Alternative ending to U-Boat. John Cooper is well aware of the man he is – unyielding, dominant, hard on fools. His skin is too tough for anything to get under it, until the night he sits on a cold pavement with a young boot he just can't seem to walk away from.
Living In The Grey
For once, you don't have to fight to keep your expression neutral when Cesar strolls over and presents the rescued sneakers with a flourish. Usually it is a struggle to keep the smirk off your face when you make eye contact with your occasional bed-mate but tonight your tired mind is far away from waking up next to the Latino firefighter.
"Gotta take better care of your stuff, man," Cesar announces to Ben, playing on his accent a little, his usual tell when he finds someone attractive. His dark eyes dance between the two of you, clearly noticing your unintentional identical stances, your near-identical hugging jeans and dark t-shirts that display every contour of your hard-muscled frames. For a second, his grin falters.
"Thank you." Sherman takes the sneakers; doesn't bother to explain their actual ownership.
"Think that makes us even on favours, Coop," Cesar announces.
You nod your acknowledgement but don't reply. Cesar knows how to play the game; he nods casually in return and steps back, flinging Ben a final grin that is returned uncertainly. Rich boy politeness rather than the interest Cesar is looking for.
"See you guys around."
Sherman jogs across the street to the house opposite, tucks the sneakers by the front step before returning to sit beside you again, as if he's not sure where else to go. You both watch the fire truck pull away, leaving a gentle silence in the softly-lit street that is somehow at odds with the strain you are both feeling.
"Thanks, Coop," Sherman finally says, risking a quick glance across at you. Thanks for responding to his awkward text, thanks for being there or for arranging the rescue of the shoes, you're not sure.
"We gonna sit here all goddamn night or what?" You haul yourself slowly to your feet, hoping the sharp exhalation of pain isn't audible. From Sherman's expression as he stands fluidly, it is.
"You think I'm gonna dream about her?" Sherman's voice sounds very loud in the quiet night, abrupt as he blurts out his question.
You pause in your slow, deliberate walk back to the Challenger. Turn to face the rookie again.
"Probably. For a while. But it'll stop." You look straight at him, by now knowing that eye contact calms the kid. "It always does."
"How do you handle it?" There is urgency in his tone now, a desperation born of his helplessness.
"Me? I drink a lotta whisky." You let a smile jerk your lips despite your own mood at the stupidity of your day. "But I'm twice the size of you, so don't take that as a recommendation."
Sherman doesn't smile; his gaze fights to keep hold of yours and you allow him to win. "I see her if I close my eyes."
You heave a gentle sigh, acknowledgement of your own resignation. This night is not going to end here, sending this Beverly Hills pretty boy back to his own kind while you head for the real world and try to put your own demons to bed.
"Get in the car, Boot," you say softly.
There is a momentary flicker of confusion on the kid's face before he understands, realises the very complicated dynamics of your partnership are changing yet again. He follows obediently to the Challenger, slides into the passenger seat.
"Where we going?" he asks as the engine roars and you pull swiftly away from the kerb.
"We're gonna to buy beer, get a takeout, then we're going to your place 'cos it's closer than mine. And we're gonna drink and you're gonna get it all off your little chest so you don't have a Beverly Hills-style breakdown and need to ride the shrink's couch all over again."
He exhales softly. "Okay," is all he has to say, which is fine by you.
You let the silence sit for a moment, gauging his mind-frame, but he's chewing at his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, fists clenched without him being aware of it. He's breathing shallowly, eyes staring out the windshield at nothing.
"This really is the greatest show on Earth, kid." You see his head jerk up as he recognises those words from his first day, words you think he will probably remember for the rest of his life. He'd stared at you that night, his gaze clinging to yours with absolute need, like you were the only one who could save him. And through the terror, the shock, trust had glinted. Just like there is now as he finally looks at you.
"It may not always feel like it, but it is. And I know it gets to you, but you gonna learn to let it get to you in a positive way. Let it inspire you, let it motivate you, make you a better cop. But you can't let it get to you so it defeats you. You can't let it overcome you."
You are not a great one for speeches and you haven't spouted off some heartfelt soliloquy about the power of the badge, the magnitude of the job, for a while. But tonight you are stirred by your choking baby story and you are remembering exactly why the two of you put on the uniform every day.
"Bein' a cop isn't about bein' a hero or bein' an asshole, Ben," you say. "It's about bein' human. No matter how much we wanna be sometimes, we're not robots. We feel hurt just like everyone else, only difference is we gotta deal with it faster and smarter than other people."
He's watching you, surprise evident in his expressive face at your rare use of his forename, and you know he's taking in every word because his breathing has become regular and quiet.
"Right now, you feel like any other guy on the street who's just seen someone he was emotionally invested in die. But tomorrow, you won't. Tomorrow you'll deal with it like a cop. 'Cos you ain't got a choice, kid. It's in you now; it's part of you. And that's not a bad thing."
"I don't want to stop caring," he mumbles.
"Did I say you would? I act like I don't give a damn most of the time but shit still gets to me. I just know how to hide it and I deal with it when I'm ready, not right there at the scene. That's why, after a bad day, I sit in my kitchen with a bottle of whisky for a few hours. 'Cos I know when I get in the locker room the next day, I'm gonna be okay."
"Is this really gonna be out of my head tomorrow?" he almost whispers.
"No. It'll still be there. It'll probably be there for a long time. 'Specially at night when you got nothin' else to concentrate on. But it won't take over you."
"How'd you know?"
"'Cos we're not so different, kid. That's how I know."
He opens his mouth but can't find a reply. You let silence fall so he can take his usual ten minutes to work out his response.
A case of Corona is snagged; Thai food grabbed without bothering to consult Sherman 'cos he'll take at least a half hour to make a choice. Arrive at the cool, soulless shoebox he calls a home without the rookie saying a word. He lets you in, stands awkwardly in the kitchen as you shove bottles in the fridge and search for plates, as if unsure why you are in his house.
"Do I have to open the beer with my teeth?" you demand.
He finally starts into action, finding the bottle opener in a drawer that seems to be empty of any kind of cooking utensils. If a single meal had been cooked in this kitchen, you would be amazed.
"Table or couch?" you ask Sherman as he continues to stand with two opened beers in his hands.
"Couch, I guess."
You stride through to the living room as if you own the place, shove Sherman's takeout carton at him and take a bottle in return. Note the lack of decoration, any real personal touches, as you gingerly settle on the couch.
"You actually live here or do you just use it as a place to watch TV occasionally?"
A shrug. "Bought it pretty recently. Haven't got around to doing much with it."
"You like the place?"
"Not really. It's okay, I guess."
"So why buy it?" You're curious in spite of yourself. You're pretty sure you get this kid, know what makes him tick, but when it comes to stuff like this, you can't explain his motivations.
"Blank canvas," he says after a moment's chewing. "No memories, no reminders."
"You could at least hang a picture of a sunset or something. Or paint a wall a different colour. And, y'know, maybe buy something except dinner forks for your kitchen."
"Thanks for the advice, Martha."
Another shrug, but at least he's stopped picking at the rice grain by grain; he's eating steadily and he hasn't mentioned the dead chick.
"Was it really that bad?" you ask, and immediately want to punch yourself for letting your curiosity get the better of you. What the fuck did it matter if Sherman had a rough ride growing up in the lap of luxury?
"Sometimes," he mumbles.
Well, at least you got a nice car and a pristine new apartment outta your fucked-up parents, kid. "Past shouldn't matter anymore. It's not about what happened back then; it's about who you are now."
"And now I'm a cop," he says with most scathing smile you have ever seen him throw.
"Damn fuckin' straight you are. You gotta start rememberin' that when you sit starin' at four white walls all night."
"Least I haven't got a whisky bottle for company," he shoots back with enough fire to make you smile. He's starting to stand up for himself these days; doesn't just take your jibes and putdowns with a stoical expression anymore. It quietly amuses you.
Silence falls. You glance around for the remote, needing the background murmur of sports commentators to break the atmosphere.
"I couldn't get there quick enough." Sherman's eyes are fixed on a bare white wall, as if he's not quite aware he's speaking. "I floored the fuckin' U-Boat but I wasn't fast enough. I said I'd help her; she thought I'd keep her safe."
You manage to draw his gaze and you tell him the lie, because it's the only way you can protect him from this. "No one could have saved her, kid."
"Do you think I crossed the line, whaling on the guy?"
"You mean would I have done the same thing?"
A sideways glance confirms the question.
"Damn fuckin' straight I would."
His fists are clenched again, one banging steadily against the couch without him noticing. Agony is written across his face, burning in his eyes. The kid has seen bodies, seen murder victims, learnt to follow your example in dealing with the dead. He's come a long way from that first night in the barrio. But this one meant something to him. He'd formed a connection, assumed the role of protector, and he'd failed to live up to the responsibility he had given himself. He's so similar to you in that respect, and though he doesn't have your abrasive, attacking approach, today he has shown just how alike you are. You're not quite sure if that bothers you or not.
"Did you know the chick before today?"
A quick shake of the head. "She hit on me."
"So you planned on goin' there?"
"Maybe. Probably."
"She wasn't your girl, Boot. She was basically a stranger. Don't forget that."
"I let her down."
"Cops do that everyday. We can't be everywhere, even when we say we can. We may want to be, but we can't. We say we'll always be there 'cos it makes 'em feel safe."
"It's not right." He shakes his head defiantly, almost yells the words.
"No," you say calmly, "it's not. But there's a whole lot of shit out there that ain't right."
He shows no sign of going to get replacement beers so you drag yourself up and grab two fresh bottles, shoving one at him when he looks blankly at it.
"Are you mad 'cos you lost control or because you got congratulated for it?"
It takes him a long moment's thought before he answers, "Both."
"Sometimes it's good to find out what you're capable of."
"I couldn't stop," he mumbles. "If the guys hadn't pulled me off, I wouldn't have quit."
His eyes are desperate, almost pleading with you to make it all right, to make it go back to how it had been when the day had begun, when he was happy and confident and eager to prove himself. And even though you can't shield him from this, you want to try, try to soften the blows he has taken today, because he took them alone and you don't want him relive them alone.
"Why was it so important you got those sneakers down?"
"So at least I'd made a difference for someone."
"You made a difference for that Korean kid."
"And now I have for the sneakers kid. Tips the balance."
"That's what it was about?"
"It was about anything that'd make me feel like this wasn't the worst day I've ever had in the uniform."
"You got a save-the-world complex startin' to rear its head, Boot."
"Yeah, like you don't as well," he snaps.
"I can control mine."
"Not with Chickie, you can't."
"Chickie's different."
"You're not responsible for her."
"Sure I am. She's my friend."
"Are you responsible for me just 'cos I'm your boot?" he dares to ask.
You snort without any aggression and swallow another half bottle of Corona. "What'd you think?"
"I think you're my partner as much as you are my TO," he says with an unusual lack of hesitation, blurted out before he can think about his words.
The flare of gratification you feel comes as a surprise, because you so rarely care what anyone else thinks of you. You do not need adulation, have no desire to be an idol, yet when it does happen, it feels good. Like you're not doing all this for nothing.
To some boots, you have been a hero. To others, an overbearing asshole. But for all, every single one, you have been a protector, someone to rely on and emulate.
"Ask em, tell em, make em," you mutter to yourself.
"Huh?" Sherman hasn't needed to be told that little pearl of wisdom yet. You doubt he ever will.
"Somethin' I was tellin' Chickie today."
"You have a rough watch with her?"
"Almost felt like I had a first-day boot beside me. I don't have to give you as many goddamn instructions."
His lips jerk in response to the gruff praise. "I like Chickie," he says quietly.
"So do I. She's like a sister to me, has been for years, but right now she's a friggin' liability." You throw your head back to the ceiling, heave a sigh. You love Chickie, you're as loyal to her as you are to Sherman, but you're worried you can't help her. You tried today, admittedly in your most bull-headed way, and you failed. You hate failing almost as much as you hate seeing a good cop go down the toilet.
"Maybe she'll be okay." And you smile because now it is Sherman trying to reassure you and he's finally drunk enough to revert to his 'gentle care' approach.
You let the subject slide: there's nothing else you can say about it and talking it over is only making you riled up again. You blow out a breath against a stab of pain; try to get comfortable on the undoubtedly stupidly-expensive couch that doesn't seem to include cushions in its price.
"You okay?" He's watching you, that expression halfway between concern and uncertainty on his face. He's never sure whether you're going to rip his head off for asking.
You give your usual dismissive grunt in response and slug more beer.
"You can talk to me about it…y'know…if you want to…"
"What good's it gonna do? Talking doesn't stop pain. Don't worry about it; it's my problem."
"Chickie told me once if your partner has a problem, you have a problem. That you somehow find a way to help them."
"What the hell can you do to help me, Ben?" There's anger in your words and you don't expect him to answer, wait for him to sigh and look away like he usually does when it gets intense between you.
But the little shithead stares straight back at you, even has the nerve to raise his chin. "I can be there," he says, and his voice is strong. "When you need."
"And what if I don't need?" you snap.
"Then I'll just be glad my partner's okay."
It is unconditional with this rookie; he is loyal to the core and he will not betray you. He will stand by you, even when he doesn't agree with you. He trusts you and you are determined not to betray this status he has given you.
You heave a heavy sigh. "Go to bed, Boot."
He blinks, surprised you haven't stormed out in a cacophony of curses. You can read him like a book. "You staying?"
"I sure as hell ain't moving. Go grab me a blanket or somethin'."
