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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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Four days later
Luck, as it happened, was not on Booker’s side. Hanging out with a bunch of suspected firebugs did not exactly make for stimulating conversation, and to make matters worse, he didn’t even have the pleasure of Penhall's company to help while away the long hours. With the mysterious fires starting in tandem, Fuller had sent them to different schools, so he was, for all intents and purposes, going it alone. It made for a boring assignment, but the dark-haired officer was honest enough to admit it wasn’t just the tedious banter of empty-headed teenagers that was getting him down. His mind wasn’t on the job, and while he blamed some of his lack of enthusiasm on his concern for Tom, a lot of his antipathy came from his own inability to shut out the images plaguing his mind. Visions of Will’s lifeless body haunted him throughout the long days, the recurring mental pictures continuing into the darkness of night, disrupting his dreams. It was this, and the memory of the hematic mural splattered on the bedroom wall that reinforced his growing belief he’d failed as a police officer. His morale was at an all-time low, the nagging self-doubt clouding his mind slowly eating away at his confidence. Without the reassurance of Penhall’s presence, he was reluctant to make decisions, which only added weight to his growing insecurities. And so, the case had stalled, and he couldn’t help but take his lack of success personally, which left him feeling frustrated and generally out of sorts. Then, to add insult to injury, instead of spending the evening relaxing at home with Tom as planned, he’d wasted the last two hours of his Friday night stuck in traffic. It was a fitting ending to a stressful week, and if he were a superstitious man, he would have thought he deserved the aggravation. But he wasn’t, and so, he had turned up the radio and tried his best to ignore the incessant honking of horns and the acrid aroma of exhaust fumes floating in through the Caddy’s window. It was what his mother called making the best of a bad situation, but with the temperature in the vehicle steadily rising, Booker wasn’t sure how long it would take before he lost his temper, and then the shit really would hit the proverbial fan.
When the long line of traffic finally started to move, the dark-haired officer turned down the radio and concentrated on not rear-ending the vehicle in front of him. Nervous energy pulsed through his body, his fingers drumming a relentless tattoo on the Caddy’s steering wheel. Tom had expected him home hours ago, and he hoped his friend hadn’t bailed on their planned pizza and video night. Not that the young officer had anywhere to go. He spent his days holed up in the apartment, still unwilling or unable to speak to the departmental therapist Fuller had organized. Although worrying, Booker had made up his mind not to push. It was still early days, and he figured Tom needed time to get his thoughts in order before revealing to a stranger, the freak show that was his life.
Off in the distance, the flashing lights of a fire truck caught the dark-haired officer’s attention, and it didn't take long for the reason behind the traffic jam to become apparent. The mangled wreckage of an Acura Integra blocked one lane of the freeway, and he quickly averted his gaze, his eyes focusing on the faded Reagan Bush ‘84 sticker adorning the dented bumper of the lime-green Toyota he was following. His thoughts turned to Tom and their proposed night in, and the idea someone—who most likely also had Friday night plans—lay hurt or dying, chilled him to the bone. Life was fragile, and you never knew from one day to the next whether you’d survive to see another sunrise. It was a sobering thought, and with his melancholy mood teetering toward full-blown depression, Booker turned up the radio and concentrated on the uplifting beat of Guns N' Roses’ ‘Paradise City’, his lips silently mouthing the lyrics. Once past the debris of the faceless person’s shattered life, the traffic started to flow, and exhaling a heavy breath, he relaxed his shoulders and drove the remaining fifteen miles to his apartment.
**
The half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table was Booker’s first clue something was wrong. The sound of heaving coming from inside the bathroom was the second. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the emotional tsunami he’d watched slowly swelling inside Tom had finally reached its peak, and while he’d known the day would come, he hadn’t expected alcohol to play a part in his friend’s mental breakdown. From his point of view, Tom wasn’t much of a drinker, which probably explained why the young officer was crouching on the bathroom floor hugging the porcelain throne. It was a fucked-up ending to a fucked-up day, and he briefly considered picking up his keys and making a hasty retreat before Tom even knew he was home. But he quickly dismissed the thought before it had a chance to sprout into a fully-formed idea. Life was all about flexibility, and he had learned long ago to roll with the punches. His planned relaxing night could wait. Tom needed him, and if that meant rubbing his back while he spewed into the toilet, then so be it. Nurse Booker to the rescue.
In need of a drink, the dark-haired officer downed a mouthful of whiskey. He didn’t have a particularly strong stomach, and he hoped Tom hadn’t made too much of a mess. But as he approached the bathroom, the retching stopped, and seizing his moment, he rapped his knuckles on the door. “Tom, are you okay?”
Another round of gagging met Booker’s ears and swallowing deeply, he mentally prepared himself and pushed open the door. But the sight of Tom hunched over the toilet had him forgetting his vomit phobia, and rushing forward, he squatted down next to his friend and placed a soothing hand on his back. “Oh, Tommy,” he murmured. “What have you done to yourself?”
“I’m shorry,” Tom slurred, silvery threads of saliva hanging from his lips. “I’m jusht sho depreshed. But I d’know why people drink alcohol when they’re depreshed. ‘Cause alcohol’s a depreshant, an’ now, I’m shtill depreshed…an’ I’m nausheous…an’ I’m really, really drunk...an’...an’...oh, God! I jusht mish him sho much!”
Booker’s hand stilled for a moment before continuing its slow, circular exploration of his friend’s shirt-clad back. Try as he might, he was certain he would never understand Tom’s devotion to a brother who had made his life a living hell. But rather than question the paradox that continued to mystify him, he attempted to soothe his friend’s troubled soul by offering up some words of comfort. “Of course you do. You loved him.”
Tom’s shoulders tensed, and turning his head, he wiped a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because I’m a freak?” he asked, his hollow, bloodshot eyes searching Booker’s face for an honest answer.
The question ripped through Booker’s heart like a knife. “No, baby,” he reassured in a soft voice. “Because you’re human.”
A slow tidal wave of emotion welled inside Tom, and unable to contain his grief any longer, he covered his face in his hands and started to cry. It was an embarrassing ending to an emotional day, and he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. But when two strong arms wrapped around him, he didn’t protest. Instead, he collapsed into the warm embrace and took comfort from the familiar scent of the man he now considered his savior. Whether he knew it or not, Booker was, and always would be, his knight in shining armor, and he hoped one day, he could truly express, just how much his support meant to him.
**
Lying back on the couch, Tom placed a damp washcloth over his eyes and exhaled a weighty sigh. After several cups of coffee, the room had stopped spinning, but his head still pounded like a bitch, making it difficult for him to focus his eyes. Unfortunately, no amount of caffeine could eradicate the acrid stench of vomit trapped inside his sinuses, and swallowing deeply, he focused on not throwing up. He’d hit a new low, and once again, the only friend he had in the world was the one to witness it. Fucking perfect.
Sensing a disturbance in Tom’s thoughts, a concerned frown furrowed Booker’s brow. “You’re not gonna barf again, are you?”
After careful consideration, Tom removed the washcloth from his face and opened his eyes. “I don’t think there’s anything left in my stomach to throw up.”
An evil grin formed on Booker’s lips. “Yeah. I guess if you’d eaten the greasy bacon and undercooked eggs I prepared this morning before you went on a drinking binge, you’d still be driving the porcelain bus.”
Tom shuddered, his face visibly paling at the thought. “Don’t.”
Booker chuckled. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. And anyway, it’s my job to poke fun at you.”
Confused by the statement, Tom gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position. “It is? Why?”
“Because we’re friends.”
The simple, three-word clarification brought tears to Tom’s eyes, but this time, his emotion stemmed from joy, not heartache. Booker considered him enough of a friend to make fun of him, and not in the cruel, humiliating way Parry and Shaw had teased him, but in the lighthearted, jovial way men bantered back and forth. It was a much-needed boost to his confidence, and suddenly, life didn’t seem quite as bad as it had when he’d made the decision to drown his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey. And while he still had no idea why Booker found him worthy of his friendship, he was glad he did. No matter how much he missed Will, he couldn’t bring him back, and knowing he had someone in the world who cared about him, made his grief just a little bit easier to swallow.
As he watched the myriad of emotions pass over Tom’s face, Booker came up with an idea, and sitting down on the arm of the couch, he voiced his thoughts. “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, I think we should go out.”
Tom’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Out?”
“Yeah, out. You know, like to a club or something. It’ll be fun.”
“You mean go out on a d-date?”
Booker grinned. “Sure, why not? You’ve spent too much time sitting around here on your own. I’ll call up a couple of women and we can—”
“Oh,” Tom mumbled. “You mean a double date.”
“Well, yeah. What did you think I meant?”
“Nothin’,” Tom muttered, his eyes lowering to the floor.
With the prospect of a night on the town blinding him to Tom’s disappointment, Booker continued to prattle on. “So, what are you into? Blondes? Brunettes? Ooo, I bet it’s redheads. Am I right? Is it redheads?”
Caught in a trap he couldn’t escape from, Tom stared at Dennis’ dark, unruly hair, and spoke from the heart. “Brunettes,” he murmured. “Brunettes with dark, mischievous eyes.”
Unaware Tom had based his preference on his own characteristics, Booker laughed. “Not sure I can find a woman with mischievous eyes,” he confessed. “But I know plenty of hot brunettes. Leave it to me. I’ll set you up with someone who will blow more than just your mind...if you know what I mean.”
Tom did know, and suppressing a shudder, he lay back down on the couch and cleverly disguised his mortification by covering his eyes with the washcloth. He had no idea how he had managed to get himself into such an awkward situation, but now that he had, he knew he had no choice but to see it through.
Surprised by his friend’s lack of enthusiasm, Booker laid a hand on his leg. “So, are we good to go or do you want to think about it some more?”
It was the out Tom needed to save himself from further humiliation, but instead of taking it, he channeled his inner McQuaid. “No, we’re good. Set it up. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Awesome!” Booker grinned, and getting to his feet, he went in search of his little black book, leaving Tom alone to worry about what the nameless woman would expect from him on his first ever date.
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Cries of a Shadow