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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.

Chapter List
- 36
- 37
- 38
I have condensed quite a lot into this chapter and the reason for this is threefold.
Firstly, my dad has been rushed to hospital three times in the last ten days and my concentration is a little out of whack. It has been a stressful time and I’m having trouble sleeping. Therefore, the quality of my work isn’t brilliant and I ask that you please cut me some slack. My mind is not where it should be.
Secondly, I feel this story is starting to drag on too long and I wanted to move into the final phase. I hope these “snap shots” over a thirty-six hour period are not too disjointed.
Thirdly and lastly, I have grown extremely attached to Mosco and I could not bear to drag out his scene in explicit detail. I know many of you were not too happy with the Tom/Mosco dynamic, but I hope you might view it a little differently after this chapter. As my dear friend <a href=" http://archiveofourown.org/users/KundryAthalia/profile">Aisha Tsufurujin</a> pointed out to me, he has very similar personality traits to Chris Keller from the brilliant HBO series, OZ. I did not intentionally create this character with Keller in mind, but obviously, something in my subconscious thoughts came through.
I also could not bear to detail what happens to Tom in this chapter. I feel I have put him through enough and it is time for some healing. There is still a little way to go, but I think all of you will be happy with the outcome.
So there it is, all my excuses lol. With that said, I hope you do enjoy this chapter, even though it is rather brutal.
In peace,

OpenPage x
Monday May 20th 1991 (12.11 p.m.)
The chill of the cement flooring cooled Tom’s flushed cheek, the sharpness of the sensation helping keep him conscious. He struggled to lift his head, but a stiletto-heeled boot kept his face pushed firmly against the warehouse floor, the continuous pressure causing a dull pain in his already aching head. The acrid smell of motor oil assaulted his nostrils and his stomach churned as rising nausea threatened to bring up his breakfast. But fearing he would choke against the gag in his mouth, he quickly swallowed down the vomit and concentrated on not passing out. His mind was a tornado of confusion; one minute he had been happily chatting to Ana, and the next, a blow to the head had knocked him to his knees. Within seconds, two men had tackled him to the ground and as one gagged him, the other bound his hands and feet. Stunned by the attack, he had tried to sit up and it was then that Ana had roughly pushed him back to the floor with her foot. Although his mind was spinning, he was lucid enough to understand that he was in trouble… big trouble.
The toe of Ana’s boot ground into his cheek, the friction reddening his face. He started to mumble through the material of the gag, but the dark haired woman beat him to the punch. “Do you know who I am, hijo de puta (motherfucker)?”
Twisting his head so he could look up at Ana through wide, terrified eyes, Tom attempted to shake his head.
Ana’s cherry-red lips pulled back into a sinister grin. “Interesting,” she murmured and pushing down with her foot, she gave Tom a quizzical look. “So, let me get this straight. After murdering el amor de mi vida (the love of my life), you didn’t bother to check what family he left behind, is that right? Well, let me tell you, Chico, not knowing about me was a mistake… a huge mistake. I have eyes and ears everywhere in this town and the loyalty of mi gente (my people). Mosco may be el Jefe in that stinking prison, but I’m la Jefa out here. You thought Miguel was your lover, but he was working for me all along and guess what, you pedazo de mierda (piece of shit), he sold you down the river. Say hello to your executioner, Tommy and let me warn you, it’s gonna be painful, it’s gonna be bloody and I’m gonna have a whole lotta fun.”
Tom’s blood began to pound in his ears and he swallowed down a sob. The last fourteen months of his life had been a lie. Mosco had not loved him; he had preyed on him like a spider, drawing him into his web and leaving him vulnerable to face a stronger, more powerful predator. Everything he had believed to be real; the intimacy, the friendship, the love, they were all part of a plan to deliver him to Ana, and the plan had worked. Now he lay defenseless on the floor of a disused warehouse, gagged, bound and outnumbered three-to-one, and he knew he would not get out alive. The irony of his situation was not lost on him; it was poetic in its perfection. Juan Álvarez’s blood had drained from his body onto the floor of an abandoned warehouse and he was now facing exactly the same fate. But although the realization was terrifying in its certainty, as he breathed in the oily fumes he had a moment of spiritual awakening. He was exhausted, bone-wearily, dog-tiredly exhausted and he yearned for eternal peace. The distressing knowledge that Mosco had never loved him meant that he really was alone and with that realization, the last remnant of hope that had clung to the edges of his soul slowly ebbed away. He no longer had the energy to fight for a better life; it was easier to give up than face the brutalities of the world alone.
