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Beneath a Heart of Darkness	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 4657 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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
I'm hoping to post another chapter before the holiday madness takes hold. But just in case I don't, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you and your families a wonderful festive season.

In peace,
OpenPage x

Later that night
Outside, night settled over the city. Sounds rose up from the street, a cacophonic mixture of shouts, car horns, and yapping dogs, all jarring Tom’s nerves. In the distance, a siren drowned out the noise, its ominous wail foretelling someone’s tragedy, and a shiver ran down the young officer’s spine. Now he was home alone, he wished he was back in the safe confines of the hospital, watching TV and listening to the comforting squeak of the nurses’ soft-soled shoes as they carried out their duties. He had always viewed his home as his castle, a place to relax and unwind after a long day at work. But since arriving back, he felt on edge, and he had found it difficult to settle down. In an attempt to calm himself, he had even taken a shower, and for the first time in almost a week, he had washed properly. The sensation of his fingers trailing over his wet, soapy flesh had sickened him to the pit of his stomach, but it was a necessary evil. Despite copious amounts of deodorant, he was starting to give off a stale odor, and he had noticed Doug wrinkling his nose on several occasions during their brief liaison. If he wanted to give the illusion of wellness, he had to make some sacrifices, and bathing was one of them. He viewed it as a necessary evil because if he appeared okay on the outside, no one would guess his world was crumbling in around him.

With the comedic banality of ‘Cheers’ grating on his already frazzled nerves, Tom walked away from the window and flopping down on the sofa, he picked up the remote and muted the TV. Despite his best efforts, he remained tense, his muscles bunching in his upper back, and he rolled his shoulders to relieve the strain. Although his apartment was secure, a growing feeling of vulnerability crawled over his skin, and pushing up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he anxiously picked at a scab on his arm. He watched in morbid fascination as blood bubbled to the surface. It was only 9.15 p.m. and the hours stretched endlessly out before him. With only his paranoid, self-loathing mind and the TV for company, he knew it would be a long, lonely night.

An unexpected knock at the door made him jump, and all his fears came to the fore, causing his heart rate to quicken. He rose slowly to his feet and picking up his Smith and Wesson from the coffee table, he pointed it at the door. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and beads of perspiration prickled his skin. He was armed and ready to shoot any motherfucker who threatened his safety, regardless of the consequences because he would be damned if he would let anyone take advantage of him again. This time, he would defend himself, or die trying.

When a second, more persistent knock rattled his door, he hurriedly wiped the sweat from his face and widening his stance, he steadied his aim with both hands, his right index finger resting on the gun's trigger. But seconds later, a familiar voice called out his name, and he lowered his arms, a relieved breath exhaling from between his lips. He hesitated for a moment before tossing the gun onto the couch, and wiping a shaky hand over his mouth, he walked across the room and unlocked the door.

Booker stood in the hallway, his expression a mixture of nervousness and concern. “Hey,” the dark-haired officer greeted lamely.

Tom remained silent, his freshly washed hair falling over his face, disguising the dysphoria shining from his eyes. Booker glanced over his friend’s shoulder at the unlit apartment. Only a small amount of light emanated from the television, the flickering of the screen casting shadows on the walls. Once again he thought how cold and cheerless the room looked, but this time, it wasn’t his mood reflecting outward. The apartment definitely had a bereft feel about it, and he wondered if it was Tom infecting the atmosphere, sucking the life from the air, or if it was just his overactive imagination.

Unsure how to proceed, he held out a backpack, a nervous smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Here’s your stuff, and um, I hope you don’t mind, but I hot-wired your Mustang; it’s parked outside.”

Ignoring the proffered bag, Tom turned away and walked over to the window, resuming his observations without comment. The door remained open, and taking it as an invitation, Booker stepped inside and placed the bag on the floor. For several moments, he stood silently watching Tom stare out the window. But he suddenly realized it wasn't the busy street below Tom was fixated on; it was his faint reflection mirrored in the glass.

“Tom?”

The worried utterance of his name barely registered in Tom’s brain. Since arriving home, he had experienced a mind flip, and he now found himself obsessed with the ghostly, transparent image shimmering in the window. He desperately sought answers from the mute figure, questions he could not answer himself. Who was he? What did he feel? Would he survive? But the more he fixated on the dull, lifeless eyes of the faint echo staring back at him, the more he found himself drawn into its soulless existence. He was a nowhere man, stripped of his identity, and forever cursed to wander the earth detached and alone.

“Tommy,” Booker murmured again, a shiver of apprehension bringing goosebumps to the flesh of his arms.

“This is all I am now,” Tom whispered without turning around, his voice choking with emotion. “A shadowy reflection standing on the outside of my life looking in. They’ve taken everything from me, Dennis. Everything. I’m nothing, and you have no idea how much I fucking hate myself right now because I let it happen. I didn’t fight hard enough, and I let it happen. Why did I let it happen?”

Shocked by Tom’s words, Booker took several steps forward, but he stopped several feet away, afraid his presence might do more harm than good. “You didn't let them, Tom. You were handcuffed and defenseless. It’s my fault; I should have protected you.”

Tom turned around and stared at Booker with a solemn expression before slowly shaking his head. “I don’t blame you, Dennis. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I know it wasn’t your fault, it’s just…” His voice lowered to a whisper, and he clenched his hands into fists, an embarrassed flush staining his pale cheeks. “They have the tape... the tape that shows you doing that to me. What if it gets out? How can I ever heal knowing people are watching it?”

A deep frown creased Booker’s brow. It appeared Tom was more concerned about the oral sex than his rape, and the realization immediately put the dark-haired officer on the defensive. A slow, boiling rage churned inside him, and throwing back his shoulders, he glared at his friend. “Well gee, Hanson, I’m sorry if preventing you from having your brains blown out is distressing to you. Maybe next time I’ll just leave you there to die.”

Confusion widened Tom’s dark eyes. “W-What?”

“You heard me,” Booker snapped, his pleasant features twisting into an angry sneer. “You’re more disgusted because I was forced to suck you off than you are having seven guys stick their dicks up your ass. But if I remember correctly, you got off on it. You came in my fucking mouth, you hypocritical asshole!”

Without warning, Tom lashed out, his hand sweeping photos and knick-knacks off a nearby shelf. “I KNOW THAT!” he screamed hysterically, his internal distress bubbling forth in a tsunami of pent-up grief. “I FUCKING KNOW THAT! YOU MADE ME HORNY! THEY MADE ME HORNY! HOW CAN I BLAME THEM WHEN I FUCKING GOT OFF ON IT? I’M A SICK PERVERTED FREAK! I FUCKING HATE MYSELF! DO YOU HEAR ME? I HATE MYSELF!”

Before Booker could react, Tom turned and with an anguished yell, he slammed his fist into the wall. Pain flared in his knuckles and choking on a sob, he collapsed to the floor. His misery was insurmountable, and drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around his legs and wept uncontrollably.

Guilt replaced Booker’s anger and dropping to his knees, his hand hovered over Tom’s head before falling uselessly to his side. Once again, pride and anger had triumphed over humility and calmness, and he instantly regretted his outburst. Instead of offering Tom comfort, he had inflamed his friend’s self-condemnation by adding fuel to an already raging fire. He had put his ego ahead of Tom’s welfare, and he now wished he had kept his fat mouth shut.

Unable to remain passive for any longer, he rested his hand on Tom’s head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his fingers running through his friend’s hair. “I don’t know why I said that. You’ve nothing to be ashamed about, Tommy. Sometimes our bodies betray us, and your reaction is a common one in male rape victims.”

Tom slowly lifted his head and gazed at Booker through teary eyes. “Is it?” he hiccupped, his mind desperate to believe. “Because I feel like a whore.”

Shuffling forward on his knees, Booker wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulled him protectively against his chest. He lowered his head and breathed in the sweet aroma of Tom's shampoo, committing the scent to memory before speaking. “Trust me, you’re not the first man to have a physical reaction to unwanted sexual contact. You’re not a whore, Tommy, you’re just a red-blooded male.”

After analyzing Booker’s words for several minutes, Tom lifted his head, his eyes filled with concern. “Doug said Fuller suspended you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shhh,” Booker soothed gently, “it’s not your fault. Anyway, it’s given me some much-needed time off.”

Although unconvinced, Tom did not have the energy to argue the point, and narrowing his eyes, he gazed at the cut on Booker’s lower lip. “Who hit you?”

A fleeting grin passed over Booker’s face as he lightly fingered the wound. “Penhall’s got quite a right hook,” he commented softly. “I guess he’s a hit first ask questions later kinda guy.”

“Maybe he thought you’d hurt me,” Tom explained quietly. “He’s kinda protective like that.”

Booker nodded, and taking hold of Tom’s hand, he carefully inspected his bloody knuckles before asking the question foremost on his mind. “Are you okay? I mean… are your injuries… serious?”

Tom immediately understood it wasn't his bruised hand he was referring to, and his cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. “There's no permanent damage,” he mumbled. “It's just gonna take time to heal.”

“But you will heal?” Booker asked worriedly.

Tom lowered his gaze to the floor. “Physically, yes,” he replied softly. “But mentally? I dunno. I can’t stop thinking about that tape, and I imagine them watching it, laughing at...” His voice faltered, and his eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “How can I ever be whole again when I know they’re watching it?” he whispered. “I won’t rest until I know that tape’s destroyed.”

When Booker remained silent, Tom let out a weary sigh. “I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered, his eyes fluttering closed. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

Taking the statement as a hint to leave, Booker pulled away and rose slowly to his feet. “I should go,” he stated with a small smile. “Get some rest and—”

“Don’t leave,” Tom interrupted hurriedly. He had thought he wanted to be alone, but now the prospect of spending the night on his own terrified him.

Taken aback by the request, Booker rubbed an awkward hand over the back of his neck. “Um, okay. I guess I could sleep on the couch.”

A shy smile played over Tom’s lips. “The bed’s big enough for the two of us… I mean, if you don’t mind sharing.”

They were the words that had infiltrated Booker’s dreams since first laying eyes on Tom, and he suppressed a moan. The idea of sharing a bed was a fantasy come true, but he knew he needed to be careful. Any wrong move could ruin their fragile friendship forever.

“Sure,” he replied brightly. “Just try not to snore, okay?”

“I don’t snore,” Tom refuted crossly, before suddenly remembering they had shared a room, and his eyes grew wide with surprise. “Do I?”

A cheeky grin curved Booker’s lips. “Only a little.”

For the first time in days, a genuine smile lit up Tom’s face. “Then you have my permission to jab me in the ribs.”

Pleased Tom could find some humor in the situation, Booker’s grin widened. “Deal.”

Tom stood up and turning off the TV, he walked into his bedroom and switched on the bedside lamp. Booker followed, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. He purposely averted his eyes as his friend stripped down to boxers and tee shirt, before doing the same. Nerves had him feeling like an awkward teenager, and he waited for Tom to crawl under the covers before he climbed in beside him, making sure to keep his distance. When Tom switched off the light, he stared out into the inky blackness, his mind a flurry of emotion. As the minutes ticked by and Tom’s shallow breathing filled the room, an idea formed in his mind. He knew what he had to do, and with his plan now formulated, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
- 16
- 17
- 18
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness