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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
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Six months later – Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.08 a.m.)
The hot, sweet coffee burned Booker’s tongue, but he was too impatient and agitated to let it cool. Caffeine was his friend and he had forgone his usual two cups that morning due to an unexpected phone call from his mother, begging him to come over because someone had stolen her car during the night and the police had found it stripped and torched in the early hours of the morning. He had reluctantly agreed to do so, knowing full well what he was in for and when he arrived at her house, he was not disappointed. She wailed, she moaned, she ranted about the inconvenience of looking for another vehicle, citing that everyone knew that used car salesmen were the biggest con artists in the world and they would take advantage of her because she was a woman. On and on it went, her high-pitched voice grating on his nerves until he had finally had enough and with a frustrated sigh, he agreed to take her car shopping, on the proviso he preselected half a dozen vehicles to look at, rather than tramping around used car lots for hours on end on his day off. He was prepared to give up his Saturday in order to stop the incessant whining that had the same effect on his nerves as fingernails scraping down a chalkboard and his mother was appeased in the knowledge that her beloved Denny would take charge and she would not have to deal with the aggravation alone.
It was a win-win situation.
Picking up the newspaper he had bought on the way over to the café, he flicked through the pages until he came to the classified ads. He was tossing up with the idea of getting another motorcycle and rather than looking at vehicles for his mother, he began to look at what bikes were available in his price range. It did not take long for him to become completely engrossed in the choices laid out before him and he did not notice the busboy until a loud crash sounded next to his table. Jumping at the unexpected noise, hot coffee splashed over his hand, scalding his skin and swearing crossly, he turned to give the clumsy waiter’s assistant a piece of his mind, but the words caught in his throat. He stared in disbelief at the crouched figure before rising to his feet and slowly approaching the man kneeling next to the debris of broken crockery. "Tommy?" he whispered in a soft, incredulous voice.
Tom lifted his head, his dark, startled eyes partly obscured by his long bangs and Booker immediately noticed a marked change is his former lover. Tom was much thinner than he remembered, his cheekbones appearing sharper and more clearly defined than before. His skin appeared sallow and dark smudges blackened the flesh beneath his eyes, giving him an unhealthy appearance. But what was most prominent was the tremor in his right hand that made picking up the smashed cups and plates an almost impossible task and squatting down, Booker started to help when a gruff voice sounded above him. “Damn it, Hanson! I told you to be careful. Those breakages are coming out of your pay, got it?”
Tilting his head, Tom peered up through the curtain of hair hanging over his eyes. “Yes, Mister Rogers,” he replied softly. There was a slight hesitancy in his speech and Booker raised his eyebrows as he watched his former friend grasp the tray of broken plates and scramble to his feet.
“I have to get back to work,” Tom muttered to no one in particular, the crockery rattling on the tray as his hand shook uncontrollably and turning away, he walked towards the kitchen with a slow, halting gait.
“Tommy, wait!” Booker cried out, but Tom had already disappeared through the saloon-style doors and into the sanctuary of the café's back room, the wooden doors swinging in his wake. Jumping to his feet, he started to follow, but the manager laid a restraining hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, you can’t go back there.”
Booker’s eyes glanced briefly at the man before returning his gaze to the swinging doors. “Jesus,” he murmured.
Alf Rogers narrowed his eyes and glared suspiciously at Booker. “Do you know Tom?” he asked directly.
“I did… I mean, yeah, I do… but I haven’t seen him for a while,” Booker faltered and wiping an unsteady hand over his mouth, he turned and faced the overweight manager. “Um, it was my fault that he dropped the tray. I’d like to pay for the breakages.”
Rogers shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t care one way or the other, as long as someone pays,” he replied and taking the proffered money from Dennis' hand, he walked over to the counter and placed it in a wooden box. “He’s kinda clumsy, ‘cause of his disability,” he continued, by way of an explanation, “but he’s a good worker; always on time and never answers back.”
“Disability?” Booker asked in a shaky voice, the startling piece of information causing his heart rate to rise. “What’s wrong with him?”
A sad smile played over Rogers’ face and he tapped the side of his head knowingly. "I don't know what he was like when you knew him, but he's a little slow now."
Booker's blood ran cold. "Slow? In what way?" he asked apprehensively.
“He was beat up or something,” Rogers informed him. “I guess he suffered some kinda neur... neuro... Dang it! I never can say that word! Some kinda brain damage."
The words echoed painfully in Booker’s ears. “Brain damage? Jesus, I had no idea he… Jesus.”
Once again, Rogers shrugged his hulking shoulders. “It happens,” he replied flatly.
Reaching into his pocket, Booker pulled out his badge. “What time does he finish work?”
Rogers’ eyebrows rose towards his receding hairline and holding up his hands, he slowly backed away. “Whoa! I don’t know what Tom’s done, but I don’t want no trouble here.”
With a soft sigh, Booker replaced his badge. “He’s not in any trouble, I just want to speak to him and I wanted to reassure you that I wasn’t going to hurt him in any way.”
“Oh,” Rogers mumbled in relief. “Well, as long as you’re a cop, I s’pose it don’t matter if I give you that info. He knocks off at ten.”
“Thank you,” Booker replied quietly and walking over to his table, he drained the last of his coffee and tucking the newspaper under his arm, he exited the café.