He was done.
Blinking back the tears that had threatened to spill from his dark eyes, he gave Ana a steadfast gaze and mumbled two, final words through the bounds of his gag. “Do it.”
**
Monday May 20th 1991 (1.08 p.m.)
Lost in a mountain of paperwork after a successful drug bust, the piercing shrill of his phone coming to life caused Harry to jump involuntarily. Annoyed at the interruption, he snatched up the receiver. “Ioki,” he barked in a tone that was a little more abrupt than usual, but when the voice on the other end of the line spoke, his brow knitted into a deep frown and leaning back in his chair, he answered the woman’s question in a calmer voice. “I accept.”
Several long seconds passed before a male voice finally spoke. “Is this Officer Harry Ioki?”
It was not the voice Harry had expected to hear and he immediately grew wary. “It is. Who’s this?”
There was a long pause before the man spoke again, his voice somewhat hesitant. “The name’s Miguel Mosco and I have some information for you.”
Harry straightened up in his chair. He knew exactly who Miguel Mosco was and he was in no mood to talk to the criminal who by all accounts, was now Hanson’s boyfriend. His loyalty lay with Booker and he knew the dark haired officer would be furious if he knew he had engaged in friendly chitchat with the man who had stolen Tom away from him. He felt uncomfortable and he decided to end the conversation before it became even more troublesome.
“Look,” he stated firmly, “I don’t know why you’re phoning me, but I won’t—”
"Shut up and listen to me 'cause you’re gonna want to hear this,” Mosco hissed down the phone. “Tom's in trouble.”
As Mosco continued to speak, the color drained from Harry’s face and covering the mouthpiece of the phone, he screamed out to his co-workers. “FIND BOOKER! SOMEBODY FIND BOOKER… NOW!”
**
Monday May 20th 1991 (1.58 p.m.)
With his bound wrists attached to a large pulley hanging from a metal ceiling support, Tom’s naked body swayed lifelessly, the tips of his broken toes grazing the stained cement floor. His head lolled against his chest and his swollen eyes gazed sightlessly downwards at the thick puddle of blood that pooled at his feet. Crimson fluid coated almost every inch of his battered body, but for Booker, the image of his ex-lover dangling bloody and broken by his shackled wrists barely registered in his mind because his horrified stare remained focused on the metal tire iron someone had rammed into Tom’s anus. It was a surreal sight and at first, he thought his mind was lost within the realms of a terrifying nightmare. But when the realization hit him that someone really had brutally sodomized Tom with the apparatus, hot bile rose from the pit of his stomach and a cold sweat prickled his brow. His world immediately began to spin and he staggered backward as his senses shut down. He could hear someone yelling, but the words sounded muffled, almost as if the speaker was under water. Police officers started running around the room, but from his perspective, everyone was moving in slow motion, like a scene from a movie that the director had decelerated for dramatic effect. Harry appeared from nowhere and spoke directly at him, his full lips moving at lightning speed and his pale face contorted into a frightened mask of disbelief and horror. But the rush of words screamed into his face floated past him unheard because his mind refused to awaken from the paralysis that had numbed his senses. He was caught somewhere between reality and a nightmare and he was incapable of drawing his eyes away from the macabre sight in front of him. His Tommy was dead and all that remained was a piece of bloody meat hanging from the ceiling like a carcass in a slaughterhouse.
Time ticked by indiscriminately, but eventually his senses came back to life and with a strangled cry, he fell to his knees. “NOOO!” he screamed, his face twisted in pain. “TOMMEEE!”