He does as asked, hovers as if debating another question, statement or heartfelt soliloquy. Then he blows out a breath and smiles, a smile that steals into those baby blues. Compassion: maybe. Understanding: almost definitely.
"G'night, Coop."
You stretch out as best you can on a couch that is not meant for someone of your size; pull the comforter up to your chin. Sleep is still some way off; you've sank enough beers to relax you but your brain has not switched off yet. The pain is in the background, chased into a dull ache by several white capsules.
Sherman is quiet but you can hear him moving around the bedroom, pacing for several long minutes before the sheets rustle as the mattress adjusts to his weight. And finally, that rarest of things in the City of Angels, in the life of a cop. Peace. For now, the problems that fill the black and white every day can fade into the background, quietened if not muted.
Any cop who claims he feels nothing for his partner is a goddam liar. You can't spend twelve hours a day with someone and not form a relationship, especially not when you are charged with keeping each other alive every day. It doesn't happen overnight, sometimes it doesn't happen easily, but every partnership becomes a bond, one way or another.
At first you didn't notice it happening with Sherman; he has an unobtrusive way of integrating himself, so different from your bull-in-a-china-shop approach that you failed to be aware of it until you realised you were talking to him like a partner rather than a boot. That had come as something of a surprise; until then you had barely considered him able to walk and talk without instruction. The balance has begun to shift, and now you are allowing it to. You don't mind letting Sherman in a little; he has proved himself trustworthy, loyal, all the things you value.
How is it that Richie Rich has become a part of your life, no longer a vaguely irritating rookie that you leave behind in the locker room after each watch? You invest in every boot: your time, your energy, your sanity at times, but you do not invest your emotions. Yet tonight you dragged your weary ass out to the 'hood and sat on a hard kerb just because the kid had sent you a text. Because there was no one else for him to turn to who would understand him like you did.
You wonder if you're lonely; if having no one to share your complicated life is starting to get to you. It isn't often that you feel it but, just sometimes, it hurts. Making dinner alone, climbing into an empty bed, waking up with no one beside you.
Tonight is one of those times when it hurts pretty bad.
X X X
Morning brings relief of a sort. Not particularly from the pain but from the thoughts and the self-evaluations that had cut you both deeper than either of you would admit.
You find you're watching him move around the kitchen. This is his home but he seems no more comfortable here than he would in a stranger's house. He glances at you every few minutes, as if checking you're still there, and you allow him the intimacy for a reason you're not quite sure of.
You're both in boxers and white tees, bare-footed against the pristine tiles. You take charge of the coffee before he can ruin it, leaving him to search the cupboards and refrigerator. Moving around each other like a carefully choreographed ballet, two hard, muscular bodies somehow in sync. Your strength is coiled, deliberate; his is easy and graceful with youth.
"You'd better be feeding me, Boot. I'm fuckin' starving to death." Your voice sounds brash, harsh, in the quiet, and you see him jump.
"I got bread and peanut butter," he offers.
"Jesus."
So it's bacon and pancakes at one of your favoured Boulevard diners on the way to roll call, forced conversations about the NFL and NBA that end in strange silences or sideways glances. Sherman grabs the check before you can, challenging you with a tilt of his chin that makes you want to laugh and hit him at the same time. And when he's once again beside you in the Challenger, when he quietly thanks you for yesterday, you pretend you didn't hear him.
A day of nothingness, driving around trying to talk about meaningless shit that won't get too deep. The pain building, begin to spiral until you're gritting your teeth and answering in monosyllables. The white-hot shards tearing through every sinew until finally lunch offers you an exit and you're out of the car. Slow, uneven steps until you're leaning over the trunk, trying to breathe, trying not to let the sounds escape from your throat. Digging in your pocket, shaking not with need but with pain, forgetting about Sherman, about the radio, about anything but finding some relief from this torture.
And the world slows; comes to a halt. You stare at the pills dwarfed in your big, calloused palm; those tiny things that control your life, lying benignly in a grip that can drop grown men to their knees. What good is size, strength, when your character is defined by what narcotics are flooding your bloodstream?
You stare at them for a time that could be seconds, minutes, hours. And when you hurl them away, watch them scatter across the ground, you have to fight to prevent yourself from pursuing them. But you do fight: you fight because of the other man sitting in your squad car, trying to look anywhere but at you and failing. You fight yourself because of this young pup, that you feel more responsible for than you have for any other boot. Maybe than for any other person in your fucked-up world.
And as you acknowledge your own fragile mortality, you silently pray that never will your brothers in uniform have to listen to that sombre radio broadcast every cop dreads to hear. Pray Ben Sherman will never hear the words:
"John Cooper, you are now end of watch."