Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

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
- 2
- 3
- 4
Monday March 6th 1989 (10.32 a.m.)

The upbeat tempo of R.E.M.’s It’s the End of the World as We Know it (and I Feel Fine) blasted out of the speakers in Tom’s apartment and with a tight-lipped smile that resembled more of a grimace, the young officer ducked his head and snorted a line of cocaine from a mirror on the coffee table. He had spent several hours at the hospital and he needed something to take the edge off his emotional pain. Seeing Penhall and Ioki lying pale and motionless, both surrounded by machines that helped to keep them alive, had destroyed him. He had immediately collapsed in a flood of tears as guilt and pain rendered him incapable of holding it together any longer. A kindly nurse had consoled him, pulling him to her ample breast as she murmured meaningless platitudes that left him feeling like a fraud. His viewpoint had done a complete 360 in the hours since the shooting and he no longer looked for comfort because in his mind, he deserved a prison sentence. There was no sugar coating it, he had shot his best friend because he had been high on cocaine. He knew it, Booker knew it and soon, everyone else would know it too.
But, now that he was finally feeling something other than hollowness within his soul, the sorrow and guilt inside him only increased the need to numb his emotions. He had forgotten how painful real emotions were and he longed once again for the emptiness that he had lived with for so long. But it was his inner turmoil that had his mind screaming. He had cried buckets for Penhall when he saw him at the hospital but not for Amy who had died on a dirty floor, shot through the chest by a gun-wielding man holding up the convenience store for a few hundred dollars. Her death had left him cold and unemotional, but seeing Penhall had rocked him to his very core. Even though he was responsible for both casualties, his reactions were poles apart and the knowledge only fueled his feelings of inadequacy as a human being. Why hurt so deeply for one and not for the other? Although he was honest enough to admit he had not loved Amy, every fiber of his being told him he should have mourned her death, and he hated himself for feeling indifference to her passing; he hated himself because he did not care.
As though on autopilot, he lined up another rail and leaning forward, he snorted the white powder into his left nostril. Flopping back against his overstuffed sofa, he let out a contented sigh and wiped the residual powder from his nose. The music blared from the speakers and closing his eyes, his legs started to jig to the rhythm as the drug entered his bloodstream. When he heard a loud banging, he initially thought it was inside his head and that his mind was hallucinating sounds in tempo to the music. But as the knocking persisted, he slowly realized someone was outside his apartment and opening his eyes, he stared suspiciously at the door. As the hammering continued, a strident voice added to the cacophony of noise that rattled inside his head. “HANSON! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, I CAN HEAR THE MUSIC! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
When he recognized Booker’s voice, his happy mood instantly evaporated. Jumping to his feet, he strode across the room and yanked open the door. “WHAT?” he yelled, his face twisted into a furious snarl.
Startled by Tom’s enraged expression, Booker took a step backwards. But when he noticed the young officer’s dilated pupils, his own anger bubbled to the surface. “YOU’RE HIGH? JESUS CHRIST HANSON, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” he screamed over the deafening music and without waiting for an invite, he stormed into the apartment. Striding across the room, he turned down the volume on the stereo just as the track changed to “The One I Love”. However, the fortuity of the moment was lost on him and taking several deep and calming breaths, he turned back to Tom. “You need help,” he stated quietly.
Shocked by Booker’s audacity, Tom’s resentment intensified and curling his lip, he let out a derisive snort. “From you?” he sneered. “No thanks.”
Hurt by Hanson’s words, Booker’s immediate response was to inflict the same pain back. “Are you blind or just stupid?” he spat. “Look around you Hanson, there is no one else who wants to help you. Fuller’s keeping his distance because he knows you fucked up, Judy hates you because you fucked up and Penhall and Ioki? Oh yeah, they’re just fucked up and guess what? All of this is because you fucked up! So instead of getting high, maybe you should admit to yourself you have a fucking problem!”
A deep hatred burned inside Tom and balling his hands into tight fists, he stepped forward until his face was just inches away from Dennis’ angry glare. “No one asked you to come here, Booker,” he growled, making sure to emphasize his disdain when he spat out Dennis’ name. “So why don’t you be a good little cop and run away and nark on me some more.”
An unbridled fury blazed in Booker’s eyes. “Nark on you? I put my job on the line for you, you ungrateful piece of shit!”
For a fraction of a second, Tom faltered and uncertainty replaced the burning rage glowering from his dark eyes. But he immediately dismissed Booker’s statement with a contemptuous snort. “Don’t bullshit me,” he replied in a tone dripping with venom. “I bet you couldn’t wait to type up your report and tell the world I was high the night Pen…”
The name of his best friend stuck in his throat and turning quickly away, he stifled a sob. When a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, he jerked away. “Leave me alone,” he muttered sullenly. “I don’t want your comfort.”
Booker let out a heavy sigh. Whilst his feelings for Tom sometimes overwhelmed him to the point of breathlessness, the majority of the time, the young officer drove him bat-shit crazy. However, what he failed to see was that many of the traits that frustrated him about Tom; his stubbornness, overconfidence and arrogance just to name a few, were actually a mirror image of his own personality. They were both forthright, strong-willed and not afraid to call a spade a spade, even if feelings were hurt in the process. It was the age-old idiom of the pot calling the kettle black and yet neither man could see himself reflected in the other.
When Tom stubbornly kept his back turned towards him, he stepped over the detritus covering the floor and planted himself just as obstinately in front of him. “You may not want my comfort but you will listen to what I have to say,” he stated testily. “I fucking lied for you, so stop being such a prick. We need to sit down and get our stories straight or the whole plan is going to fall apart.”