**
Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.02 p.m.)
Now that he had found Tom, Booker ditched the idea of buying a motorcycle. He was not sure why, but he suddenly had a feeling that the timing was not right and he should concentrate on being a dutiful son and help his mother in her quest to find the perfect car. His selfless act appeared to appease the universe and in a stroke of pure luck, she had fallen in love with the first car they had looked at and their shopping trip was brief and relatively stress-free. With his mother filling out the paperwork for her new car, he wandered aimlessly around the lot before stopping in front of a blue Mustang. Memories of Tom sitting grinning behind the wheel flooded his mind and reaching out a hand, he lightly stroked the paintwork. He had no idea why, but all of a sudden, it seemed extremely important that he buy the car and without further thought, he made the unprecedented decision to trade in his battered Toyota for the Mustang. He did not know if seeing Tom had influenced his judgment or not, in fact, he was not even sure why he had decided to upgrade his vehicle. But he was happy with his purchase and as he sat outside the café and waited for his ex to finish work, he fiddled with the radio tuner until he found a station he liked. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in rapid rhythm to Nirvana’s ‘Smells like Teen Spirit’, he stared at the café’s large front window. He could see Tom inside, talking to Alf Rogers and he hoped the manager was not tipping him off that he was waiting outside. The last thing he wanted was to scare Hanson off before he had a chance to speak to him.
Minutes later, Tom exited the café with a brown paper bag clutched in his hand. Booker watched him limp up the street and for the hundredth time that day, he wondered just how severe Tom’s injuries really were. He had abandoned his ex at the hospital long before any of the doctors were able to give a full diagnosis and he now regretted his decision to walk away before knowing the full extent of Tom's trauma. He should never have left him to face his injuries alone and he now wished he had been a better friend; he should have stayed and helped him through it instead of selfishly running out because he was jealous of Mosco.
Climbing out of the car, he stepped into the near-deserted street and slammed the door closed behind him with a resounding bang. The sound alerted Tom to his presence and the younger man stopped walking and turned in his direction. Although Booker was too far away to read Tom’s facial expression, he could tell by his stance that he was surprised to see him and he was shocked when Tom turned his back and continued limping away from him. Breaking into a jog, he followed him up the narrow street, calling out his name. “Tommy, wait up! Wait up!”
When he finally caught up to his ex-lover, he grabbed him by the arm. “Aw c’mon, Tommy, don’t be like that.”
Tom immediately pulled his arm away and hugging the brown paper bag to his chest, he stared down at the pavement. “Leave me alone,” he mumbled in the same slightly hesitant voice he had used in the diner.
Somewhat surprised by Tom’s hostility, Booker took a step backward and held up his hands. “Sorry,” he apologized softly. “I only want to talk.”
After a moment of awkward silence, Tom lifted his head and gazed at Booker with his dark, penetrating eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he stated softly.
A deep frown creased Booker’s brow. “Are you shitting me? There’s plenty to talk about… Jesus, Tom, so much has happened since the last time we spoke.”
Tom’s lower lip pushed into a familiar petulant pout and immediately a ripple of desire flamed inside Booker’s lower body. But he ignored the feeling and instead, he concentrated on Tom’s faltering voice.
“No, there’s not,” the younger man insisted quietly. “You’re not part of my life… not anymore.”
“And yet fate keeps bringing us back together,” Booker blurted out in a rush of words. When Tom did not reply, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “C’mon, Tommy, all I’m asking is an hour of your time. Let’s go get a drink, relax and talk for a while… okay?”
Lowering his gaze, Tom stared at the brown bag in his hand. “My burger will go cold,” he replied softly as if that fact was the most important thing in the world.
Although it was not an affirmative response to his request, Booker sensed victory and his lips tilted into a warm smile. “Whatever you want to eat, I’ll get it for you… my treat.”
“I want a burger,” Tom whispered, his eyes remaining fixed on the paper bag.
“Okay, a burger it is,” Booker replied cheerfully, but in truth, he felt a cold sense of foreboding crawling through his veins. Tom’s monosyllabic responses had him wondering just how bad his brain injury was. But he pushed the unsettling thought aside and concentrated on making his friend feel comfortable because he had a feeling that when they sat down and really talked, it was not going to be an easy conversation.
**
Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.28 p.m.)
The car journey to Bob’s Burger Bar was uncomfortable in its silence. Tom sat with his back to Booker, staring wordlessly out of the passenger window at the empty sidewalks and flashing neon lights advertising Girls! Girls! Girls! He felt disorientated and a little frightened, although he could not quite put his finger on the reason why. He knew Booker would never hurt him and yet he felt wary in his presence; he was not sure if he could trust him.
When Booker parked the car outside the diner, he unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out. He was hungry, but at Booker’s request, he had thrown out his burger from the café and he did not have enough money to buy a meal. That meant he was reliant on his ex-lover to make the order and as his stomach growled, he hoped the dark haired officer would not want to talk before eating, but if he did, he figured there was little he could do about it. He was no longer the forceful, confident man he had once been. All that remained was a shadow and he would sit quietly and submissively for the duration of their meeting, even if it meant going hungry because that was who he now was.
He was the nowhere man.
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Chasing a Butterfly