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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
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Please note: I didn't carry on with Booker's speech impediment throughout the end of the story because I thought it would make the text too difficult to read.

In peace,
OpenPage x

Booker stared out of the partly open window, his face pulled tight with emotion. The mischievous spark that usually shone from his dark eyes was noticeably absent, replaced instead by an uncharacteristic dullness. Between his fingers dangled a forgotten cigarette, its noxious fumes rising from the tip, choking the stale air. But he barely registered the irritating haze wafting in front of his eyes. The torturous memories plaguing his thoughts were so vivid, they blotted out reality, and he found himself trapped within his mind, reliving every brutal moment he had endured at the hands of the Pi Tau Keymaster. If he screwed his eyes closed, he could almost pinpoint the exact moment when Holland had claimed the last remaining shred of his dignity, ripping it from his ravaged, bleeding body, thereby sealing his fate forever. It was at that precise moment in time a little piece of his soul had died, leaving him damaged and bereft. Without his self-respect, he was nothing more than a puppet, and he wondered if he would ever regain his sense of self, or if like so many before him, he was destined to die a victim, forever a slave to all of humanity.

A single tear slid down his pale cheek, and stubbing his spent cigarette out on the windowsill, he walked over to the small kitchenette and picked up an open bottle of Johnnie Walker. He quickly downed several large swallows, savoring the comforting warmth that flared in his throat before the alcohol ignited a pleasing flame in his belly. But even though the heat calmed him, the sweet, smoky flavor failed to eradicate Holland’s essence from his mouth, and slamming the bottle down on the countertop, he struggled to hold back his tears. Never before had he felt so dispossessed, so utterly alone. He physically ached for contact, and he longed to radiate in the warmth of another’s body, to feel their heartbeat pounding rhythmically against his naked chest. Because only then would his soul come back to life, only then would the numbness disappear, and only then would he feel desirable.

A hesitant rap at his door pulled him back to reality, and wiping the stray tear from his cheek, he swallowed down another gulp of scotch for good measure. He was in no mood for visitors, and he wondered who would be knocking on his door at 9 o’clock on a Tuesday evening. But with no peephole installed, he would not know the answer without actually opening the door. He paused for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons, but when another knock, this one louder and more urgent rattled the frame, he decided he had no choice, and walking across the room, he yanked open the door.

The sight of Tom standing in his hallway did not help to lighten his melancholy mood, and his eyes narrowed into angry slits. “What do you want?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Tom walked through the door. “We need to talk.”

“Gee, Hanson, why don’t you come in,” Booker muttered sarcastically, and closing the door, he turned and glared at his unwelcome visitor. “Well? I’m listening. Say what you’ve gotta say and get the hell out of my apartment.”

Disturbed by the level of Booker’s hostility, Tom refused to react to the blatant attempt at provocation. Instead, he channeled his inner serenity and voiced his concerns. “Are you okay? You seem kinda… agitated.”

Booker snorted loudly, but his dark eyes lacked any trace of humor. “Agitated? Hmm, I wonder why that is.”

Annoyed by his friend’s cryptic commentary, Tom expelled a frustrated sigh. “That’s kinda the point, Dennis, I don’t know why that is. So why don’t you fill me in, starting with where the hell you’ve been the last few weeks and finishing with how you obtained those tapes.”

Memories of his abuse once again flooded Booker’s mind, and his face twisted in anguish. Caught off guard, he tried desperately to regain the upper hand, to prove to Hanson he was still the rakish sonofabitch he had always been. But the caustic comeback caught in his throat, and he stood mute, unable to communicate, unable to keep up the deception, unable to mask his pain.

The emotional distress shining from his friend’s dark eyes brought a lump to Tom’s throat, and before he had time to think about the consequences of his actions, he stepped forward and brushed his lips over Booker’s quivering pout. The brief contact sent a shiver of arousal down his spine, and flustered and confused by his overt display of affection, he stepped back, his face flaming red. He had no idea what had made him act so impulsively, and uncertainty quickened his pulse. His stomach rolled with a mixture of nerves and humiliation, and he quickly lowered his eyes to the floor, too embarrassed to meet Booker’s gaze. But as a lengthy silence hung in the air, he dared to peer up through his long lashes, and he drew in a sharp intake of breath when his eyes settled on his friend’s face. The dark-haired officer’s stony expression sent a chill of doubt through his bones, and dropping his gaze, a shy, hesitant smile tilted his lips. “Shit,” he murmured, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.

Anger stiffened Booker’s spine, and his blood pumped hot and heavy throughout his tense body. He fought not to lose his temper, but the resentment in his eyes revealed his inner fury. “Don’t fuck with me, Hanson,” he muttered coldly. “I’m not in the mood for any more of your games.”

Tom’s cheeks burned a deeper shade of red, the blush spreading down his neck, mottling his flawless skin, and lifting his gaze, he stared at Booker with confused eyes. “G-Games?” he spluttered. “I-I—”

Booker’s expression remained frosty. “You... were... what?” the furious officer asked, biting down on each word as though he were ripping the sentence apart with his bare teeth. “Consoling me? Making fun of me? Or are you trying to tell me in some clumsy way you want me to bend you over the back of the couch and fuck you like a bitch? Is that it? Huh?”

Fear widened Tom’s eyes and stumbling backward, he collided with the wall. “N-No! Jesus, Dennis! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Booker tilted his head to one side, his top lip curling into something resembling a smile. But the twisted caricature only heightened Tom’s unease, and the young officer flattened his body against the wall, his palms leaving traces of sweat on the nicotine stained paint. “D-Dennis?”

With lightning speed, Booker grabbed Tom’s left wrist in his hand and yanked him forward. Tom stumbled into the dark-haired officer’s arms, but before he could pull away, a warm mouth engulfed him. He struggled to break free from the forceful kiss, but Booker slammed him back against the wall, blanketing him with his muscular body. Aroused by the evidence of his friend's masculinity grinding against him, Tom moaned loudly, but the sound was swallowed up in the depths of the warm, cavernous mouth greedily devouring him. The contours of Booker's body molded perfectly with his own, and he marveled at how right it felt, how unbelievably exhilarating. But when Dennis' hands started to rove over his body with a hunger born of an insatiable, unstoppable desire, his elation slowly turned to panic. Memories of his rape flooded his mind and choking on his mounting terror, he started to struggle.

“St-op!” he gasped, his hands clawing frantically at Booker's chest. “Stop! STOP!”

But the lingering taste of Tom's saliva was like an elixir to Booker, the sweetness instantly ridding him of the sapidity of Holland’s semen that had managed to permeate his taste buds during the long hours of his abuse. The honey-flavored juices now exploding on his tongue were so intoxicating, his mind lost all focus, and he had no thought of the damage he was causing his friend. Without pause, he grabbed hold of Tom’s wrists and wrenched them above his head so he could flatten himself closer against the writhing body wrestling beneath him. The line between right and wrong had blurred, and he became fixated on eradicating Holland’s salty tang. Without care or finesse, his tongue ravaged every corner of Tom’s mouth, absorbing the young officer’s juices into his saliva. His erection strained against his tight-fitting jeans, and widening his stance, he forcefully rubbed his burgeoning cock against Tom’s crotch, humping him as inelegantly as a horny dog. He had passed the point of no return, his mind had snapped, and as far as he was concerned, there were no consequences because he no longer cared who he hurt along the way, or how his actions might be perceived. He was a man on a mission, and his only thought was getting off.

Terrified Booker might escalate the molestation to rape, Tom struggled to break free, but the brawny officer easily overpowered him, and so he did the next best thing; he bit down hard, his teeth ripping through the soft flesh of the tongue plundering his mouth.

“THUN-OF-A-BITCH!” Booker yelled, his damaged tongue impeding his speech, and staggering backward, his hand flew to his mouth. “What the FUCK ith your problem?”

Fury blazed in Tom’s eyes, and raising his hand, he struck Booker hard across the face. “YOU BASTARD!” he screamed, his face contorting into a twisted mask of anger. “HOW COULD YOU FORCE YOURSELF ON ME LIKE THAT AFTER WHAT HAPPENED? IN CASE YOU’VE FORGOTTEN, I WAS RAPED, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I WAS FUCKING RAPED!”

A look of confusion flitted across Booker’s face. “Forthed mythelf on you?” he enunciated with difficulty, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. “You kithed me!”

Although the truth of Booker’s statement had him faltering, Tom was not about to let his friend off the hook. “That doesn’t mean I gave you permission to paw me like a fucking oversexed pervert! It was barely even a kiss, Booker, it was—”

“Do you know what your problem is?” Booker snarled, his swollen tongue throbbing painfully. “You’re a prick tease, Hanson. You’re a fucking prick tease with repressed homosexual fantasies. Maybe if you went out and picked up a guy who’d be willing to fuck you up the ass, you’d finally get the satisfaction you’ve been craving!”

With the crass statement ringing in his ears, Tom’s jaw slackened, and he stared back at Booker in shock. “What happened to you?” he whispered, his chocolate-brown eyes shining with concern.

Tears blurred Booker’s vision, but he swiped an angry hand over his eyes before they had a chance to take hold. “Get out,” he muttered, his voice wavering with pent-up emotion. “Get out before I throw you out.”

But Tom was not about to leave until his friend divulged the secret of his whereabouts over the last few weeks, and squaring his shoulders, he slowly shook his head. “Not until you tell me how you got the tapes. You at least owe me that.”

A stubborn pout formed on Booker’s lips, quickly followed by an expression of pain that shimmered briefly across his face before being swallowed by his black mood. “What do you care? You’ve got your precious tapes, no one's going to see what I did to you, so what the hell does it matter? Maybe you should be thanking me instead of fucking attacking me.”

For the briefest of moments, a spark of anger flickered in Tom's eyes. “You forced yourself on me!” he retorted indignantly, but when he recognized the genuine look of misery reflecting from Booker’s dark eyes, compassion extinguished his outrage. “Okay,” he conceded softly, “I’ll let it go… for now. But I want you to know one thing. If you ever try something like that on me again, I'll beat the crap out of you with my bare hands, understood?”

Too tired and disillusioned to defend himself, Booker nodded his head, and without waiting to see Tom from his apartment, he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door closed.

Tom started to leave, but before he had made it halfway across the room, he stopped. Turning slowly around, he stared thoughtfully at the closed bedroom door. He was on a quest for answers, and so far, all he had were more questions. It was obvious Booker was hiding something, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the nervous energy he used to thrive on when he had a case to solve. Tom Hanson the cop had re-emerged, and with him came a long-forgotten determination. For reasons he did not understand, Booker had turned his back on him, and he would be damned if he would let the sonofabitch get away with treating him like shit without an explanation.

Therefore, against his better judgment, he threw caution to the wind and walked toward the bedroom door.
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness