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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
Friday October 20^th 1989 (3.18 p.m.)
A low hum of anticipation sounded over the crowded courtroom as journalists vied for premium vantage points, each eager to hear what the presiding magistrate had to say. The good cop turned bad story was front-page news and each reporter wanted to make sure they wrote the best article, detailing all the angst and emotion that hung heavily in the air. The defendant was young, beautiful and the son of a respected police officer who had tragically lost his life serving his community. It was what every journalist prayed for; they could not have asked for a better story and they planned to milk it for what it was worth.
Magistrate Elwood Payne lifted his head and read out the charges in a gravelly, smoke damaged voice. “Thomas James Hanson, you are charged with one count of negligent homicide, which carries a penalty of up to five years in prison and one count of drug trafficking, which carries a penalty of up to ten years in prison. Do you understand the charges?”
When he failed to hear a charge of either assault or kidnapping, Tom looked up in surprise and it took him several seconds to comprehend the magistrate’s words. “Yes, your Honor,” he eventually muttered in a low voice before again lowering his head.
Payne cleared his throat and peered over the top of his half-frame glasses. “A preliminary hearing will be held on the eighth of November at 9.30 a.m. Bail is set at ten-thousand dollars. Court is adjourned.”
Booker tried to catch Tom’s eye as two burly officers led him down to the cells, but the ex-cop kept his gaze firmly on the floor. A tremor of fear ran through Booker’s body, he did not want Tom disconnecting from the world and sinking into a pit of depression because if he did, the likelihood that he would once again turn to drugs for solace was extremely high.
****
Friday October 20^th 1989 (5.45 p.m.)
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor and standing up, Tom stared silently out of the barred cell as the cold hand of fate sent tremors through his body. He was awaiting transportation to the county jail and now that the time was imminent, his blood ran cold. He was still recovering from his rape and the thought of showering with hundreds of men filled him with a paralyzing fear. It was obvious he would be a target, not because he thought he was attractive, but because he was an ex-cop and ex-cops never fared well in jail.
A uniformed guard rounded the corner and unlocked the cell door. “It’s your lucky day Naco, someone posted your bail.”
Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” the guard replied in a bored voice. “C’mon, there’s some paperwork to fill out before you can leave.”
With a burning curiosity, Hanson followed the guard upstairs to the administration office. When he saw Booker sitting on one of the hard plastic chairs, his heart fluttered into his throat. Once again, Dennis was proving to be his knight in shining armor.
Ten minutes later and with a list of his bail conditions tucked safely in his pocket, he turned and walked over to his friend. When Booker’s lips curled into a cheeky smile, his resolve faltered and tears of gratitude filled his eyes. “Why?” he asked simply.
Afraid that Tom might breakdown from the stress and fatigue of the last few days, Booker protectively decided to keep the conversation light until they had some privacy. “I think the question should be, why not?” he quipped. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”
“Home?” Tom asked in a dazed voice, his monosyllabic questions a testament to just how tired his mind and body were.
Booker put a reassuring arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Well, my home to be exact, but hey, mi casa es su casa, right?”
Even after everything they had been through; the ups, the downs, and their unforgettable animalistic coupling, it still amazed Tom that Booker was willing to welcome him into his home. Tears once again blurred his vision and lowering his head, he wiped them away in embarrassment. Dennis had only ever known him at his very worst and yet the dark haired officer continued to stand steadfastly by his side, doggedly determined to help him through his living nightmare. He was not a fool, he was well aware that the man standing beside him had feelings for him, but he honestly did not understand why. Booker had never known the Tom Hanson that both Harry and Judy had known; the sweet, if somewhat headstrong Tom Hanson, who loyally stood by those he loved and yet, in the face of adversity, it was Booker who had repeatedly proved to be his most devoted if somewhat tough ally. He would never understand the whys or wherefores of their strange relationship, but he knew in his heart that he would forever be eternally grateful.
Looking down at Tom’s bowed head, Booker felt a stirring of affection, but he did not act upon it. Tom was obviously walking an emotional precipice and he did not want to complicate their volatile relationship by coming on too strong. Instead, he laid a companionable hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. How ‘bout a burger?”
