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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.

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OpenPage x
Wednesday October 25^th1989 (7.03 a.m.)
Having spent the last forty-five minutes enduring an angry and somewhat thunderous interrogation from his Captain about the missing evidence tapes, Booker emerged from his superior’s office feeling mentally exhausted. But he had kept his cool and played the part of a shocked and aggrieved officer until finally, after much yelling and accusatory stares, his boss dismissed him with a weak apology of, “Don’t take it personally Booker, I had to check.”
He was no sooner out the door when Harry seemingly appeared out of nowhere and grabbed him by the arm. His guilt was beginning to eat him up inside and he was in no mood for a second round of Booker must have done it, but he managed to control his temper when Ioki hauled him into the locker room and growled at him in a low voice. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Pulling his arm away, he gave Harry an impassive look. “I don’t know what you’re implying Ioki, but I had nothing to do with those missing tapes.”
But Ioki knew the depths of Booker’s love for Tom and taking a step closer, he fixed his gaze boldly on his friend. “Swear to me,” he demanded softly. “Swear to me on your grandmother’s grave that you didn’t destroy those tapes.”
A cold chill ran down the entire length of Booker’s spine. Ioki had picked the one request where he would feel honor bound to tell the truth, and realizing his body language would eventually give him away, he let out a defeated sigh. “Okay, I did it,” he whispered in a conspiratorial hiss. “But I was trying to keep you out of it. The less you know the better.”
Raking his hands through his hair, Harry began to pace the floor in agitation. “Jesus Christ Booker, I can’t believe you would be so stupid.”
The insult prickled Booker’s skin and he glared at his friend with blazing eyes. “I did what I had to do,” he justified through gritted teeth. “The tapes are gone and Tom’s safe. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing for someone you loved.”
A sad smile played over Harry’s lips. “That’s where you and I are very different Dennis. If I really loved someone, I would not add to their guilt by being a perpetrator of an unlawful act committed on their behalf. How do you think Tom’s going to feel when he finds out?”
The memory of Tom’s agonized voice when he spoke about going to prison echoed loudly in Booker’s mind and throwing back his shoulders, he gave Harry a confident stare. “He’s going to thank me.”
****
Wednesday October 25^th1989 (6.17 p.m.)
Kicking his apartment door closed with his foot, Booker went over to the kitchen and placed a bottle of whiskey and several bags of take-out on the counter. Spying Tom sitting on the couch watching television, he walked up behind him and bending over, he lovingly kissed the top of his head. "Hey beautiful, did you miss me? I picked up some Chinese food from that place on the corner you like."
When he received no acknowledgment, he moved around so he was standing in front of his lover, effectively blocking his view of the TV. “Hey,” he muttered in annoyance, “I’m talking to you.”
Tom lifted his head and glared up at Booker with dark, angry eyes. “I had a phone call today from Gareth Williams,” he advised in a stony voice. “Apparently someone stole the evidence tapes the cops were going to use against me.”
Ignoring the nagging doubt that Ioki had instilled in him, Booker casually shrugged his shoulders. “I had no choice Tommy, it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”
With an infuriated cry, Tom jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down the narrow strip of flooring between the couch and the coffee table. “Why would you do that?” he asked in a high, agitated voice. “I didn't ask you to steal the tapes! Jesus Christ Dennis, what the hell were you thinking? This is my life, not yours, you had no fucking right to interfere!”
A feeling of déjà vu washed over Booker. Harry had asked him the same question and now he was starting to have serious doubts about his decision. But he was too stubborn and proud to admit he might have made a mistake and pushing his lower lip into a sulky pout, he gazed back moodily. “I guess I wasn't thinking ‘cause I assumed you’d at least thank me for putting my job on the line for you… AGAIN.” he replied, making sure the emphasis on the last word was not lost on Tom.
When Tom continued to glare at him, he let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, maybe I should have talked to you about it, but I just wanted to protect—”
“WHEN WILL YOU GET IT THROUGH YOUR FAT HEAD THAT I DON’T NEED PROTECTING!” Tom screamed back, his face flaming crimson with anger.
“Really?” Booker shot back with a snort and when Tom rolled his eyes, his fury burst forth, sending venomous insults spewing from his curled lips. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me you asshole! If it weren't for me, you’d still be some two-bit whore lying in a rat-infested apartment with a needle sticking out of your arm. So don’t tell me you don’t need fucking protecting because you do!”
With a primordial yell, Tom launched himself at Booker and grabbing hold of his jacket, he slammed him up against the wall. “FUCK YOU!” he shrieked hysterically into his lover’s face. “YOU'RE THE FUCKING ASSHOLE YOU INTERFERRING PRICK!”
Booker violently shoved Tom in the chest, sending him staggering backwards. “You’d better calm down or I’ll put you down,” he warned in a low, threatening voice.
Tom stared back with cocky bravado. “Yeah? Try it and I’ll knock your fucking head off.”
With a mocking laugh, Booker eyed his opponent with an amused smile. “Dream on little man, the last time we fought I…”
With lightning speed, Tom slammed his fist into Booker’s jaw, the force spinning his lover's head to the side. A rush of air escaped from between Dennis' lips and he stumbled sideways, hitting the kitchen counter. Dirty dishes smashed to the floor and with a shout, he quickly regained his balance and lunged at his attacker with flying fists. Both men rained down heavy, vicious blows, each punch adding another contusion to their already damaged flesh. The mutual attack was just as savage in its ferocity as their previous fight had been, with neither man holding back, but this time, their fury did not morph into a heated passion. Instead, it remained brutal right up to the very end when Booker eventually managed to grasp hold of Tom's flailing arms and with a grunt, he kicked his legs out from under him and threw him forcefully to the floor.
With a sickening crack, Tom’s head smashed against the corner of the coffee table. Pain flared in his head and moaning loudly, his eyes rolled back and he slumped over onto his side as blood began to flow from the wound.
“Jesus!” Booker exclaimed in a panicked voice and dropping to his knees, he placed his palm against Tom’s pale cheek. “Tommy! Open your eyes! Tommy! Can you hear me? Open your eyes baby, please open your eyes!”
Several agonizingly long seconds passed before Tom’s eyes fluttered open. When he felt Booker’s hand against his cheek, he angrily slapped it away and with a groan, he grasped the back of his head and slowly staggered to his feet.
Booker stood up, the distress of Tom’s injury sending tremors of shock through his aching body and reaching out a shaky hand, he gently grasped his lover’s forearm. “Tommy I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly. “I didn’t mean—”
Tom recoiled from the touch. “Keep your fucking hands off me,” he warned through bloody teeth.
Booker’s expression instantly changed from one of concern to being majorly pissed off. “You know what Hanson?” he spat. “I’m tired of you treating me like shit.”
A wave of nausea blurred Tom’s vision and he struggled to remain standing as he held his hand over his bloody wound. “Yeah?” he retorted in a trembling voice, the sound of his heavy breathing echoing throughout the apartment. “Well I’m tired of you treating me like a fucking child.”
The two men stood glaring at each other, their chests heaving from the exertion of the fight until Tom eventually turned away and lurching into the bathroom, he slammed the door closed with a wall-shaking bang.
With a heavy sigh, Booker glanced at the bathroom door before deciding Tom needed time to cool off. Walking into the kitchen, he ignored the Chinese food and went straight for the whiskey. He poured himself a large measure and taking a gulp, he closed his eyes as a warm, calming heat radiated down his throat and into his chest. Opening his eyes, he placed his glass down on the counter and lifting his t-shirt, he lightly trailed his fingertips over his bruised ribs. He was sore, mind numbingly exhausted and depressed. The day had not ended as he had planned; he had expected Tom to be grateful for saving him from a prison term, not resentful because he had once again, taken control of his life. But as the whiskey slowly sedated his anger, the realization dawned on him that he did treat Tom like a child. Instead of discussing his plan and asking him if he was in fact, comfortable with him breaking the law to save his ass, he had, in his usual pig-headed way, jumped straight in without taking Tom’s feelings into consideration. It was a character flaw he was well aware of, but one he struggled to rectify. He was, and always had been, an act now, think later kind of guy, which was fine if the consequences only affected him, but this time, they affected Tom too and he wished he could turn back the clock and make everything right between them.
Draining his glass, he once again cast his eye at the bathroom door. He owed Tom an apology and all he could hope was that his lover would accept it and they could move forward. Putting down his empty glass, he walked over to the bathroom and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Tommy, we need to talk.”
When he received no answer, he turned the handle and pushed open the door. Tom sat on the toilet with his head bowed forward, his blood stained hands covering his face. Clumps of blood matted his hair, the thick flowing liquid continuing a trail down his neck and soaking into the soft material of his t-shirt, creating a crimson stain around the collar. Bloody handprints tarnished the white tiled walls and a splattering of vomit coated the porcelain hand basin. To Booker, it was a scene from a horror movie, made even more chilling by its reality and his eyes grew wide as they roved over the horrifying sight before him.
With an anguished cry, he rushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of his lover. “Oh God Tommy, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed in a shaky voice. “You need a doctor, I’m calling an ambulance.”
Tom lifted his head, revealing a ghostly pale face and bloodshot eyes. “What I need is for you to leave me alone,” he muttered, before lowering his head again.
Ignoring Tom’s request, Booker stood up and hurried back into the living room. Snatching up the phone's receiver, he dialed 911. Never before had he physically hurt a lover the way he had hurt Tom and he felt sick to his stomach in the knowledge that he was capable of causing such a grievous injury to someone he purportedly loved. When a female voice sounded down the line, he hastily gave her the details and hung up. Returning to the bathroom, he knelt on the floor and placed a hand on Tom’s back. “Please forgive me baby,” he whispered, as tears of shame and regret spilled from his eyes.
But Tom remained stubbornly silent, lost in the misery of his own being until darkness enveloped him and losing consciousness, he slid off the toilet and into Booker’s waiting arms.
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Chasing a Butterfly