Disclaimer-
I do not own the television show Southland.
Author's Note-
For the life of me I can't remember what episode this particular scene is from (season 1, definitely), so I'm just basing it off on the good ol' memory. "Him" in this story is referring to John Cooper (for a reason). Rated 'M' for potty-mouths. Your thoughts are much appreciated. :)
Ben
the victim can be the suspect; the suspect can be the victim
It's barely nine o'clock in the morning, and already the polyester material that makes up your navy blue Los Angeles Police Department uniform is stuck to your sweat-coated body like a second skin.
The sun beats down on the hood of His cruiser, heavy rays glaring against the windshield. You pull your arms off the dashboard and throw one across your face to try and block the too bright light from burning the pupils of your bloodshot eyes, 'cuz you were stupid enough this one morning to leave your sunglasses at home.
(Another constant reminder that you'd been up since midnight, tossing and turning in your little bed in your small condo on the hillside of Beverly Hills – no pun intended – unable to ignore the noises – screams gun shots sirens screams fizz of beer sliding down your throat – that pounded at the back of your skull 'till it hurt so much you thought your eyeballs were going to pop out of your eye sockets and your brain was going to fill in the slots.)
His hands move the steering wheel to the right; wheels jerk against pavement, rolling to a stop outside a seedy-looking convenience store on some street you'd never been to. Fuck goddamnit, you want to ask, why did we stop?
He turns to you and then His mouth is moving, so fast that you can barely understand what He's saying, the blood pounding in your ears is so loud. You've already stopped paying attention. It's just a blur of syllables and radio static and white noise growing louder, louder, anyway – no need to stop counting how many times your heart slams against your rib cage.
"Got it?"
Oh, Jesus, He's stopped talking, why the fuck has He stopped talking? And now He's staring at you with those baby blues that can frown and sigh at the same time. You go through the mechanics of opening the car door in your head: unbuckle seatbelt, place fingers on the handle, clutch the metal bar, release, push open.
He dips his mouth back in to yell at you when you don't follow Him.
"Get out of the fucking car, Sherman."
You hate yourself when He yells and hate yourself more when He doesn't. He makes you feel wanted, needy, like an expensive porcelain China doll that can be looked at but not touched, 'cuz no matter how much the little girl wants to play with it if she smudges the figurine's little rosy red cheeks and tears a brush through fake hair then it will be completely ruined, broken beyond repair (just like you).
Hardy har har.
You stumble out after Him, the sudden wash of dry air making your tongue stick to the inside of your cheek. It must be at least one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, so hot out you're surprised the asphalt hasn't already started melting into puddles beneath your feet.
He tells you to one: get your head out of your ass; and two: go inside to see why the hell the two of you'd been radio-ed out here so early. You agree with Him on the last part, but just through the windows you can already see an ugly argument brewing that makes your empty stomach jump into your throat.
When you enter the store, a bell chimes above your head and you nearly shit your intestines out at the sudden clatter. Fingers laced around the handle of the gun you'd ripped out from your holster, you crouch down and hurriedly crawl up each aisle bent over, hearing voices rise and rise in a foreign language – Hindi? – that block out the ones screaming in your head.
You find yourself at the back of the store, pointing the barrel at the man who's standing behind the counter. Startled, he whips around and starts screaming at you, cheeks wet and shiny, and you start screaming at him, too. Tell him to get down, put his hands behind his back.
When he doesn't do anything, continues roaring and choking on spit and unshed tears, you swing out a fist and watch his shaking frame crumple to the floor. Your gun finds itself back you're your holster and you hop over the counter, damn-near stepping on his neck.
Metal handcuffs wrap their greedy mouths around his wrists and you haul his arms up, legs struggling to move forward. You kick on the back of his heels and push him out the door, tell him to sit down onto the curb next to another stringy-looking man in a dirty white tee-shirt.
You glance at Him, notice the scowl on His face somewhere in between the sun and the shadows, and you frown, too.
He points at White Tee with a stubby finger. "The victim can be the suspect." Then, at Tear Jones. "The suspect can be the victim."
Shit. Fuck.
This is new, you want to tell Him, scream until you can't hear anything else except your vocal chords tearing apart. This is fucking new and He doesn't need to be such a hard-ass since half the time you're still trying to figure out how to breathe.
But, like always, He doesn't get it and He never will get it.
('Cuz after all, you're just a fucking kid.)
So you keep your lips shut for the rest of the day. You've learned your lesson.