if you say no.
Southland. Cooper/Sherman-ish. 2962 words. Non-explicit.
Not true, etc.
Oh look, another random thing. I think this is from 2010.
john finds being sick kind of humiliating. because it's one thing to feel like hell -- he can handle that. he does handle that, and maybe it makes him feel out of control, but at least he can control who gets to see it. (sherman -- doesn't. he alway watching, but john doesn't give him the satisfaction of figuring out everything.) it's another thing to sneeze in the middle of every fucking conversation he's had today and have sherman waiting with a "bless you" every single time.
after the tenth time, john wants to just tell him the shut the fuck already. his eyes are all watery and his head aches, and having sherman on standby like he wants to hand john a fucking hanky is not making him feel any better.
he ignores sherman instead. it's a nasty trick, he knows, but it works; by noon, sherman is awkwardly giving him the cold shoulder back. if there's one thing that bothers sherman -- and it might just be one thing, john thinks, because he has yet to find anything else sherman won't just step up to -- it's being ignored. he wants feedback. he wants you to pat him on the head like he's a good boy or a kick in the ass, it doesn't matter. he just wants something.
and john is not giving it to him. it's a slow day; john spends the majority of it chastising repeat offenders he's tired of seeing and punks who think they can graffiti alameda in broad daylight without a concerned citizen calling the cops. and sherman's a decent cop, john will give him that much, but he's shit at dealing with people. he's stiff, his hand resting on his holster, his mouth tight.
one day john will teach him that acting like someone is going to pull a gun out is eventually going to make it happen. today is not that day. today, john lets the punks off with a gruff warning, and sherman's still stiff when they get back in the car. it takes the time from there to the corner for john to realize sherman's waiting for something. he's facing forward, but john gets that weird feeling he always gets when he knows sherman's looking at him. trying to look through him. sherman's kind of quiet is louder than any silence john's had to endure.
he thinks about what he's going to make for dinner. the radio is staticky but uneventful, and john sneezes twice at the red light. he can see sherman open his mouth out of the corner of his eye, but by the time they get back to the station, he seems to have given up on everything he wanted to say.
*
john's kind of sick creeps up on him so slowly he almost doesn't notice it. one day he feels off, and the next day he feels more tired than usual, and the next day waking up is like taking his first breath after drowning. it's not that it feels bad -- because he always does -- but that he's surprised by what bad feels like, for once.
it gets better after he showers, and better yet after coffee and pills. good enough to go to work, even with a sore throat and a constant tickle in his nose. humiliating, yeah, but john doesn't think there's anyway around that. if he didn't come in, he'd get shit for staying in bed with the sniffles until he couldn't pretend to be amused anymore. at least he feels like he's doing something right by being there.
the pills hold up until lunch time, and adrenaline keeps him running until he changes back into his civilian clothes. and after that he doesn't have to pretend anymore, so he goes home and sleeps before he's hungry enough to wake up. he's awful at being sick; he's the first to admit that. his way of dealing with is to not deal with it. as long as it goes away, john doesn't really give a fuck about the rest.
it's a little after six when he order dinner, a little after seven when it gets here. he has a headache and breathing hurts, and he doesn't tip the shit who finally managed to bring his food here. not that he ever does -- he orders from the same mexican place every time, and there are two delivery guys who get it right and the one he got tonight. the kid doesn't even bother to look surprised when john shuts the door in his face.
it takes about two seconds for john to realize he's not actually hungry. the food is warm and greasy, and he takes two bites of a burrito before he threatens to throw them back up. he doesn't gag; it just feels like his stomach is turning inside out.
he eats another bite anyway before he tosses it back into the bag. he can heat it up later, when he's sure it's not going to come back up.
he stands up, and maybe he feels a little dizzy, and maybe he just feels like he should. he swallows and just gets a beer out of the fridge. he gulps down half of it before he bothers to push the refrigerator door closed; liquids are staying down just fine.
john doesn't know what time he falls back sleep, or if he sleeps at all. but when he blinks his eyes open at it's almost nine, and his doorbell rings. it doesn't feel like the first time.
his body aches and he feels hot, and he yells, "just a fucking second." talking makes him feel like he's going to throw up, and he curses whoever is on the other side of the door a handful of times before he ever bothers to see who it is. when he does, he says, "what the fuck, sherman." it's not a question.
sherman looks surprised to see john, like he's not standing on his fucking doorstep, but he still smiles and opens his palm in a semi-wave. john just stares at him for a few seconds before sherman lets his arm drop and he says, "hey, are you going to let me in?"
"jesus christ, kid," john says, because this is the first time sherman's ever been by. not that he didn't know where john lived, but john wasn't expecting him to remember it. and yet here he is, and john just stares at him like he's an idiot before sherman drops his head like he's embarrassed or some shit, and john says, "yeah, come on," and fumbles with the lock on the screen door.
"hey," sherman says again, once the screen door rattles shut behind him. he's wearing a t-shirt even though night time temperatures are in the mid-50s now and holding a plastic bag.
john pointedly stares at his hand, before sherman still doesn't say anything else, and then he crosses his arms over his chest. obviously defensive, but he doesn't really give a fuck. "are you going to tell me why you're here?"
sherman frowns at him for a moment, before he shrugs and says, "you're sick."
"okay," john says, and cocks his head at him. he can feel the corners of his mouth twitching up; it's always easier to deal with john when he's mocking him a little bit. "and? did you drive all the way here to tell me that?"
"no," sherman says, and takes three steps forward. john makes himself uncross his arms and takes four back. his empty beer bottle ends up like a foot away from his hand, and he picks it up and walks into the kitchen. sherman doesn't follow him, which is good, and he's tossing the can into the recycling when sherman says, "i brought you some medicine," which isn't.
"what, you don't think i can take care of myself?" john says, snorting. he grabs another beer while he's in here, and after a moment, grabs an extra one. for himself, for sherman. preferably for himself.
"i don't think you have been," sherman says.
when john comes back into the living room, sherman's standing exactly where john left him. the bag is on his coffee table, and john gestures with a beer, half 'just take it' and half 'if you insist on being here, you might as well get comfortable.'
sherman takes it. he doesn't get comfortable. john sprawls back on the couch, watching him over his beer when he takes a drink and tries to interrupt any sneeze that tries to happen. sherman holds his beer in both hands and looks at john like he doesn't mean to, his shoulders near his ears.
it's fucking irritating, to say the least. john can take it just about as long as he can hold in his sneezing, and then sherman says, "bless you," and john says, "would you just fuck off? i don't need you to be here."
"i didn't say you did," sherman says, calmly, with a quiet twist of his mouth.
always fucking calm, sherman is -- and john knows he isn't, but he doesn't feel calm at all, and he can't really stand it. he feels like sherman has the upper hand and he knows it. john is not in the mood to deal with it, but he doesn't want to let sherman know that, too.
it takes about two seconds for him to realize sherman does, anyway. he goes all soft -- soft is the only word for it -- and leans forward, sets his beer on the table. he runs his hand over his head and says, "just let me do something."
"you can leave," john tells him, pointing toward the door.
sherman opens his mouth and closes it two seconds later. he looks mildly confused, in a way, and john takes a drink of his beer. eventually sherman says, "i'm your partner."
"yeah," john says, feeling his face tense up. "and what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"it means someone needs to do something when you feel like shit," sherman says, frowning back at him. it's times like these where john can't let himself forget how young sherman is, because sherman won't let him.
"i'm doing something." john gestures like a salute with his beer. the conversation doesn't feel funny anymore, doesn't feel worth slipping into. "i'm getting drunk. anything else?"
"yeah," sherman says, frowning even harder, before he reaches forward and grabs john's beer. "it means i don't have to deal with this. take some fucking medicine."
"am i supposed to mix it with alcohol?" john half-laughs at sherman's back, and sherman doesn't even turn around. john's head feels so full of pressure he thinks his skull is going to crack, and he just. fuck, he gives up. he palms the back of his neck and feels like he's burning up. he probably is. he doesn't own a thermometer, at least not one he can locate. he doesn't even to know, at this point.
while sherman does whatever the fuck he's doing in the kitchen, john finally takes his shoes off. he unlaces his boots and stuffs his socks in, sets them down next to the end table. if he has to deal with this, he might as well get comfortable.
"okay," sherman says when he comes back. he has a glass of water, which he sets in front of john, on a coaster. john has coasters but he doesn't really use them. he doesn't say anything to sherman, just looks at him like he's a fucking idiot, which is is, and also like he's in front of the tv, which is keeping john from seeing espn. sherman looks over his shoulder but doesn't move.
"so, uh--"
"so, uh?" john mocks.
sherman doesn't seem to notice his tone. he kneels down and shuffles through the bag he brought. "i didn't think you had anything--" john does, at least not for this. "--so i bought a bit of everything."
by everything, he's almost telling the truth. "it looks like you robbed a drug store," john says, and sherman looks up and gives him a crooked smile. he doesn't know what sherman is doing, kneeling in front of the table, being so unhelpful; he looks away first. he's not about to ask.
"sore throat," sherman says, and it takes a minute for john to realize it's a question. he just clenches his jaw, and sherman says, "yeah, okay," and lists off three more symptoms that john doesn't say no to. "are you allergic to anything?"
"no," john says, and sherman flicks a package of tylenol into his lap. john looks up and quirks an eyebrow at him, and sherman just gives his this soft little stare back before john looks back down and pulls the package open. "i'll take it, okay," he says. "you can run along back home now, kid."
sherman scratches his ear and asks, "have you had any dinner yet?"
john obviously hasn't; there's a bag full of food still on the table. he also didn't have lunch, and sherman knows that. john ignores the question and pops three pills out instead, even though the directions tells him two.
he stumbles onto his feet -- actually stumbles, for a second, and sherman tries to catch him before he realizes john's not coming down. he clasps john's elbow, just for a moment, before john shakes him off. sherman's hands feel like icicles. john thinks about making a comment, but it doesn't seem worth it. he just nudges past sherman and heads for the bathroom where he can take everything he needs.
"i bought soup," sherman tells his back. "just chicken noodle."
"fine," john says, and swallows the pills dry. it hurts more than he's expecting, so he drinks some water from the bathroom faucet before he takes the rest.
*
waking up isn't better as much as he knows it could be worse. everything is sore and stale, and he feels disgusting, for lack of wanting a better word. the kind of disgusting a shower can't even wash away, which he thinks pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the day.
he just lays there for a few seconds before he realizes there's a reason he woke up: sherman's standing by the side of his bed, shaking his knee like he knows he shouldn't be touching john but he had to anyway. john knows he's hard to wake up, so he just grunts and squints at sherman. the blinds are closed but the room is still too bright, and everything fucking hurts. he can't even think enough to ask sherman why he's here. when he opens his mouth, nothing come out.
sherman smiles a tired sort of smile and says, "hey, you have to get up."
john glares until his eyes close. eventually he opens them enough to look at the clock, and then he glares some more. it's twenty three minutes later than he usually lets himself sleep in, and fuck if he didn't need them today. he grunts at sherman again and generally waves him off as he sits up.
sherman moves to stand in the doorway, and when john's feeling less like his head is filled with cotton -- which is not much of an improvement at this point -- he asks, "why the fuck are you still here?"
"ah, honestly," sherman says, and john doesn't have to look at him to know he's embarrassed. "i just fell asleep."
john just stares at him for a second. sherman's not blushing, but he can't look at john. "and for some reason, you couldn't go home." sherman doesn't say anything; john takes that to mean he just didn't. "shit, kid. you don't need to watch over me."
"i know," sherman says. john thinks sherman doesn't know a lot of things, and that's why he's here right now. he's wearing what he wore last night, minus his shoes, and his socks are bright white in the weak morning light.
john doesn't realize he's staring for as long as he is until sherman clears his throat and gestures down the hallway. he says, "i figured i'd make something to eat, if you wanted," and doesn't give john time to decide before he slips around the door frame.
"hey." john has to raise his voice, and it still hurts, and the creaky floor in the hallway fall silent. he clears his throat. "don't forget coffee," he says, his voice cracking.
"yeah, okay," sherman says, and john feels his shoulders falling forward. "i'll find it."
"okay," john replies, and he waits until the sound of sherman's footsteps fade before he pushes himself off his bed. the room tilts to the left and hasn't righted itself by the time john has blinked three times. it figures that everything feels worse now.
Not true, etc.
Oh look, another random thing. I think this is from 2010.
john finds being sick kind of humiliating. because it's one thing to feel like hell -- he can handle that. he does handle that, and maybe it makes him feel out of control, but at least he can control who gets to see it. (sherman -- doesn't. he alway watching, but john doesn't give him the satisfaction of figuring out everything.) it's another thing to sneeze in the middle of every fucking conversation he's had today and have sherman waiting with a "bless you" every single time.
after the tenth time, john wants to just tell him the shut the fuck already. his eyes are all watery and his head aches, and having sherman on standby like he wants to hand john a fucking hanky is not making him feel any better.
he ignores sherman instead. it's a nasty trick, he knows, but it works; by noon, sherman is awkwardly giving him the cold shoulder back. if there's one thing that bothers sherman -- and it might just be one thing, john thinks, because he has yet to find anything else sherman won't just step up to -- it's being ignored. he wants feedback. he wants you to pat him on the head like he's a good boy or a kick in the ass, it doesn't matter. he just wants something.
and john is not giving it to him. it's a slow day; john spends the majority of it chastising repeat offenders he's tired of seeing and punks who think they can graffiti alameda in broad daylight without a concerned citizen calling the cops. and sherman's a decent cop, john will give him that much, but he's shit at dealing with people. he's stiff, his hand resting on his holster, his mouth tight.
one day john will teach him that acting like someone is going to pull a gun out is eventually going to make it happen. today is not that day. today, john lets the punks off with a gruff warning, and sherman's still stiff when they get back in the car. it takes the time from there to the corner for john to realize sherman's waiting for something. he's facing forward, but john gets that weird feeling he always gets when he knows sherman's looking at him. trying to look through him. sherman's kind of quiet is louder than any silence john's had to endure.
he thinks about what he's going to make for dinner. the radio is staticky but uneventful, and john sneezes twice at the red light. he can see sherman open his mouth out of the corner of his eye, but by the time they get back to the station, he seems to have given up on everything he wanted to say.
*
john's kind of sick creeps up on him so slowly he almost doesn't notice it. one day he feels off, and the next day he feels more tired than usual, and the next day waking up is like taking his first breath after drowning. it's not that it feels bad -- because he always does -- but that he's surprised by what bad feels like, for once.
it gets better after he showers, and better yet after coffee and pills. good enough to go to work, even with a sore throat and a constant tickle in his nose. humiliating, yeah, but john doesn't think there's anyway around that. if he didn't come in, he'd get shit for staying in bed with the sniffles until he couldn't pretend to be amused anymore. at least he feels like he's doing something right by being there.
the pills hold up until lunch time, and adrenaline keeps him running until he changes back into his civilian clothes. and after that he doesn't have to pretend anymore, so he goes home and sleeps before he's hungry enough to wake up. he's awful at being sick; he's the first to admit that. his way of dealing with is to not deal with it. as long as it goes away, john doesn't really give a fuck about the rest.
it's a little after six when he order dinner, a little after seven when it gets here. he has a headache and breathing hurts, and he doesn't tip the shit who finally managed to bring his food here. not that he ever does -- he orders from the same mexican place every time, and there are two delivery guys who get it right and the one he got tonight. the kid doesn't even bother to look surprised when john shuts the door in his face.
it takes about two seconds for john to realize he's not actually hungry. the food is warm and greasy, and he takes two bites of a burrito before he threatens to throw them back up. he doesn't gag; it just feels like his stomach is turning inside out.
he eats another bite anyway before he tosses it back into the bag. he can heat it up later, when he's sure it's not going to come back up.
he stands up, and maybe he feels a little dizzy, and maybe he just feels like he should. he swallows and just gets a beer out of the fridge. he gulps down half of it before he bothers to push the refrigerator door closed; liquids are staying down just fine.
john doesn't know what time he falls back sleep, or if he sleeps at all. but when he blinks his eyes open at it's almost nine, and his doorbell rings. it doesn't feel like the first time.
his body aches and he feels hot, and he yells, "just a fucking second." talking makes him feel like he's going to throw up, and he curses whoever is on the other side of the door a handful of times before he ever bothers to see who it is. when he does, he says, "what the fuck, sherman." it's not a question.
sherman looks surprised to see john, like he's not standing on his fucking doorstep, but he still smiles and opens his palm in a semi-wave. john just stares at him for a few seconds before sherman lets his arm drop and he says, "hey, are you going to let me in?"
"jesus christ, kid," john says, because this is the first time sherman's ever been by. not that he didn't know where john lived, but john wasn't expecting him to remember it. and yet here he is, and john just stares at him like he's an idiot before sherman drops his head like he's embarrassed or some shit, and john says, "yeah, come on," and fumbles with the lock on the screen door.
"hey," sherman says again, once the screen door rattles shut behind him. he's wearing a t-shirt even though night time temperatures are in the mid-50s now and holding a plastic bag.
john pointedly stares at his hand, before sherman still doesn't say anything else, and then he crosses his arms over his chest. obviously defensive, but he doesn't really give a fuck. "are you going to tell me why you're here?"
sherman frowns at him for a moment, before he shrugs and says, "you're sick."
"okay," john says, and cocks his head at him. he can feel the corners of his mouth twitching up; it's always easier to deal with john when he's mocking him a little bit. "and? did you drive all the way here to tell me that?"
"no," sherman says, and takes three steps forward. john makes himself uncross his arms and takes four back. his empty beer bottle ends up like a foot away from his hand, and he picks it up and walks into the kitchen. sherman doesn't follow him, which is good, and he's tossing the can into the recycling when sherman says, "i brought you some medicine," which isn't.
"what, you don't think i can take care of myself?" john says, snorting. he grabs another beer while he's in here, and after a moment, grabs an extra one. for himself, for sherman. preferably for himself.
"i don't think you have been," sherman says.
when john comes back into the living room, sherman's standing exactly where john left him. the bag is on his coffee table, and john gestures with a beer, half 'just take it' and half 'if you insist on being here, you might as well get comfortable.'
sherman takes it. he doesn't get comfortable. john sprawls back on the couch, watching him over his beer when he takes a drink and tries to interrupt any sneeze that tries to happen. sherman holds his beer in both hands and looks at john like he doesn't mean to, his shoulders near his ears.
it's fucking irritating, to say the least. john can take it just about as long as he can hold in his sneezing, and then sherman says, "bless you," and john says, "would you just fuck off? i don't need you to be here."
"i didn't say you did," sherman says, calmly, with a quiet twist of his mouth.
always fucking calm, sherman is -- and john knows he isn't, but he doesn't feel calm at all, and he can't really stand it. he feels like sherman has the upper hand and he knows it. john is not in the mood to deal with it, but he doesn't want to let sherman know that, too.
it takes about two seconds for him to realize sherman does, anyway. he goes all soft -- soft is the only word for it -- and leans forward, sets his beer on the table. he runs his hand over his head and says, "just let me do something."
"you can leave," john tells him, pointing toward the door.
sherman opens his mouth and closes it two seconds later. he looks mildly confused, in a way, and john takes a drink of his beer. eventually sherman says, "i'm your partner."
"yeah," john says, feeling his face tense up. "and what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"it means someone needs to do something when you feel like shit," sherman says, frowning back at him. it's times like these where john can't let himself forget how young sherman is, because sherman won't let him.
"i'm doing something." john gestures like a salute with his beer. the conversation doesn't feel funny anymore, doesn't feel worth slipping into. "i'm getting drunk. anything else?"
"yeah," sherman says, frowning even harder, before he reaches forward and grabs john's beer. "it means i don't have to deal with this. take some fucking medicine."
"am i supposed to mix it with alcohol?" john half-laughs at sherman's back, and sherman doesn't even turn around. john's head feels so full of pressure he thinks his skull is going to crack, and he just. fuck, he gives up. he palms the back of his neck and feels like he's burning up. he probably is. he doesn't own a thermometer, at least not one he can locate. he doesn't even to know, at this point.
while sherman does whatever the fuck he's doing in the kitchen, john finally takes his shoes off. he unlaces his boots and stuffs his socks in, sets them down next to the end table. if he has to deal with this, he might as well get comfortable.
