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Cries of a Shadow	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2757 -:- 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
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After relegating his shift to a uniformed officer, Booker spent his designated seven-hour break getting things ready for Tom’s impending release from the hospital. His first stop was the one he’d been dreading...his friend’s apartment building. Behind his cleverly crafted cool exterior lurked a man with a weak stomach, and knowing his limitations, he didn’t feel emotionally or physically capable of cleaning the excrement from the soiled bathroom. So, rather than put himself through the ordeal, he took a chance and spoke to the building supervisor. Keen to help, the super immediately offered a solution by recommending a biohazard remediation contractor sanitize the room from floor to ceiling, while further stating he was more than happy to coordinate the cleanup by letting the cleaners into the apartment and locking the door once they left. He felt bad for the youngest Hanson, whose shy, awkward ways made it easy for his bully of a brother to isolate and marginalize him, and he made it clear to Booker he would do whatever was needed to help Tom get back on his feet. The plan suited the dark-haired officer perfectly. With less than six hours remaining until he returned to the hospital, he wanted to try to catch some z’s between packing a bag, buying food, and showering. Hyped up on adrenaline, it was a feasible—if somewhat hectic—agenda. However, it didn’t leave him a lot of time to prepare mentally for the upcoming days. Living with Tom was different from spending time with him in the sterile environment of a hospital, and he wasn’t sure how their personalities would jell. But he figured it wouldn’t take long for the daily grind to get them into a routine, so he made the decision to wing it instead of over-complicating their arrangement by planning every detail. There was, however, one thing he had straight in his mind. Despite Tom’s ordeal, he wasn’t about to cater to his every demand. Life wasn’t a structured regime, and he wanted his friend to experience the real world, free from Will’s overprotective, domineering, and watchful eye. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t offer comfort when needed. Showing support was imperative to Tom’s recovery, and he hoped one or all the other Jump Street officers would find time in their busy schedules to drop by. It would mean a lot to the young officer if he thought people cared enough to visit. Tom was, by design, a loner, and he lacked certain social skills others possessed. Being around people he knew would help boost his confidence, and it was Booker’s hope, the young officer would then find his wings and soar above all that had held him back. But first he needed to help his friend through the trauma of his assault, and although he had no clue how he would do that, one thing was certain. He never backed down from a challenge.
With the cleanup organized, Booker drove to his local 7-Eleven store and picked up some groceries. He didn’t buy much, just a few items to see them through the first few days. Placing the bags on the passenger seat, he then drove to his apartment, and after a much-needed nap, he showered, dressed, and packed a bag. As an afterthought, he tossed several of his favorite CDs into his luggage. Music was his go-to drug, especially during times of stress, and he wasn’t sure Tom would have the same rock and roll taste that got his adrenaline pumping. For some reason, he imagined his friend enjoying contemporary blues or maybe even classical. He’d witnessed the faraway look in Tom’s eyes as he’d listened to the string quartet at the mayor’s ball, his slender hips swaying ever so slightly to the haunting melody. It was one of the few times Booker had seen Tom look genuinely at peace, and it was at that moment, he knew he was falling for the quiet, gentle man whose dark eyes had the power to express a feeling without the need for words. But that was then, and a lot had changed since that night. Time and circumstance had dampened his lustful thoughts, and he no longer felt the same attraction he had when he’d disclosed his feelings to Harry. There was no doubt Tom was gorgeous, but after everything that had happened, the physical pull was no longer there. He’d convinced himself the rationale behind his sudden change of heart was because after getting to know his new partner, he had come to realize the shy officer just wasn’t his type. But that was a lie. The real reason had more to do with Tom’s incestuous relationship with his brother than their incompatibility. But to admit his true feelings exposed his own inadequacies as a friend, and so, he continued to believe his own fictitious story. It wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was keep telling himself again and again that even if—and after all that happened, it was a possibility—Tom was gay, he felt no desire to pursue him romantically. In his mind, theirs was a relationship built purely on friendship, nothing more, and he was more than happy with that arrangement. Except, he was kidding himself. If he scratched the surface of his soul and dug a little deeper, his true feelings would have lit up like a Christmas tree. He was utterly and hopelessly in love with Tom, but there was a catch. His undying devotion was for his version of the perfect Tom Hanson, not the man too afraid to stand up to a controlling bully. And if he could have that Tom, he would go down on bended knee—figuratively speaking, of course—and profess his love, even though he knew that love would never be reciprocated.
With a glance at the clock, Booker gathered his bags and exited his apartment. As he loaded his vehicle, he suddenly remembered Tom had arrived at the hospital naked as the day he was born. Staring down at the food items packed in the trunk of his Caddy, he weighed up his options. He could lend his friend something to wear, thereby speeding up the process of getting him back to his home and settled in for the night or he could return to the Hansons’ apartment and grab something for him to wear. Indecision furrowed his brow, and he chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip until he suddenly remembered the sweats he carried in his car. It was the ideal solution, but just as he reached into the trunk to pull them out of his gym bag, he remembered he’d lent them to Tom, and his friend had not bothered to return them. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face. If he had his sweats, he could proceed with his journey as planned. But as there were far more important issues at hand, he pushed his irritation to the back of his mind, and slamming down the lid of the trunk, he walked round to the driver’s side door. An echo of his displeasure continued to resonate in his mind, and consciously unaware of his reasoning, he made the snap decision to go to Tom’s apartment and pick up some clothes. It would delay his arrival at the hospital, but as he was doing his friend a favor, he told himself it wouldn’t matter. At least that way, he could check the contractors had cleaned the bathroom, and make sure everything else was in order before Tom’s arrival home, making his friend’s transition less stressful. He could also unpack all the food, lessening the risk of it spoiling in the heat of the Caddy’s trunk. Not that he’d bought anything perishable. He hated cooking, preferring takeout to the tedium of food preparation, which suited him just fine as a bachelor working long, unpredictable hours. But as he wasn’t sure if Tom would approve of such a hedonistic lifestyle, he’d bought some pasta and ready-made sauces, just in case.
Climbing behind the wheel of his Cadillac, he pulled the door closed with a bang. He was already running late, and a prickle of frustration ran down his spine. Tardiness was a sign of laziness, something he abhorred, and his vexation traveled down his arms, culminating in his hands. He sat stiffly in the bucket seat, his eyes staring straight ahead, his fingers grasping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles shone white through his skin. He wasn’t sure why he felt so pissed off, but he put it down to a fear of the unknown. It was a reasonable explanation, but mulling over the whys and wherefores only wasted more valuable time. And so, with a quick glance in the rearview mirror, he slammed the Caddy’s shifter into gear, stamped his foot on the gas and with a squeal of tires, he sped off up the road.
**
Tom stared up at the muted television, his eyes stubbornly ignoring the wall clock hanging just out of his line of sight. The medication coursing through his body had reduced his pain to a dull throb, and while he hated taking drugs, he couldn’t deny their magical effect. He almost felt normal...almost, but not quite. Try as he might, he couldn’t dispel the memories of his rape...the pain...the whisper of Will’s breath against his skin...the feeling he was going to die...and wanting it, really wanting it. In his heart, he knew if his brother had dunked his head under the water, he would have welcomed his last, watery breath because then his mind would finally know peace. Forgetting was not an option. Putting it behind him was not an option. He could work through his anguish, but it would not change the one fact he couldn’t get past. Every person at the chapel knew his secret shame, and that meant only one thing...he had to quit the force.
Giving in to his urge, Tom glanced up at the clock. Booker was an hour late, and a shiver of foreboding ran down his spine. What if his friend were having second thoughts? What if the idea of babysitting a grown yet ineffectual man wasn’t high on the dark-haired officer’s list of priorities? And worst of all, what if it were all a joke and he was back at the chapel, laughing his ass off with Parry and all the other officers? Despite not wanting to believe his friend could stoop so low, in Tom’s mind, it was a real possibility. He’d suffered so much ridicule throughout his short life, it was difficult not to think people were plotting against him. But although it hurt, it wasn’t a life-changing moment. He’d learned long ago how to bury his feelings beneath the dark, impenetrable shield of isolation, and therefore, people rarely noticed the anguish shimmering in his eyes. They had their fun and walked away, leaving him to deal with the pain alone. But he preferred it that way. Life was less stressful when he was on his own. There was no one to bother, no one to disappoint, just the heavy thump of his heart keeping him company as it counted down the beats until his ultimate demise.
“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”
Turning his head abruptly, Tom’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You came back.”
Confused by the statement, two deep lines furrowed Booker’s brow. “Well, yeah,” he replied as he placed a bag of clothing on the overbed table. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Tom immediately regretted revealing his insecurities, and he attempted to disguise his concern by returning a small shrug. “I dunno. Forget it. What’s in the bag?”
Booker returned a grin. “Well, I didn’t think you’d want to walk out of here with your ass hanging out for everyone to—” He stopped abruptly, a look of horror widening his eyes. “Jesus, Tom, I didn’t mean...I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”
Keeping his gaze fixed on the bag of clothing, Tom took several deep, calming breaths. He could see his white patterned bandanna peeking out the top of the crumpled paper sack, and drawing strength from his signature McQuaid attire, he returned a small smile. “It’s okay, Dennis, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Thanks for bringing my clothes, I’d forgotten I didn’t have any.”
“Really?” Booker blurted out without thinking.
The sweet, shy smile melted from Tom’s face, and lowering his gaze, he stared at the pilled blanket covering his legs. “Pretty stupid, huh?” he muttered. “I mean, my brother raped me then held me hostage in our bathroom. Of course I don’t have any clothes.
Heat raised the color in Booker’s cheeks. “Shit, Tom,” he apologized for the second time. “I didn’t...I don’t know why I said that. But in my defense, I’m a fucking idiot, so you’d better get used to me putting my foot in my mouth.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of Tom’s lips. It was another one of Booker's lame jokes, but, once again, he appreciated the effort. “Yeah?” he replied, a faint glimmer of amusement shining from his dark eyes. “Is there anything else I should know about you before I invite you into my home?”
Pleased his friend had managed to maintain enough of a sense of humor to see the funny side, Booker’s face split into a cheeky grin. “I can’t cook.”
A low chuckle resonated in the back of Tom’s throat. The casual back and forth repartee was the tonic he needed, and for the first time since watching the baseball game, he began to feel normal. Life suddenly didn’t seem so bad and relaxing back against his pillow, he gifted his friend a genuine smile. “That’s okay. Neither can I.”
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Cries of a Shadow