Tom’s eyes remained glued to the floor. “Tired,” he mumbled. “I just wanna go…”
The word home stuck in his throat and this time, he was unable to control the emotions that had been threatening to erupt since he had arrived back in L.A. When the levee finally broke, seemingly endless tears streamed down his pale cheeks and covering his face with the palms of his hands, he struggled to suppress the heaving sobs that racked his frail body. When he had awoken from his emotional coma, he had not allowed himself the luxury of grieving for what Manning had taken away from him. His most pressing issue had been dealing with the reality of his imminent incarceration and everything else had become secondary. But now, as he stood in the vast hallway of the courthouse, the feelings he had kept suppressed had finally broken the surface in a torrent of unrestrained emotion and the pain in his heart was so overwhelming, his bony shoulders shuddered violently beneath Booker’s hand.
Unable to repress his desire to lend comfort to his friend, Booker wrapped his arms around Tom’s quivering body and hugged him close. “Shh,” he murmured into Tom’s sweet-smelling hair. “It’ll be okay baby… it’ll be okay.”
Although the term of endearment did not register in Tom’s distressed mind, it did with someone else and a loud snort sounded from across the room. As the derisive sound echoed in Booker’s ears, he turned his head and his coal-black eyes flashed angrily at the officer standing behind the counter. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to my fucking face,” he growled.
The overweight officer stared back insolently. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you… fag.”
Booker’s body tensed and releasing his hold on Tom, he took a step towards the officer. “I fucking dare you to say that again,” he replied in a low, menacing voice, but a hand on his arm stopped him from moving any further forward towards his antagonist.
“Don’t,” Tom pleaded in a barely audible voice. “Let’s just go.”
It took all of Booker’s self-restraint not to pull away and leap over the counter so he could deliver his own form of justice to the homophobic police officer. But when he turned and gazed into Tom’s puffy, red-rimmed eyes, he immediately rethought his actions and reaching out, he gently brushed away the tears that clung to the long, thick lashes. “Yeah,” he replied in a voice loud enough for the desk officer to hear, “like we give a fuck what this fat piece of shit has to say,” and turning abruptly away, he put his arm around Tom and escorted him from the courthouse.
****
Friday October 20^th 1989 (6.10 p.m.)
As the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, Mother Nature swept a brush over her expansive azure canvas, leaving a rosy tinge across the dusk sky. Tom stared blankly out of the cab’s back passenger window, unwilling to make small talk on the journey to Booker’s apartment. He had important things he needed to say and he did not want to waste his breath on idle chit-chat. The effects of the drug withdrawal and the distressing reality of his rape were finally taking their toll and he felt as though his mind and body were shutting down. But before he would allow himself to slip into the protective oblivion of sleep, there were questions that needed answers; questions that only Booker could give him.
The taxi stopped outside of a gray brick apartment building and stepping out of the car, Tom watched silently as his friend paid the fare. When Booker gave him an encouraging smile, he managed a weak smile in return and followed him into the complex. They rode the elevator in silence up to the third floor and when the door pinged open, they walked down the dimly lit corridor to apartment 311. Booker fumbled his key in the lock for several moments before pushing open the door to his home and walking inside. He switched on the light and turning back around, he saw Tom standing in the doorway, his eyes once again cast to the floor.
“Come in,” he murmured softly. But when Hanson lifted his head, he was shocked to see fresh tears glistening in his friend’s eyes. “Oh Tommy what’s wrong?”
Tom could no longer contain the thoughts that madly whirled inside his mind. “I don’t understand why you keep helping me!” he blurted out in a rush of words.
Booker stepped forward and taking Tom by the arm, he led him into the apartment and closing the door, he motioned for him to sit on the couch. Tom hesitated for a moment before perching stiffly on the edge of the leather cushion with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Booker sat down on the coffee table opposite and leaning forward, he gently placed his hands on Tom’s knees. “I’m helping you because we’re friends.”
With his eyes fixed on the hands resting on his legs, Tom’s head slowly shook from side to side. “No, we’re not… I mean… we weren’t, not in the beginning… not when we first met.”
A lilting smile played over Booker’s lips. Despite their disastrous first case together, he had fallen for Tom the moment he had first laid eyes on him and, even though the ex-cop now knew he had feelings for him, he did not want to admit that those feelings had existed since day one. “That was then and a lot has changed since we first met. Let’s just say you’ve grown on me,” he joked lamely.
Lifting his gaze, Tom stared back with teary eyes. “You called me a whore,” he whispered in a choked voice. “I know I am but it really hurt when you said it. Why would you want to help me when you think I’m nothing more than a hustler?”
The truth of Hanson’s words cut to the very depths of Booker’s being and squeezing the thin legs beneath his hands, he gave his friend an apologetic smile. “I never should have said…” His voice trailed off and he let out a sigh, as he tried to justify the malevolence of his words. “I only said it because you backed me into a corner and I was… scared.”
“Of what?” Tom asked softly, his dark eyes penetrating Booker’s soul with their burning intensity.
Without allowing himself time to wonder if his words would have any far-reaching consequences, Booker threw caution to the wind and finally spoke what was in his heart. “Of admitting my true feelings for you. What happened that night at the motel, it wasn’t just a way to get off… it was something I’d dreamed about for months because… well… I love you Tom.”
As the full meaning of Booker’s words slowly sank in, Tom began to chew furiously on his lower lip. When Doug had first died, he had figured out that Dennis had feelings for him, but at the time, he had not given it any thought other than to be mildly flattered. However, a lot had changed since then, he had experienced gay sex and he and Booker had shared a sexual encounter that had awakened something inside him he had considered lost forever… the ability to feel and express love. But he never imagined that Booker was in love with him, how could he be? He had committed multiple crimes and had allowed multiple men to abuse his body. No one could love a man who had so little self worth that he would allow himself to be systematically used and violated just so he could stay permanently high. It was incomprehensible, yet Booker was sitting in front of him, having paid his ten-thousand dollars bail, and suddenly it became all too real. Booker loved him and he loved Booker but it was a doomed love story because the harsh reality was that no matter how long the process took, eventually, he was facing years in prison.
Getting slowly to his feet, he gazed down at his friend with sorrowful eyes. “I can’t give you what you want, so maybe you should take me back to jail and get the bail money back.”
Booker’s expression darkened. “You think I bailed you out so I could blackmail you into having sex with me?” he asked in a stilted voice. “What sort of a fucking prick do you think I am?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” Tom screamed unexpectedly and turning around, he picked up a table lamp and smashed it against the wall. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU LOVE ME! I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T…”
Within seconds, strong arms circled around him and pinned his arms to his torso. “LET ME GO!” he yelled hysterically as his body thrashed violently. “FUCKING LET ME GO!”
Although a little surprised by Tom’s strength, Booker easily overpowered him and throwing him to the floor, he quickly straddled his legs and grasping hold of his flailing arms, he restrained them above his head. “Not until you calm down,” he gasped as Tom’s body continued to struggle against his hold.
Weakened by the effects of his drug withdrawal and the abuse Manning had inflicted upon him, Tom soon tired and his body finally stilled. “Are you gonna be a good boy?” Booker asked with a hint of a smile.
But Tom was in no mood for jokes and he glared back with furious eyes.
With a heavy sigh, Booker stood up and offered Tom his hand. Without taking it, Tom clambered to his feet and stared moodily at the floor, unwilling to meet Booker’s gaze. Picking up the broken table lamp, Booker placed it on the table and sat back down. “So, shall we try that conversation again without the tantrum?” he asked in a calm voice.
Feeling a little foolish, Tom sat on the couch and resting his elbows on his knees, he covered his face with his hands. “I’m not what you want,” he mumbled against the sweaty flesh of his palms, ”you deserve better.”
Leaning forward, Booker gently pulled Tom’s hands away, revealing his pale face and tilting his chin upwards, he gazed deep into his tormented eyes. “I think that’s up to me to decide. But if you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s fine, my offer of friendship still stands and I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
Suddenly overwhelmed with weariness, Tom lowered his gaze and nodded his head. “I really appreciate that,” he muttered sadly, wishing he could tell Booker how he really felt, but knowing if he did, he would ruin his friend’s life forever.
When Booker remained silent, he lifted his head and gave an apologetic smile. “I’m really tired,” he stated in a flat voice.
Booker tried to read the emotion in Tom’s eyes, but when all he received was a detached stare, he let out a soft sigh. “You can have my bed tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Tom started to protest, but when he saw the warning look in Booker’s eyes, he nodded silently in reply and standing up, he walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
- 16
- 17
- 18
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Chasing a Butterfly