"okay," sherman says when he comes back. he has a glass of water, which he sets in front of john, on a coaster. john has coasters but he doesn't really use them. he doesn't say anything to sherman, just looks at him like he's a fucking idiot, which is is, and also like he's in front of the tv, which is keeping john from seeing espn. sherman looks over his shoulder but doesn't move.
"so, uh--"
"so, uh?" john mocks.
sherman doesn't seem to notice his tone. he kneels down and shuffles through the bag he brought. "i didn't think you had anything--" john does, at least not for this. "--so i bought a bit of everything."
by everything, he's almost telling the truth. "it looks like you robbed a drug store," john says, and sherman looks up and gives him a crooked smile. he doesn't know what sherman is doing, kneeling in front of the table, being so unhelpful; he looks away first. he's not about to ask.
"sore throat," sherman says, and it takes a minute for john to realize it's a question. he just clenches his jaw, and sherman says, "yeah, okay," and lists off three more symptoms that john doesn't say no to. "are you allergic to anything?"
"no," john says, and sherman flicks a package of tylenol into his lap. john looks up and quirks an eyebrow at him, and sherman just gives his this soft little stare back before john looks back down and pulls the package open. "i'll take it, okay," he says. "you can run along back home now, kid."
sherman scratches his ear and asks, "have you had any dinner yet?"
john obviously hasn't; there's a bag full of food still on the table. he also didn't have lunch, and sherman knows that. john ignores the question and pops three pills out instead, even though the directions tells him two.
he stumbles onto his feet -- actually stumbles, for a second, and sherman tries to catch him before he realizes john's not coming down. he clasps john's elbow, just for a moment, before john shakes him off. sherman's hands feel like icicles. john thinks about making a comment, but it doesn't seem worth it. he just nudges past sherman and heads for the bathroom where he can take everything he needs.
"i bought soup," sherman tells his back. "just chicken noodle."
"fine," john says, and swallows the pills dry. it hurts more than he's expecting, so he drinks some water from the bathroom faucet before he takes the rest.
*
waking up isn't better as much as he knows it could be worse. everything is sore and stale, and he feels disgusting, for lack of wanting a better word. the kind of disgusting a shower can't even wash away, which he thinks pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the day.
he just lays there for a few seconds before he realizes there's a reason he woke up: sherman's standing by the side of his bed, shaking his knee like he knows he shouldn't be touching john but he had to anyway. john knows he's hard to wake up, so he just grunts and squints at sherman. the blinds are closed but the room is still too bright, and everything fucking hurts. he can't even think enough to ask sherman why he's here. when he opens his mouth, nothing come out.
sherman smiles a tired sort of smile and says, "hey, you have to get up."
john glares until his eyes close. eventually he opens them enough to look at the clock, and then he glares some more. it's twenty three minutes later than he usually lets himself sleep in, and fuck if he didn't need them today. he grunts at sherman again and generally waves him off as he sits up.
sherman moves to stand in the doorway, and when john's feeling less like his head is filled with cotton -- which is not much of an improvement at this point -- he asks, "why the fuck are you still here?"
"ah, honestly," sherman says, and john doesn't have to look at him to know he's embarrassed. "i just fell asleep."
john just stares at him for a second. sherman's not blushing, but he can't look at john. "and for some reason, you couldn't go home." sherman doesn't say anything; john takes that to mean he just didn't. "shit, kid. you don't need to watch over me."
"i know," sherman says. john thinks sherman doesn't know a lot of things, and that's why he's here right now. he's wearing what he wore last night, minus his shoes, and his socks are bright white in the weak morning light.
john doesn't realize he's staring for as long as he is until sherman clears his throat and gestures down the hallway. he says, "i figured i'd make something to eat, if you wanted," and doesn't give john time to decide before he slips around the door frame.
"hey." john has to raise his voice, and it still hurts, and the creaky floor in the hallway fall silent. he clears his throat. "don't forget coffee," he says, his voice cracking.
"yeah, okay," sherman says, and john feels his shoulders falling forward. "i'll find it."
"okay," john replies, and he waits until the sound of sherman's footsteps fade before he pushes himself off his bed. the room tilts to the left and hasn't righted itself by the time john has blinked three times. it figures that everything feels worse now.