Strong hands grabbed him roughly by his shirtfront and Harry’s furious face came back into view. “He’s alive! Now get your shit together and help me get him down!”
Ioki’s words took a moment to penetrate Booker’s addled mind and staring up through tear-clumped lashes, he spoke in a shaky voice. “H-He’s alive?”
“MOVE IT!” Harry responded with a yell before disappearing from sight.
Several seconds passed, but as a surge of adrenalin began to pump through Booker’s veins, he sprang into action and jumping to his feet, he ran over to where Tom hung suspended from the ceiling. Without hesitation, he cupped his ex-lover’s battered face in his hands and leaning in close, he ignored the metallic smell of blood and whispered into Tom’s bloody ear. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”
**
Monday May 20th 1991 (3.28 p.m.)
Raucous laughter filtered up from the ground floor recreation room, but Mosco barely registered the loud social banter. He stood silently in his cell, staring into the mottled mirror, his tear-filled eyes blurring the vision of his distorted reflection. There was no doubt in his mind that his chico hermoso was dead and the pain in his heart was as extreme as the anguish he had felt when his mother had died. However, this time his grief was exemplified by the irrefutable knowledge that he was responsible for the death. He had delivered his lover to La Viuda Negra (The Black Widow) so she could exact her ultimate revenge and he now wished he had made the call to Officer Ioki sooner, instead of wasting time struggling with the torment of his inner demons. If he had, he could have saved his beloved Chico from a tortuous death, but he had left it too late and now there was nothing but emptiness in his heart. He had lost the only man he had ever loved and the thought of never seeing his Tom again was too much to bear. There was nothing left for him anymore and the only way he would find peace was to make the final sacrifice and pay for his sins.
Reaching under his pillow, he pulled out his homemade shiv. His hand shook slightly as he tested the edge of the blade against the ball of his thumb and satisfied with the sharpness, he raised his eyes and stared back into the mirror. “See you soon, mi chico hermoso,” he whispered and closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and sliced the blade across his throat.
Blood gushed from the wound and dropping to his knees, he grinned manically. There was no fear, just a deep sense of calm in the knowledge that once he drew in his final breath, he would spend the rest of eternity wrapped in the arms of his Chico.
**
Wednesday May 22nd 1991 (2.21 a.m.)
The sound of hushed voices penetrated Booker’s dreams, pulling him back to consciousness. His dark eyes fluttered open and for a moment, he wondered where he was. But as his hearing tuned into the rhythmic beeping of a cardiac monitor, his memories returned and straightening up in his chair, he focused his gaze on Tom’s swollen face. A tight band of pain tightened his chest and wiping a shaky hand over his mouth, he attempted to block out the sickening memory of the tire iron violating Tom’s naked and bloody body. But the mental image remained stubbornly embedded in his mind and with a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched out his aching back. Thirty-six hours had passed since Tom’s arrival at St. Vincent’s Hospital and he had kept a bedside vigil as he anxiously waited for his ex-lover to wake up. During that time, a steady flow of doctors had come and gone, each muttering vague prognoses and well-worn platitudes that it was too early to know what damage Tom had sustained, but he mostly ignored them. They did not know his Tommy the way he did and he had no doubt in his mind that the man he still carried a torch for would make a full recovery.
Moving closer to the bed, he reached out a hand, but it hovered in midair as Tom’s voice sounded through his swollen lips. “Mosco.”
For a fraction of a second, Booker’s heart stopped beating and his blood chilled in his veins, sending a shiver of dejection through his tired body. Tom was calling for the man who had betrayed him and it was then that he realized he had no place in his ex-lover’s life. He was not even a blip on Tom’s radar and all of a sudden, he felt like an intruder. Etiquette dictated that he had no right to sit at the younger man’s bedside. That privilege remained firmly reserved for a patient’s family, friends, or partner and he did not qualify in any of those categories… not anymore. He was a nobody.
Lowering his hand, he turned and picking up his leather coat, he gave Tom one final, lingering look. “Get well soon, baby,” he whispered and bowing his head, he walked from the room.
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Chasing a Butterfly