Tom trusted Booker about as far as he could throw him and lifting his head, he peered distrustfully through his long bangs. “Plan?” he asked suspiciously. “You don’t even like me so why would you try and help me?”
Hell would have to freeze over before Booker would admit his feelings to Tom and so he kept his expression unreadable. “You’re a good cop,” he muttered awkwardly, “but you need help. I’m willing to keep my silence as long as you stop doing drugs.”
Still skeptical of Booker’s motives, Tom glared at him warily. “And what’s in it for you?”
There was plenty in it for Booker; he would get to keep working with the man he adored but most importantly, he would be helping him. But none of those thoughts showed on his face and determined to keep up his image; he gave Tom a well-practiced sneer. “Let’s just call it my one good deed for the year, okay?”
Tom carefully studied Booker’s face and deciding he was on the up and up, he motioned towards the couch. “Okay, let’s talk.”
****
Monday March 6th 1989 (1.26 p.m.)
Captain Fuller frowned as he placed Tom’s report on his desk. “It seems you and Booker have the same recollection. I don’t think I’ve ever read two reports that are so similar.”
Now that he was coming down off his high, Tom’s mood was less than cordial. “Are you calling me a liar?” he asked moodily.
Sensing that Hanson was overwrought, Fuller relaxed his expression. “No one’s calling you a liar Tom,” he replied softly. “I have one man dead and two officers in the hospital. I just want to make sure we dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s so the Commissioner doesn’t chew my ass out over this.”
Tom’s lower lip pushed into a soft pout and he lowered his gaze. “Sorry Cap’n,” he muttered, “I meant no disrespect, I’m just upset.”
Fuller exhaled heavily. “We all are. Take a few days off and try not to worry. Penhall and Ioki are fighters, they’ll get through this.”
Getting to his feet, Tom managed a small smile. “Thanks Coach,” he murmured and turning away, he walked out of Fullers office. A deafening silence resonated around the operations room and not wanting to acknowledge the accusatory stares that followed him as he strode towards the exit, he kept his eyes lowered to the floor. When he reached the stairs, he let out a sigh of relief that he had escaped unscathed but his reprieve was short lived when Judy walked up the steps towards him.
“Hanson,” she greeted coldly. “You finally decided to show your face.”
Tom shoved his hands deep in his pockets and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Why are you attacking me?” he asked sulkily. “It was an accident.”
Judy glared back unwaveringly. “That’s not what I heard,” she stated in a frosty voice. “Word from the uniform cops is, Booker went ballistic at you after the shooting. Why would he do that if it was an accident?”
So caught up in the web he and Booker had spun, even Hanson was starting to believe the lies and he answered Judy without any hesitation. “Booker hates me. It’s not the first time he’s verbally attacked me and it probably won’t be the last. Why do you care so much about it now?”
The expression on Judy’s face changed from anger to surprise. “Why do I care? My God Tom, Doug and Harry are fighting for their lives! That’s why I care and you should too!” Shifting her gaze slightly, she pushed her lip into an obstinate pout. “I’m going to Fuller with my suspicions, I want an inquiry into the shooting.”
Too tired and emotionally wrung out to deal with the accusations and guilt any longer, Tom rounded on the woman who just days before, he had considered his friend. “I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU DO, OR WHAT YOU THINK, I DO FUCKING CARE!” he screamed hysterically. “MY BEST FRIEND IS LYING IN HOSPITAL BECAUSE I SHOT HIM BUT IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, SO STOP FUCKING PERSECUTING ME!”
Shocked by Tom’s uncharacteristic outburst, Judy stumbled backwards, her eyes wide with fear. Grabbing hold of the handrail, she let out a shout. “Jesus Hanson, settle down!”
Several officers ran out to the landing to see what all the commotion was about, but not wanting to face any more accusations, Tom roughly pushed past Judy and fled down the stairs.
****
Monday March 6th 1989 (6.54 p.m.)
Tom broke out in a cold sweat as he stared down at the baggie of white powder in his hand. He knew what he had to do, what he needed to do, but the act of actually doing it had him paralyzed. After his fight with Judy, he had spent hours driving aimlessly around the city, avoiding work, avoiding going home and most importantly, avoiding Booker. The urge for a line had his nerves jangling and his mind silently screaming, but he knew if he did not resist the temptation, Booker would go through with his threat and break his silence. It still puzzled him why his nemesis was prepared to cover for him and he felt uncomfortable knowing that he would be indebted to a man he genuinely disliked, and in an effort to keep his mind off his increasing need to get high, he thought back over the last four months of their working relationship.
Their first case had not gone well and it had pretty much cemented their mutual dislike of each other (or so Tom thought). Although somewhat grudgingly, he did admit that Booker was a good cop and on certain cases, they worked well together. It was his cocky attitude that pissed him off, that and the constant teasing. Whilst he took Penhall’s good-natured ribbing as just a bit of fun, he found it difficult to do the same with Booker. Also, on several occasions, he had unwittingly caught the dark haired officer staring at him and the unwanted scrutiny unnerved him. He was usually so good at reading people, but he could not figure Dennis out and that just added to his annoyance. Booker was a bit of an enigma and that did not sit well with him. He was certain that the young officer was hiding a very big secret and therefore, he did not trust him.
These thoughts had rattled around in his brain as he wound his way through the L.A. traffic and when the sun had slowly dipped below the horizon, he had driven home. Now he found himself standing in his bathroom, holding the answer to all his nightmares in the palm of his hand. He had two choices; he could flush either the cocaine or his life down the toilet. It should have been an easy decision but it took close on ten minutes before he finally opened the small plastic bag and sprinkled its contents into the bowl.
He watched as though mesmerized as the white powder slowly dissolved before flushing the toilet and walking from the room.
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Chasing a Butterfly