counter. "Well, if the alcohol doesn't work and this doesn't work," he says unbuttoning his shirt and unfastening the enormous back brace he's been using. "And those don't work. What exactly do you expect me to do, wish on a fucking star?"
"Get help!" Ben shouts. "That's what I want!"
John stares. He didn't know Ben could be so loud.
If the way Ben's gone pale is any indication, he's surprised himself too.
John just snorts. "This is how real people live, Sherman," he says, dropping the back support on the table next to the pills and picking up his beer. "We have problems and we do what we have to to make it work."
He walks past Ben, turns on the TV with the remote, grabs the heating pad from its place smushed between the sofa cushions and gently lowers himself onto the sofa.
No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency is playing on HBO according to the information bar at the bottom of the screen, and over the soft hum of the TV he can hear Mrs. Johnston's wind chimes rattling.
John closes his eyes, rests his head against the sofa cushion and waits for the door to slam behind Ben.
The silence carries on.
Eventually, he opens his eyes to see Ben still standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching him from afar.
"You're making me tired, Sherman," John says quietly. "Make a plan and go with it."
"I'm here," Ben says, kicking off his shoes and padding over in his socks to perch on the arm of the sofa next to John. "I'm not leaving. Get used to it."
"God, you're a relentless bastard, aren't you?" John says admiringly.
"Fuck you," Ben says mildly.
Ben only seems to curse under extreme stress. John knows the feeling. "Not this week, honey, my back is bothering me."
Ben purses his lips.
"I hope you're not going to be such a nagging wife when I start physical therapy," John says.
Ben's mouth drops open. "You're going to therapy?"
John sighs. "Yeah, I am. You know I am."
"What?" Ben sputters. "No, I didn't know."
"You mean to tell me 'Uncle Peter' didn't call you the minute I left? I call bullshit."
"There's this thing called doctor-patient confidentiality."
"You said he was like your uncle."
"And you're my partner."
John looks over at Ben. "Apparently."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Ben raises his hand like he's going to swat John and instead just pokes him softly in the arm.
John rolls his eyes. "Because I knew you'd get all excitable. Like now."
"Because I'm happy, asshole."
"You've got a strange way of showing it."
Ben shifts on the arm of the sofa, bracing one hand by John's head before leaning over and kissing him gently.
John pulls back and makes a disapproving noise. "I'm injured, not dying."
"You're stronger than the pills," Ben says quietly.
John grabs a fistful of Ben's shirt to pull him closer. "Shut up, Nancy Regan."
John's attempting to sleep, but it's completely fucking useless. His back hurts; he's dying for one of those goddamn pills that Ben confiscated, and Ben's sleeping on the sofa in the living room because them sleeping in the same bed would "throw off the evenness of the mattress" or some bullshit.
John shifts for the hundredth time in the last five minutes, and then there's a creak at the door. His hand reaches for his weapon, but it's going to take him forever to roll over and shoot the intruder.
"You're supposed to be asleep," Ben's voice says quietly.
"Then why the hell are you waking me up?" John says to the headboard.
"Because I was checking on you."
"What am I? Five?"
"You're acting like it."
The floorboards under the carpeting creak, telling John that Ben's coming closer. He turns his head to the side. Ben's backlit by the window in his boxer-briefs, and John covers his eyes with his hand. "Don't walk around in your underwear unless you plan to take it off."
"Your back hurts. I don't want to disturb it."
"Not getting laid is disturbing the hell out of me," John grumbles. He can just imagine Ben's smile: half-shyness and half-sex, and he has to uncover his eyes to see it. Yeah, it's just as deadly as he thought it would be.
"I'm not going to sleep with you," Ben says mulishly. "But I'll sleep next to you."
"You are a seriously confused young man," John says. "I can keep my hands to myself."
"But I can't." The smile has gone completely predatory. Wow.
John growls in the back of his throat. "Fucking vestal virgins. Where are you going to sleep then?"
"On the floor."
"On the floor where?"
"Right here," Ben says, making the blanket and pillow from the sofa magically appear in his hands.
John just stares. "You got a degree in masochism, kid?"
Ben spreads out the blanket. "I'm not a kid. Now, shut up, and go to sleep."
John opens his mouth and a laugh escapes. "Fine. Whatever," he concedes as Ben stretches out on his stomach and tucks his hands under his pillow. That's a lot of skin just out of John's crippled reach. Life is hard.
John doesn't even remember falling asleep.
John's in the kitchen making eggs when the doorbell rings. It's a little before 8 a.m., which is a) far too early for him to be awake on his day off and b) far too early for anyone in his neighborhood to need a visit from Officer Cooper.
His back feels okay, not great or even good, but okay. The pills are gone from the table, so if he was looking for a coping mechanism, that particular route is closed.
He picks up the frying pan and carries it with him to the door, which he doesn't realize until he has to unlock the door one-handed.
He nearly drops the pan when the door swings open and he sees Laura.
She gives him a bright smile, and he remembers why he fell in love with her in the first place. Not all the shit that came after, but why he thought maybe he could make marriage work.
"To what do I owe the honor?" he says, opening the safety door and stepping aside to let his ex-wife in. He bends down slightly and Laura gives him a brief kiss on the cheek as she passes by.
A glance outside shows his car and Ben's motorcycle in the driveway and Laura's Prius parked in front of the house. Down the street, he can see several Grimaldi children leaving for school.
Laura looks at the frying pan. "That's a lot of eggs. Is this a bad time?"
"No, I was just - double shifts this weekend. I'm starving."
"You always eat like a horse when you've been working too hard."
"Yeah, it's a wonder I'm not as big as the house."
Laura pats his arm. "You always take care of yourself eventually."
"I try," John says, turning back for the kitchen.
He grabs a large plate from the cupboard and dumps the eggs onto it. "So, what's up?" he says, sliding the eggs onto the table and sticking the pan in the sink.
Laura shifts from one foot to the other just inside the kitchen. "The last time I talked to you, it didn't go so well."
John thinks back a few months and snorts before opening the fridge for the orange juice. "That's one way to put it."
"And then yesterday I got a call from Peter Donaldson's office asking for your old x-rays and medical history."
John pulls out the orange juice, opens the carton and takes a long swig. "Yeah, you can release those."
"They said you were starting PT."
John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, I am."
"That's - that's really great, John. Dr. Donaldson is one of the best orthopedists in the country."
John drinks more orange juice. "He better be."
Laura's quiet and John braces for whatever's coming next. "Can I ask how you met him?"
Oh, that. "My partner, Sherman. They go back; and it turns out that Donaldson is Navy. He does a lot of work with vets."
Laura gives him that smile again. She opens her mouth and Ben's voice calls out. "John, you cooking? I don't smell anything burning yet."
Behind Laura, Ben comes into view. His hair is a mess, his face is lined from sleep and he's in his underwear. This is John's life.
John sets the orange juice down on the counter as Laura turns around, gets an eyeful of Ben and then turns back to him, her eyebrows climbing into her hairline. "I was wondering whose motorcycle that was."
John rubs his face. "Laura, this is Ben. Ben, this is Laura." A beat. "My ex-wife."
When Ben's skin flushes, it goes all the way down.
Laura's smile is incredibly scary. "Ben," she says extending her hand. "It's very nice to meet you."
John's across the kitchen in four large steps. "Laura works at Cedars," he says meaningfully as Ben shakes her hand.
"And where do you work?" Laura says, smoothly evading John's conversation change, which is what happens when you're married to someone for 11 years.
"I, uh, I work with John."
Laura turns back to John, studying him shrewdly.
"He's in training," John confesses.
Laura's face goes completely slack. "Oh," she saying knowingly. And then her face slips back into a perfectly pleasant façade. "Well, John, I'll talk to you later. Ben, it's so nice to meet you."
Laura's emphasis on the word 'so' makes John's teeth hurt.
John's just ushering Laura out when Ben's voice calls out. "Wait, Laura, before you go, could you do me a favor and get rid of these?"
They both turn back to see Ben just behind John holding a brown paper bag that he offers to Laura.
"What's that?" John asks as Laura opens the bag, glances inside and then looks up at Ben.
"Stuff you don't need anymore," Ben says curtly.
Laura just nods. "I can do that."
Ben nods. "Thanks."
Laura smiles at John and then at Ben. "Enjoy your day off," she says before turning around and walking away.
John watches her get into her car and drive off. He then shuts the door, turns around and crosses his arms. "Okay, what the hell was that about?"
"What was what about?" Ben asks, turning away and walking towards the kitchen. Ben's ass looks so tempting in his gray boxer-briefs that for long seconds John forgets what he's talking about.
He shakes his head. Focus, Cooper. And not on that perfect ass.
"Hey did you make these?" Ben asks.
John blinks. Ben's bent over the kitchen table, poking at the eggs with a finger.
"Yeah," John says belatedly.
Ben grabs two forks from the drying rack, sits down and begins working his way through the eggs.
He looks up when John crowds his space at the table, offering him a fork. John purses his lips. "You gave her my pills, didn't you?"
Ben's gaze doesn't waver. "Yeah, I did."
John takes the fork. "If I didn't like you, I'd probably stab you with this," he says, nudging Ben to the side and perching on half of Ben's chair.
Ben smiles at him, his face still lightly creased from sleep. "I know."
Part III
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
When L.A. is beautiful, there's not much that can beat it, and right at dusk with all her bright lights and neon signs, there's nothing quite as beautiful at 75 miles at hour.
John's driving home on the 101 South after dropping Sherman off, past the exit for the Hollywood Bowl and the huge neon signs for the Knickerboxer and Patron Tequila. From the speakers, Bruce is crooning 'I'm on Fire' which is strangely inappropriate and has John punching fast forward until he gets to 'Glory Days.'
Cesar always gives him shit when he gets on his blue collar soap box, but it's not a box, it's just life. John was born to working class parents - even criminals have to pay the mortgage - and there's nothing middle class about being a cop.
He's on the other side of 40 now, and it's pretty fucking late for him to be trying to figure out his life again. Ben Sherman, though, he's 23. He's so new, he still has that new car smell. He hasn't even figured out his life for the first time.
John gets off at Gower and takes the long way home. Down Sunset, across Vermont, through Los Feliz with its bourgeoisie college artists and Silverlake with its hipster, B-List stars. Echo Park doesn't have pretension. It just has itself.
The street is mostly quiet and mostly dark by the time John gets home. The Martinez twins are playing in their driveway and Paul Campbell is walking his family dog. Otherwise, lights are on and everybody's probably having dinner.
John parks Amy in the driveway, gets the mail and goes in the house. It's warm inside, stifling, and John opens a few windows to let in the air. He stands in the kitchen, listening to Mrs. Johnston's wind chimes tinkling next door, while he flips through the bills.
He tosses the junk mail in the trash and the bills on the dresser of the dish cupboard. He'll deal with those on Sunday. He feels restless, like he needs to do something. His back twinges meaningfully, and he thinks about the business card that Sherman gave him.
He'd rather have a beer instead, and he's just popping the cap on a bottle of Bud when the door bell rings. John sighs. The neighborhood has decided that Officer Cooper is in.
John sets the beer down on the kitchen table and walks back into the living room. He pauses with his hand on the knob, rolls back his shoulders and then opens the door.
Ben Sherman's on the other side of his security gate.
John's brain immediately fires up, preparing for god only knows what. He keeps himself calm, unlocks the door and pushes it open. "You get lost?" he asks dryly.
Sherman just stares.
"Boo, you okay? Something wrong with your stitches?" John can feel his forehead furrowing.
"No," Sherman says. "I just -- I forgot something."
"You forgot something." It's John's turn to stare in disbelief. "And it couldn't wait until tomorrow?"
Sherman shakes his head. "Not really." He pauses before brushing past John and stepping inside. "No."
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" John demands, closing the door behind him. Sherman's really starting to worry him. His cheeks are pink, eyes wide. If it were somebody else, John would think he was high. But John just left Sherman at home, and he was fine. Well, mostly fine.
And then Sherman reaches out, and it's like slow motion the way his fingers curl into John's shirt and tug him forward. John can see himself walking forward, one step and then another, and then Sherman's head is tilting upwards, his lips parting and his entire body moving into John's personal space until he's kissing him.
John's freezes.
Sherman's mouth is soft, persistent. His tongue flickers along the seam of John's lips, and then John opens his mouth to breathe and he's kissing Sherman back.
It's a little desperate and a lot filthy, their tongues flickering against each other. Sherman's hand slides up his chest and curls around the back of his neck, kissing him deeper, harder. He kisses the corner of John's mouth, his chin, his jaw, his neck. His body presses against John's in all kinds of interesting places: hip, chest, groin.
John starts to see stars. He has to pull away to breathe.
Sherman follows, panting against his jaw, and then John's shoving him against the wall, hard. Something falls somewhere, and John looks down at Ben Sherman with his wet, puffy mouth and his lidded eyes and John's hand splayed over his chest. Sherman's heart is beating like he's been on one of his foot chases, and John steps into him, wedging a thigh between Sherman's spread legs before kissing him again. Once, twice, fleeting kisses at the corner of Sherman's mouth and sharp bites at those full lips.
Sherman makes this pornographic noise, and John slides one hand into his hair and holds Sherman's head steady while he fucks Sherman’s mouth with his tongue.
It's dirty and shameless, and it's so good John doesn't want to stop. Ever. Sherman's hands slide down his chest, around his waist and into his back pockets, pulling John forward and down as Sherman dry humps John's leg.
John has no idea why it's called dry humping, because his cock is pressing against the front of his jeans desperately and he can feel the dampness; Sherman's mouth is so wet, he's anything but dry.
John's hands slide down Sherman's spine, feeling the tight muscles in his back. He cups his ass and lifts Sherman just that little bit so that he's really fucking himself against John's thigh now.
Sherman grabs at John's hair, nails scraping his scalp, and John pulls away, his mouth against Sherman's ear. "You like that?" John asks, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.
Sherman makes a guttural noise, rolling his hips against John and mouthing at his throat. "What?" John prompts.
Sherman's "yes" is sibilant, teeth and tongue, and John might even have a fucking hickey tomorrow. Sherman's not just grinding, he's bouncing now. He has to be so close. John's not quite there yet, the joys of not being 20 anymore.
The thought makes John smile a lot more than it should.
It helps that Sherman's making noises like a sixteen year-old getting off for the first time. It's hot and sinful, and John wants more.
He lets go of Sherman and steps back. Sherman wobbles a little bit when he stands on his own.
When John's rubs his knuckles against the bulge in Sherman's jeans, his hips thrust forward. "You want me to touch you?" John asks, listening to the hitch in Sherman's breathing when the backs of John's fingers trail up and down the length.
Sherman's breathing is hard, labored. "Yes. Please."
John looks up at the swollen, red mouth and the flushed cheeks. It would be so easy to keep going. To pop the button on Sherman's jeans, slide his hand under the waistband of his underwear, wrap his hand around Sherman's cock. He could slide his hand down the back of Sherman's boxers, spread him open and finger that perfect ass. John could jerk Sherman off until he comes all over John's hand.
He might lick it off his fingers afterwards.
He might have Sherman lick it off instead.
But that's not going to happen.
Not now. Not tonight. Not... his brain doesn't supply the 'not ever.'
"No," he says, pulling his hand away sharply.
Sherman's mouth drops open. "No?!"
"You should go."
Sherman's face goes through a litany of everything from disbelief to anger. John's never seen him like this, and then he realizes why: Sherman's dropped his guard. He's so easy to read now: disassembled and wanting. Most of the time figuring out Sherman is like trying to find fault with a pane of glass. But this… oh, this is very different.
This is interesting.
"We have work tomorrow." John says dismissively, curling his fingers into a loose fist to keep from going back to where they strayed. "You'll pop your stitches."
"My stitches?" Sherman's radiating disappointment and frustration. John can feel it oozing into the space between them and seeping into his clothes. His cock twitches in confusion. "That's bullshit!" Sherman explodes.
John just shakes his head and takes another step away. "We'll get dinner tomorrow night or something," he says, his tone leaving little room for debate as he steps around 160 pounds of hot skin and dark eyes and opens his front door.
"You were leaving," John prompts.
There's something suspiciously caught between a pout and defiance on Sherman's lips, and John could make it go away with his mouth. Or his cock. God, John could bend Ben Sherman over the back of his sofa right now, push his jeans down around his ankles and make everything okay for Sherman for twenty minutes. And it would be so good. That perfect ass and that beautiful mouth. John has no doubt that fucking Sherman could vastly improve his life for a little while.
But that's not in his job description. He thinks he would've noticed that.
Yes, Sherman drove all the way from Coldwater Canyon to Echo Park, which is like commuting from D.C. to New York for the rest of the world, but it would never pay to encourage this sort of behavior.
Okay, that's a lie, too.
"Sherman." John gives the name a slight lilt. It's an order he's framing like a suggestion. It won't happen twice.
The look Sherman gives him is all hurt. "You could call me Ben," he says, stopping in the doorway. "It wouldn’t kill you."
John's grin has so many teeth he wishes someone would take a picture. He runs his tongue over his canines, and Sherman's eyes go just that little bit wider.
"Ben." John says the name as though he's trying it on for size, and the way Sherman's face softens doesn't hurt either. John licks his lips, just to fuck with him, and then he points to the street. "Get out."
John wakes up early the next morning with a smile on his face. It's so lame. He's still grinning when his back twinges as he gets out of bed and when his knee complains in the shower. The skin near his mouth is a little tight... like he has fucking stubble burn. He pulls on his uniform, grabs his wallet and a business card falls out of the folds.
The card for Dr. Peter Donaldson, Orthopedic Specialist is dirty at the edges, frayed. John doesn't even remember putting it in his wallet. He doesn't have to do this; his back could get better on its own, but it's been years now and faith is thin on the ground with him.
He finds himself opening his cell phone and dialing anyway.
Sherman is already waiting by the squad car when John comes out of the precinct. He jumps up automatically when he sees John, and John shakes his head. He really can't condone this sort of behavior. He can't be the cause of the enormous smile on Sherman's face - Ben's. His name is Ben.
But that smile on his face, the way he gets in the car and gives John those nervous glances. There are a multitude of reasons this is all bad, the most glaring being that he's Ben's training officer.
And Ben's too young.
And he dates girls.
And he's probably confused.
And John's 40.
And he has a bad back.
And he's not confused anymore.
And he's not going to be able to do all that acrobatic sex that Ben's going to want. Deserve.
God, John can just imagine the kind of acrobatic sex that Ben Sherman deserves. Blowjobs in the back of the squad car. Being fucked behind dumpsters while he calls John's name. Riding John's fingers under the lemon tree in Ben's backyard.
"JOHN!" John slams on the brakes just in time to avoid rear-ending the Escalade waiting at the red light. It's a very close call.
He looks down at Ben's hand on his arm and back up at Ben. All the color is gone from his face, making his eyes look even bluer. "You okay?" Ben says, his thumb rubbing John's forearm.
John laughs hollowly and looks up at the roof of the car. "No," he admits. "Not even a little bit."
Ben pulls his hand away; John can sense him retreating to his side of the car. He sighs to himself and pulls over to the side of the road underneath a series of jacaranda trees. They've made it approximately three miles from work and been on duty fifteen minutes. At the most.
They sit in silence, traffic passing them by in a blur of white noise. "Last night never happened," Ben says quietly. "That's what you're going to say, isn't it?"
"That's what I'm supposed to say," John admits.
"What do you want to say?"
John looks over at the wary hopefulness Ben's trying to contain. "Since when do you like men?"
"Since I met you."
There's that sinking feeling in John's gut. He hates that feeling. "I'm your first."
"Didn't you get the memo?" Ben quips. "My generation doesn't believe in sexuality: we believe you like who you like. The rest of it is just details."
"Don't give me that Oprah bullshit."
"Mrs. Ramirez watches Oprah, I don't."
"I'm not your experiment," John says flatly.
"I'm not experimenting. You're not the first guy I've kissed."
That probably shouldn't annoy John as much as it does. "I'm 40."
"And you’re my training officer."
John leans back on the headrest and focuses on his sun visor. "Now that you mention it…"
"You won't be training me forever," Ben says.
"That's fine for later," John says. "This is now."
"I want you," Ben says quietly. "Now."
It's such a simple, terrifyingly honest admission that John's entire chest goes cold. "How long?"
"Months."
John's at a loss. "I don't -- what do you get out of this?" he says, turning to look at Ben, whose mouth twitches at him as though he's being slow. Which he is, but at least he's admitting it.
"You," Ben says.
That rushing in John's ears is possibly the beginnings of a heart attack. "Fuck," he breathes. He hasn't been wanted - felt wanted in a long time. He can feel that here. Now.
Ben bites his bottom lip. "You didn't say 'no,'" he points out.
"Yeah," John sighs. "I know."
The shift is so strange that John decides to just forget the whole thing happened. He honestly doesn't remember the first half of it because he was too busy replaying the conversation he'd had with Sherman - Ben -- and how he quite possibly just decided that he wouldn't toss away his career to get surgery on his back, but he might consider it for a really nice piece of ass.
And then the second half was full of winos and petty thefts, and petty thefts by winos. And in the background of everything was Ben looking at him, which aggravated him, or Ben not looking at him, which apparently aggravated him even more.
The minute he's out of uniform and out of the precinct he calls Cesar. "You want to get a drink tonight?"
There's a long pause down the line.
"Who's this?"
John scowls down at his boots. "What do you mean 'who's this', asshole?"
There's another pause and then Cesar laughs. "Cooper, you're coming out to play on a weeknight. On any night? My god, I can't wait to hear about this one."
"Fuck you," John says. "I'll see you at seven-thirty."
Cesar is still chuckling when John hangs up. When he turns around to walk to the car, Ben's standing five feet away, disappointment writ clear before it all goes back behind the stoic mask. John hates the stoic mask.
Ben rallies with a rueful smile. "I thought you only talked to me like that."
"How do you know that wasn't a voice mail for you?" John says. He laughs when Ben pulls out his phone to check. "It's not," he confesses, "but it could've been."
Ben closes the top on his phone. "So, you're going out tonight?"
John shrugs. "Yeah, I've got a friend I've been neglecting lately."
"Oh." John can see the resignation on Ben's face. "So, I'll, uh, I'll see you on Friday then?"
"I was thinking we could hang out tomorrow," John says casually. It's their day off. "I could come by in the afternoon, if you want."
Ben's smile is so tentative that John almost kicks himself. "Yeah," he says. "We could do that."
Four double shots in, Cesar's still laughing.
He'd taken one look at John's face when he walked into the bar and ordered double shots of tequila. John had knocked back his first shot before he'd even settled on his stool. Then he ordered another shot and announced that he'd met someone. Then he ordered another and announced that that someone also happened to be his 23 year-old trainee with a body like Adonis and a mouth like a trained whore.
Cesar stops him with the fourth shot midway to his mouth.
"You really like him," Cesar says in awe.
John shrugs.
"A lot," Cesar translates.
"It's fucked up," is all John will concede.
"Are you gonna quit?"
John gives Cesar a glare and does the fourth shot.
"Is he gonna quit?" Cesar prods.
"He's a fucked up kid who's never had anything stable in his entire life; now he's got the force. "
"Sounds familiar."
"Shut up," John says.
The tequila is finally starting to seep in.
He stares at the mirror on the wall, looking at Cesar's reflection watching him. "How serious are you?" Cesar asks eventually.
John takes the beer Cesar's been nursing and swallows down about a quarter.
"Hmmm," Cesar says as John hands back the bottle. "How serious is he?"
John belches.
Cesar pats John on the shoulder. "Well, it's always good to have you talk about your feelings, dude."
John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "This is a disaster."
"Hey, if it were easy, everybody would be doing it," Cesar says.
John just waves the bartender over to order another round.
Evolution is a bitch.
John has a 7:30 a.m. appointment in Beverly Hills with Dr. Peter Donaldson. He leaves the house at 6:30 in the morning and arrives at 7000 Wilshire Boulevard by 7:13 a.m. L.A. traffic is a lot more manageable when most people are still asleep. In this instance 'manageable' means that John only wants to punch someone in the head every 4 minutes instead of every 2.
John sits in his car in the parking lot trying to figure out what the hell he's doing and if he's ruining everything. He can't afford surgery. He can't even afford intensive therapy. Everything he does has to be done through the union. He can't pay this out of pocket.
There's no reason for him to be wasting his time like this, but when he called and the assistant heard his name, she'd put him directly through to Dr. Donaldson, who'd said he could see him before he went to surgery at Cedars-Sinai. That he would make time for John because Ben had asked. The doctor had assured him that it was just a consult, that it didn't cost anything, that they were just meeting. How hard could a meeting be?
John's still sitting in his car at 7:31 a.m. -- but it's always better to know. You can't fix it until you know what the problem is and fear of the unknown will kill you.
He nearly breaks the door handle getting out of the car.
John pegs Donaldson the minute he walks into the waiting room, introduces himself and extends his hand for John to shake. He's tall, very tall. Probably on the other side of 6'2". He looks good, whatever his age is. Maybe forty, maybe fifty. There's nothing soft on him, the cropped cut of his brown hair shot through with gray, the square of his shoulders.
He's former military. The only question is which branch.
John follows the doctor into his office. Large, efficient, not ostentatious by any means. There are diplomas on the wall. Neatly spaced, perfectly hung. But they're interspersed with photos of large groups of people. Not family. Well, not the kind that share the same blood, but the kind that are forged in blood.
"Navy? Marines?" Donaldson says gesturing for John to take a seat in the guest chair on the other side of his desk.
"Always a Marine," John says, sitting down slowly. His back has twisted itself into all new positions of pain in the last few hours. John didn't sleep well last night. Too keyed up. Too ready for battle. Too worried.
"Navy," Donaldson says conversationally. "Did some time with the SEALS. Miss it every day. You?"
Navy SEALS. Oh, this is the guy who taught Sherman the Sleeper Hold. Camp his ass.
John chuckles. He thinks of surviving on crap food, little sleep and people yelling at him all day. "Marine grunt. It's like what I do now, only now with better pay. But yeah," he says, thinking of his friends back in division. "Yeah, sometimes I miss it."
Donaldson nods. "So, do you want to tell me why you're here… or do you want me to tell you why I think you're here?"
"No bullshit, huh?" John says with a wry smile.
"You want bullshit, go see an Army man," Donaldson says. "You want it done right, you'll see me."
John nods.
"How long?" Donaldson asks.
"How long…" Oh, how long has it been like this. John has to think. "Years."
"Too long," Donaldson says mildly.
"I can't afford you," John says. He's not going to get his hopes up. He won't take anybody's charity.
Donaldson shakes his head. "Son, Ben's never asked me for anything a day in his goddamn life. He wanted me to see you; so now I've got to fix you."
John opens his mouth and Donaldson holds up his hand. "I do work for the VA in Westwood all the time. Consider this me doing my duty for my country."
John can feel the bulldog expression on his face. The desire to fight about it. To not take anything from anyone. "I know what you're gonna say," Donaldson presses, "but you're out there protecting this city. Protecting my ex-wife, my two kids and Ben. Your country owes you this, so if some of my better-off clients are footing the bill? Let'em."
The blue collar man getting one over on the white collar man. John knows this line of thinking. Everybody who has ever served their country and gotten paid in pennies and dimes and missing body parts and lost friends knows this line of thinking.
He thinks about this and then nods. "Okay."
John parks at the bottom of the driveway and walks up. There's music playing that gets louder the closer he gets to the house. It's not John's kind of music, it's a little too bitchy hipster, but John can see Ben lying on his back under the belly of his motorcycle, tools scattered around him, and if his off-key singing is anything to go by, it works for him.
"Spending quality time together," John observes, walking around to where Ben's head is resting on the pavement. Sherman -- Ben grins up at him broadly. He's got grease and dirt smeared on his face.
"Hey," he says, scooting out from underneath the bike. "You made it."
"I said I was coming," John says, his eyes sweeping over Ben Sherman in all his sleeveless shirt and ragged jeans glory. He has dirty pool written all over him.
Hell, he's even managed to get dirt on the bandage covering his stitches.
"Yeah, you did," Ben agrees.
The music changes from country-ish to Motown. John smiles at the strains of Stevie Wonder. "Now this is more like it," he says.
"You like Motown?" Ben says, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.
John laughs. "You're just spreading the dirt around now."
A muscle in Ben's jaw twitches. "That's what happens when people work, they get dirty."
John nods vaguely. "So, did you invite me over to watch you work or are you going to feed me?"
"Ah," Ben says, crouching down and gathering up his tools. "You're only here for the food."
John chuckles. "Something like that," he says, watching Ben walk into the garage. There're sweat stains on the back of his shirt. He's been outside a while.
John inhales deeply; he's feeling a little light-headed. Ben has a lot of skin on display and John's been at the doctor's for a while getting evaluated. "John?"
John shakes his head. "Yeah?"
Ben's standing in the garage, watching him quizzically. "You coming?"
"Did you call 911?"
Ben looks confused and then he scoffs. "Call 911 and make a cop come. Cute."
"You started it," John says, following Ben into the house.
Five feet inside the kitchen, Ben pulls his shirt off, leaving John with a generous view of tan skin, broad back muscles and dirty arms. "I'm going to take a shower," Ben tosses over his shoulder. "Help yourself."
John swallows. "Did you make me a cake again?" he hollers after Ben.
"You wish," Ben calls back.
John makes a snorting noise. He wouldn't mind another homemade chocolate cake with vanilla icing. He doesn't know anybody who would. Instead he busies himself by grabbing a beer out of Ben's refrigerator and flipping through a few magazines on the counter: Architectural Digest, Newsweek, American Motorcycle.
Eventually, he migrates to the living room where he turns on the TV and kicks his shoes under the coffee table. There's a Law & Order marathon on TNT, an NCIS marathon on USA and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on TCM.
John first saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with his mom at the dollar movie theatre when he was 14. Watching Paul Newman in black and white was John's first inkling that perhaps he wasn't quite as into girls as he could've been. John watched Paul hobble around on his crutches, railing at Elizabeth Taylor and drinking himself into a depression.
He didn't realize until years later that the reason Paul's character was so distraught was that he'd been in love with his best friend - a guy. His friend had killed himself when Elizabeth Taylor found out they were lovers.
It was just subtle enough to go over his head until he realized what the hell was going on with himself.
He settles himself on the sofa, watching the movie and nursing his beer. After an indeterminate amount of time the sofa shifts with additional weight and John looks over at Ben beside him.
Ben's hair is damp, and he's wearing a faded tee shirt and sweatpants. He smells good. Like apples and soap. His thigh is pressed firmly against John's, and there are holes in his sleeves.
John pokes his index finger through an errant hole, stroking Ben's bicep lightly.
When Ben looks up at him, he's clearly amused. "I know there's a hole there."
"I'm making it bigger," John says. His finger keeps stroking all on its own.
Ben licks his lips and leans in, John pulls back just that little bit, making Ben lean in more. Work that bit harder.
"I thought we were having lunch," he teases.
Ben's eyes narrow. "Shut up," he says, climbing on top of John and straddling his hips.
John's hands move away from Ben's arms and migrate to Ben's ass. He can feel the muscles underneath the cotton sweatpants, moving, shifting, pushing back against John's hands. Ben leans in, breathing on him, licking his lips again.
"You want me to shut up?" he says, as Ben brushes his mouth against John's own.
"Fuck yes," Ben breathes before diving in, his mouth warm and welcoming. He licks his way inside John's mouth, stroking, sucking on John's tongue. His kisses taste like toothpaste and faintly of coffee, and he wraps his hands around the back of John's neck as he grinds down on his lap like one of those girls from MTV videos.
Ben kisses like he's going into battle, hard and rough, and then pulling away to dive back in. He's fast and his teeth are sharp, and John has to move one hand away from Ben's very firm ass to take hold of his chin and keep him still.
"Slow down," John orders, even as Ben's hips keep moving. It's very hard to focus when he's got Ben humping his lap and yanking at his shirt. He can hear the ripping of buttons and cotton. He didn't really like this shirt too much anyway. It was just one he thought he looked good in.
Ben's eyes sweep over his face with just the slightest trace of anxiety; his body clearly doesn't care.
"I'm not going anywhere," John says.
Ben's entire face softens and his body stills.
He looks at John for several seconds and then he nods. "Okay."
John's hand slides to the nape of Ben's neck. "C'mere," he says, pulling Ben back in. This kiss is a lot less aggressive and a lot more filthy. It's wet and slick and they spend long minutes just enjoying it, the slide of tongues, the press of lips.
Ben goes back to work on John's shirt, unbuttoning until his hands are sliding over John's bare skin, his thumbs teasing John's nipples. John grunts against Ben's mouth, swallowing down his noises until Ben pulls away and mouths along the side of his throat, making these little soft moans.
He's rutting against John perfectly. His ass pressing down on John's cock, rubbing his dick against John's stomach. John pulls on Ben's hair, kisses him again. He can feel Ben's cock poking him through the thin sweatpants and when he pulls away from Ben's mouth, he can look down and see the strain against the cotton. See the damp spot near the waistband.
No underwear. Nice.
He runs the tip of his thumb along Ben's erection, and Ben whimpers. He does it again, and Ben wraps an arm around John's neck and rolls his hips into the touch.
John's left hand slips underneath Ben's shirt and strokes the bare skin at the base of his spine.
"C'mon," he says as Ben breathes through his mouth. "You're so close, aren't you?"
Ben grunts.
"I know you are," John coaxes, using the edge of his thumbnail. "C'mon, Ben."
Ben makes this choking sound and then he shudders against John, his fingers digging into John's skin as he comes in his pants.
Well, that didn't take long, but fuck it was hot.
Ah, 23.
John strokes Ben through it, feeling him relax in his arms. He would laugh, because really, that's quite a trigger, but then Ben's moving away, yanking off his shirt and sliding off the sofa and onto his knees on the floor.
"Ben."
"Stand up," Ben says sharply, and John finds himself getting to his feet automatically. If a little gradually.
Kneeling before him, Ben deftly unzips John's jeans and pulls them down to the floor. He slides his palms up John's thighs before his hands busy themselves rubbing John's erection through his briefs.
John's brain has a thought that Ben giving orders might lead down a bad road of insurrection and insubordination, but he'll man up just for the occasion. And then Ben leans in and nuzzles John's cock through the cotton, his tongue licking a long stripe up the length and John's hands clench beside his body.
Ben mouths at John's cock more, spitting on the cotton, getting it damp and then sucking at the wet spot where the head of John's cock is. John grunts, ghosting a hand over the back of Ben's skull, his fingers lightly brushing the soft hair.
Ben's skull fits perfectly in the palm of John's hand as Ben hooks his thumbs into the waistband of John's briefs and pulls them all the way down to pool around his ankles.
When Ben shifts on his knees, John can see how shallow his breathing is, and then he wraps his hand around John's cock and John can't see much of anything except the way Ben mouths at his cock enthusiastically, his tongue moving obscenely over the head, licking at the underside. It's not just the sight, it's the feel, and it's not just the feel, it's the sound.
Ben's loud, and noisy, and so very messy when he goes down on John, sucking lewdly until he goes too far and gags. John makes a noise when Ben pulls back, strands of saliva trailing from John's cock to his mouth as he looks up at John expectantly.
"You don't have to do this," John says. His voice sounds unsteady, even to him.
Ben's "I want to" is so guttural that John feels it in his stomach. His hand shakes a little when he rubs his thumb over Ben's slick mouth, and then his hand is back on Ben's head, urging him on. "Do it then."
Ben sucks him down, his head bobbing back and forth, his cheeks hollowing dramatically. If Ben was honest - which John knows he was - and John's the first guy Ben's been with - which is a little scary - then John's gotten sickeningly lucky.
John can feel the spit and the precome sliding between his legs, behind his balls, and then Ben's mouth is gone, and he's just rubbing his lips along the length. John's head falls back when Ben's sucks one of his balls and then the other into the wet heat of the mouth.
Porn star mouth doesn't cover it because the noises Ben's making are without reservation or pretense, the slurping and sucking, the way his hand curls around John's hip pulling him closer. There are sticky fingertips behind John's balls, stroking, exploring the crease of his ass. He grunts in approval of Ben's initiative.
John can't stop looking and then he can't keep from looking away. It's too much, too good. His hand tightens on the back of Ben's head, and Ben makes an approving moan. John thrusts his hips forward just that bit more, and Ben makes another noise. And then John realizes what Ben wants.
John's hips do it of their own accord, fucking Ben's mouth as he holds him still. But the sight of those flushed cheeks and full, slick lips wrapped around his cock is just too much to watch for any length of time. He tries to say something, to push Ben away, but Ben's fingernails dig into the skin of John’s thighs, and far too soon John's coming hard enough to have to sit down.
He collapses back on the sofa, panting up at Ben's high ceilings. He reaches out blindly and pulls Ben back on top of him.
Ben's cheeks and chin are wet with spit and come. He looks completely fucked out -- at least that's what John's assuming until Ben kisses him with something that could only be called serious intent. He can taste himself on Ben's tongue: salty, slightly bitter. He keeps following Ben when he pulls back to breathe, and then Ben gets up on his knees again and pushes his sweats down his thighs.
John stares open-mouthed. Ben's cock is fully hard again, glistening and dark. He's exposed from his head down to his knees: muscles, scars, that white bandage on his arm and all that skin. As John watches, Ben wraps his hand around his dick, thumbs the head and begins jerking himself off rapidly.
"Oh, god," John sighs, his body feebly trying for round two. "Really, Sherman?"
Ben pants with his mouth open, his eyes fixed firmly on John's and John keeps that eye contact as he runs his palms up the back of Ben's thighs and spreads him open. Ben's hand and breath both stutter as John rubs the tips of his fingers over Ben's asshole, and John does it again and again, tracing that little furl with the tip of his middle finger just so Ben will make that perfectly wanton "uhhhhh" noise.
Ben grunts when John applies that little bit of dry pressure, just the barest hint of his finger pressing in, and then Ben falls forward, bracing himself on one hand and gasping against John's throat as he fucks his own hand and John teases him mercilessly.
John can see it already.
Ben underneath him, his hands pinned above his head, legs spread as wide as possible, head thrown back as John fucks him boneless. The slick slide of his cock in Ben's ass, how tight he's going to be just for John. The sweat on his chest, the flush of his skin, the way he's going to yell when John puts his tongue up his ass.
"You want that, don’t you," John says, his mouth brushing the shell of Ben's ear. "You want me to fuck you over and over again until you can't walk. Until you can't move. Until that's all you can think about."
"Yes, fuck yes," Ben groans, and then there's this sob in John's ear and Ben collapses on top of him, shaking and writhing in John's arms.
Jesus.
John strokes Ben's spine, kisses his temple. He can feel Ben panting against his neck, the occasional shudder racking his body.
"Are you always this easy?" John says eventually.
Ben mutters something against his throat.
John slaps him lightly on the ass. "What was that?"
Ben twitches. "Shut up."
John chuckles as Ben pulls away, arching his back and stretching before collapsing back on top of John. "So that would be a yes?" he says. He's too old to be smushed on the couch by a 23 year-old nympho with his pants down around his ankles.
At least Ben's couch is nice. "Your fault," Ben yawns.
"My fault?" John says incredulously.
"Yeah," Ben says. "It's all you."
Ben's a little slow on Friday, and John doesn't bother to hide the smirk that's made itself comfortable on his face. "You okay there, rookie?" John asks innocently when Ben fumbles his notepad and drops it on the ground after they get done taking notes for a liquor store robbery.
Ben puts his hand on the side of the car and crouches down gingerly. "I'm fine," he says, looking up at John once he retrieves his notepad.
"You look like something's wrong with your knees." John teases. "Are they bothering you?"
Ben raises an eyebrow. "They're fine. I'm fine."
John takes a step into Ben's personal space and his cock twitches curiously. Ben's placed just at that height that he also attains on his knees. "Yeah, you don't look half bad," John says in a low tone.
Ben's eyes widen and he swipes his tongue over his upper lip. "You think so?" he says standing up.
They're close. Not too close, but close enough that John can see the sweat starting to bead on Ben's brow, and Ben can probably see that John is looking at his mouth and not much else. "I guess I do."
Ben's breath comes out in his harsh exhalation. The natural flush on his cheeks is spreading again. There's a crackle on their radios.
"Six-Adam-forty-three, this is dispatch, we have a 56 in progress at Sycamore and Fountain."
Oh crime, where would John be without it?
They end up pulling double shifts over the next few days. When the L.A. element goes all out, it really goes all out. Assault, trespassing, six burglaries, cars in swimming pools, a stampede at a sample sale in Beverly Hills, one triple gangland murder, two car jackings and a partridge in a pear tree.
John's too busy solving crimes to let his mind wander to thoughts of Ben Sherman naked. Or getting Ben naked.
Actually, John wishes he was too busy solving crimes to think about Ben sitting next to him for six-eight-ten hour stretches. It's just that they're together all the time: in the car, out of the car, at the scene, after the scene, when Ben's wriggling in his seat because he's been in the car too long or when he's tired, his eyelids drooping until he forces himself to be alert.
It's two in the afternoon, and John's been awake since the dinosaurs were still roaming the earth. Sherman - Ben - god, whoever - is getting coffee. John doesn't even like coffee. He doesn't care at this point.
He yawns and stretches his arm along the back of the passenger seat. Twenty seconds later, Ben's back with two large black coffees. All sugar and all cream for John. He drank enough black coffee in the Marines. Or as John directed, "If I can see through it, I don't want it."
Ben slides into the car and John yawns again. Ben's nose wrinkles when he smiles. "Is the great Officer Cooper tired? I didn't know you got tired," he says, handing John his coffee.
"Shut the fuck up, rookie," John bitches, sniffing his coffee.
All he can smell is sugar. Perfect.
Ben laughs and leans back in his seat, the nape of his neck brushing against the side of John's hand. John rubs his thumb along the soft skin behind Ben's ear once, twice, three times. Ben stares at him with his coffee midway to his mouth, holding perfectly still under John's hand.
The radio crackles. "We have a 187 at 358 Gould Avenue, Laurel Canyon. Suspects have fled on foot. All units respond."
The moment is over. John tosses the coffee out the window, turns back around, shifts the car into drive and something twinges in his back. The pain is sharp enough that John has to exhale hard before he pulls into traffic.
John has three pills in his wallet. There are more at home. He hasn't taken one in weeks, not since he met with Donaldson, but he thinks about them. In fact, they're all he's thinking about during the massive manhunt through the copious backyards of lower Sunset, all through the takedown and the news cameras, which only come with death in the 90210 zip code.
When they get back to the precinct all he needs is five minutes alone to forget his pain. Except that every time he turns around, Ben's nearby: sweaty and tired, clean and wet, mostly just watching. Possibly waiting.
And then he's gone.
One minute John's stuffing dirty uniforms in his duffle bag and the next Ben's vanished from the changing room. He's not loitering in the hall or in the parking lot, and his motorcycle is gone from its place in the lot. The ache in John's gut has absolutely nothing to do with his back.
The drive home is mindless. He doesn't know what he's listening to on the radio, what the traffic is like or how long it takes to get there. Just that one minute he's in the precinct and the next he's home, exhausted and hurting.
He collects all the pills that he has, bottles and singles and miscellaneous pills that he can't even quite identify and he puts them on the kitchen table. There are a lot of them. Too many of them. John runs his fingers over them, square blue ones, round white ones, long capsules, green circles, and then he goes and gets a beer from the fridge and he leans against his kitchen counter and stares.
He looks up when there's a pounding on the security gate.
He didn’t even close the front door.
"Hey," Ben says, opening the door and stepping inside.
Correction: not only did he not close the front door, he didn't even lock the security gate.
Ben's holding a paper bag, and he gives John a tentative smile as he winds his way through the living room. "You don't look good," he says carefully. "Your back's been bothering you."
John takes another pull from his beer. "My back'll be better after another couple of these," he says, belching loudly.
Ben's mouth thins into a line. "I went to the store and got you some of this holistic stuff that my mom likes," he says as John turns away to get another beer from the fridge.
John stops with his hand on the refrigerator handle. "You told your mom about me?"
"What the hell are you doing with those?" Ben says sharply.
John doesn't play stupid.
"I'm making a collage," he says as they both eyeball the pile of pills on the kitchen table.
"That's not funny."
"I wasn't laughing." John retrieves two more beers. He pops the caps and offers one to Ben, who crosses his arms, folding the paper bag underneath one bicep.
"If you don't want a beer just say so," John says.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Ben's tone is surprising only in that it's a real question.
"My back hurts," John says. "When my back hurts, I take something for it."
Ben's eyes are huge. "You don't take all of these."
"Not at one time," John mocks. "But I've taken all of them before."
"Jesus."
"Oh, I don't think he's here right now."
Ben rubs his temple. "John, you can't - don't take these. Please. Please don't take anymore of these."
John laughs harshly and sets his beer on the counter. "Well, if the alcohol doesn't work and this doesn't work," he says unbuttoning his shirt and unfastening the enormous back brace he's been using. "And those don't work. What exactly do you expect me to do, wish on a fucking star?"
"Get help!" Ben shouts. "That's what I want!"
John stares. He didn't know Ben could be so loud.
If the way Ben's gone pale is any indication, he's surprised himself too.
John just snorts. "This is how real people live, Sherman," he says, dropping the back support on the table next to the pills and picking up his beer. "We have problems and we do what we have to to make it work."
He walks past Ben, turns on the TV with the remote, grabs the heating pad from its place smushed between the sofa cushions and gently lowers himself onto the sofa.
No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency is playing on HBO according to the information bar at the bottom of the screen, and over the soft hum of the TV he can hear Mrs. Johnston's wind chimes rattling.
John closes his eyes, rests his head against the sofa cushion and waits for the door to slam behind Ben.
The silence carries on.
Eventually, he opens his eyes to see Ben still standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching him from afar.
"You're making me tired, Sherman," John says quietly. "Make a plan and go with it."
"I'm here," Ben says, kicking off his shoes and padding over in his socks to perch on the arm of the sofa next to John. "I'm not leaving. Get used to it."
"God, you're a relentless bastard, aren't you?" John says admiringly.
"Fuck you," Ben says mildly.
Ben only seems to curse under extreme stress. John knows the feeling. "Not this week, honey, my back is bothering me."
Ben purses his lips.
"I hope you're not going to be such a nagging wife when I start physical therapy," John says.
Ben's mouth drops open. "You're going to therapy?"
John sighs. "Yeah, I am. You know I am."
"What?" Ben sputters. "No, I didn't know."
"You mean to tell me 'Uncle Peter' didn't call you the minute I left? I call bullshit."
"There's this thing called doctor-patient confidentiality."
"You said he was like your uncle."
"And you're my partner."
John looks over at Ben. "Apparently."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Ben raises his hand like he's going to swat John and instead just pokes him softly in the arm.
John rolls his eyes. "Because I knew you'd get all excitable. Like now."
"Because I'm happy, asshole."
"You've got a strange way of showing it."
Ben shifts on the arm of the sofa, bracing one hand by John's head before leaning over and kissing him gently.
John pulls back and makes a disapproving noise. "I'm injured, not dying."
"You're stronger than the pills," Ben says quietly.
John grabs a fistful of Ben's shirt to pull him closer. "Shut up, Nancy Regan."
John's attempting to sleep, but it's completely fucking useless. His back hurts; he's dying for one of those goddamn pills that Ben confiscated, and Ben's sleeping on the sofa in the living room because them sleeping in the same bed would "throw off the evenness of the mattress" or some bullshit.
John shifts for the hundredth time in the last five minutes, and then there's a creak at the door. His hand reaches for his weapon, but it's going to take him forever to roll over and shoot the intruder.
"You're supposed to be asleep," Ben's voice says quietly.
"Then why the hell are you waking me up?" John says to the headboard.
"Because I was checking on you."
"What am I? Five?"
"You're acting like it."
The floorboards under the carpeting creak, telling John that Ben's coming closer. He turns his head to the side. Ben's backlit by the window in his boxer-briefs, and John covers his eyes with his hand. "Don't walk around in your underwear unless you plan to take it off."
"Your back hurts. I don't want to disturb it."
"Not getting laid is disturbing the hell out of me," John grumbles. He can just imagine Ben's smile: half-shyness and half-sex, and he has to uncover his eyes to see it. Yeah, it's just as deadly as he thought it would be.
"I'm not going to sleep with you," Ben says mulishly. "But I'll sleep next to you."
"You are a seriously confused young man," John says. "I can keep my hands to myself."
"But I can't." The smile has gone completely predatory. Wow.
John growls in the back of his throat. "Fucking vestal virgins. Where are you going to sleep then?"
"On the floor."
"On the floor where?"
"Right here," Ben says, making the blanket and pillow from the sofa magically appear in his hands.
John just stares. "You got a degree in masochism, kid?"
Ben spreads out the blanket. "I'm not a kid. Now, shut up, and go to sleep."
John opens his mouth and a laugh escapes. "Fine. Whatever," he concedes as Ben stretches out on his stomach and tucks his hands under his pillow. That's a lot of skin just out of John's crippled reach. Life is hard.
John doesn't even remember falling asleep.
John's in the kitchen making eggs when the doorbell rings. It's a little before 8 a.m., which is a) far too early for him to be awake on his day off and b) far too early for anyone in his neighborhood to need a visit from Officer Cooper.
His back feels okay, not great or even good, but okay. The pills are gone from the table, so if he was looking for a coping mechanism, that particular route is closed.
He picks up the frying pan and carries it with him to the door, which he doesn't realize until he has to unlock the door one-handed.
He nearly drops the pan when the door swings open and he sees Laura.
She gives him a bright smile, and he remembers why he fell in love with her in the first place. Not all the shit that came after, but why he thought maybe he could make marriage work.
"To what do I owe the honor?" he says, opening the safety door and stepping aside to let his ex-wife in. He bends down slightly and Laura gives him a brief kiss on the cheek as she passes by.
A glance outside shows his car and Ben's motorcycle in the driveway and Laura's Prius parked in front of the house. Down the street, he can see several Grimaldi children leaving for school.
Laura looks at the frying pan. "That's a lot of eggs. Is this a bad time?"
"No, I was just - double shifts this weekend. I'm starving."
"You always eat like a horse when you've been working too hard."
"Yeah, it's a wonder I'm not as big as the house."
Laura pats his arm. "You always take care of yourself eventually."
"I try," John says, turning back for the kitchen.
He grabs a large plate from the cupboard and dumps the eggs onto it. "So, what's up?" he says, sliding the eggs onto the table and sticking the pan in the sink.
Laura shifts from one foot to the other just inside the kitchen. "The last time I talked to you, it didn't go so well."
John thinks back a few months and snorts before opening the fridge for the orange juice. "That's one way to put it."
"And then yesterday I got a call from Peter Donaldson's office asking for your old x-rays and medical history."
John pulls out the orange juice, opens the carton and takes a long swig. "Yeah, you can release those."
"They said you were starting PT."
John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, I am."
"That's - that's really great, John. Dr. Donaldson is one of the best orthopedists in the country."
John drinks more orange juice. "He better be."
Laura's quiet and John braces for whatever's coming next. "Can I ask how you met him?"
Oh, that. "My partner, Sherman. They go back; and it turns out that Donaldson is Navy. He does a lot of work with vets."
Laura gives him that smile again. She opens her mouth and Ben's voice calls out. "John, you cooking? I don't smell anything burning yet."
Behind Laura, Ben comes into view. His hair is a mess, his face is lined from sleep and he's in his underwear. This is John's life.
John sets the orange juice down on the counter as Laura turns around, gets an eyeful of Ben and then turns back to him, her eyebrows climbing into her hairline. "I was wondering whose motorcycle that was."
John rubs his face. "Laura, this is Ben. Ben, this is Laura." A beat. "My ex-wife."
When Ben's skin flushes, it goes all the way down.
Laura's smile is incredibly scary. "Ben," she says extending her hand. "It's very nice to meet you."
John's across the kitchen in four large steps. "Laura works at Cedars," he says meaningfully as Ben shakes her hand.
"And where do you work?" Laura says, smoothly evading John's conversation change, which is what happens when you're married to someone for 11 years.
"I, uh, I work with John."
Laura turns back to John, studying him shrewdly.
"He's in training," John confesses.
Laura's face goes completely slack. "Oh," she saying knowingly. And then her face slips back into a perfectly pleasant façade. "Well, John, I'll talk to you later. Ben, it's so nice to meet you."
Laura's emphasis on the word 'so' makes John's teeth hurt.
John's just ushering Laura out when Ben's voice calls out. "Wait, Laura, before you go, could you do me a favor and get rid of these?"
They both turn back to see Ben just behind John holding a brown paper bag that he offers to Laura.
"What's that?" John asks as Laura opens the bag, glances inside and then looks up at Ben.
"Stuff you don't need anymore," Ben says curtly.
Laura just nods. "I can do that."
Ben nods. "Thanks."
Laura smiles at John and then at Ben. "Enjoy your day off," she says before turning around and walking away.
John watches her get into her car and drive off. He then shuts the door, turns around and crosses his arms. "Okay, what the hell was that about?"
"What was what about?" Ben asks, turning away and walking towards the kitchen. Ben's ass looks so tempting in his gray boxer-briefs that for long seconds John forgets what he's talking about.
He shakes his head. Focus, Cooper. And not on that perfect ass.
"Hey did you make these?" Ben asks.
John blinks. Ben's bent over the kitchen table, poking at the eggs with a finger.
"Yeah," John says belatedly.
Ben grabs two forks from the drying rack, sits down and begins working his way through the eggs.
He looks up when John crowds his space at the table, offering him a fork. John purses his lips. "You gave her my pills, didn't you?"
Ben's gaze doesn't waver. "Yeah, I did."
John takes the fork. "If I didn't like you, I'd probably stab you with this," he says, nudging Ben to the side and perching on half of Ben's chair.
Ben smiles at him, his face still lightly creased from sleep. "I know."
Part III