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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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Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.43 p.m.)
Booker took a sip of beer and silently watched Tom consume a cheeseburger with a side of fries at a painstakingly leisurely pace. Although he was itching to quiz his ex-lover about the last six months of his life, he knew he needed to exercise patience and not bombard him with questions. Tom’s demeanor was skittish, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare him off by coming on too strong. The hand of fate had brought them back together, and he would be damned if he would lose Tom again because of his impetuous nature. He would remain circumspect and allow Tom to take the lead; otherwise, their renewed friendship would be doomed before it had even begun.
After what seemed like a lifetime to Booker, Tom finally finished his meal and pushing his empty plate to one side, he wiped a trembling hand over his mouth. He sat silently with his head bowed down, his dark eyes fixed on the scratched laminate table in front of them, and Dennis felt a surge of impatience coursing through his body. Once upon a time, they had shared an intimate connection, but now they were two strangers trying to get through an uncomfortable meeting. Tom’s body was rigid, almost statue-like, except for the persistent tremor in his right hand, and Booker found it difficult not to stare. The subdued man sitting before him was a broken imitation of the spirited, often outspoken police officer he had initially fallen in love with, and it depressed him to witness the obvious decline in Tom’s mental and physical health. But he hoped his friend would accept his offer of help and maybe, with the right treatment, he could bring back to life the man he still carried a torch for, despite the volatility of their relationship. Maybe this time, he really could save him from a life of pain and misery.
The uncomfortable silence continued for several long minutes and Booker soon forgot his vow to let Tom take the lead. He straightened up in his chair and inhaling a deep breath, he spoke in his usual forthright manner. “Are you under the care of a doctor?”
Tom lifted his gaze and gave Booker a blank stare. “Huh?”
Swallowing down the urge to sigh in frustration, Booker remained calm. “Are you seeing a doctor about your… condition?”
It appeared to take Tom several moments to comprehend the significance of Booker’s words, but when the meaning eventually sank in, his lips twitched self-consciously. “I go to the free clinic to fill my prescription,” he disclosed in a soft voice. “But that’s all.”
Booker absorbed the information before deciding to pry further. “Prescription for what?”
Tom’s left hand clamped self-consciously over his trembling right hand and bowing his head lower, he stared at the table and spoke in a barely audible voice. “I take SSRIs, you know, ‘cause of my depression and anxiety.”
Booker started to speak, but Tom continued in a slow, faltering voice, his tone doleful, but oddly accepting. “I guess I was right all along, I’m not worthy of love. Mosco used me so he could set me up. Juan Álvarez’s gang attacked me when I left prison. They beat me and…”
He paused for a moment before lifting his damaged hand and giving a wry smile. “And now I’m like this. I’m slow, and I forget things… I’m damaged.”
As Booker silently processed the devastating information, Tom’s mood once again became detached. “So, is that it?” he muttered in a flat, emotionless voice. “Have I answered all your questions? Can I go now?”
A painful stabbing in Booker’s heart made it difficult for him to breathe and more than anything, he wanted to wrap his ex-lover in his arms and hold him close. However, he was astute enough to know Tom would reject any offer of comfort, so instead, he decided to disclose what it was that he knew. He hesitated for a moment before taking in a jagged intake of air and divulging his secret. “I was there when the cops found you at the warehouse.”
The flash of surprise in Tom’s eyes sparked a small glimmer of life in his otherwise blank expression. “You were there?” he asked, the shock evident by the quaver in his voice. “How did you—”
Although he would never have believed he was capable of saying the words aloud, Booker told Tom what he needed to hear. “Mosco did love you,” he muttered, his fists curling into tight balls as he struggled with the painful truth. “He rang Harry and that’s how we knew where to find you. He saved your life.”
Tom’s dark eyes flooded with tears, but he refused to allow his emotions to run free and biting down on his lower lip, he spoke in a wavering voice. “He tried to save me?”
A deep-seated jealousy burned in Booker’s soul and he desperately wanted to tell Tom that even though Mosco had eventually had a change of heart, he was still responsible for delivering him to Ana. However, when he saw the pain in Tom’s eyes, he decided not to burst his bubble and to let him hold on to the happy memories he had of his relationship with the young Hispanic. His decision was not really a selfless act; Miguel Mosco was dead and, therefore, he no longer had any influence over Hanson’s life. For Booker, it was the perfect ending to a tragic love story. His Tommy was now free to live the life he deserved, and he would do everything in his power to make that a reality.
As the satisfying thought played through his mind, he suddenly realized Tom probably did not know that Mosco had died, and a cold hand gripped at his heart. He had never enjoyed being the bearer of bad news and after lifting Tom’s spirits, he was now about to dash them in the cruelest way possible. But he knew Tom would find out eventually, and he figured it would be better coming from him, rather than some cold-hearted guard at the prison.
Therefore, with a pounding heart, he forgot his earlier reticence and reaching out, he laid a hand over Tom’s cold fingers. “There’s something else, Tommy… something that’s gonna be kinda hard to hear.”
This time, Tom did not withdraw from the contact. Instead, he took a deep breath and stared at Booker with tear-filled eyes. “Tell me.”
Without going into explicit detail, Booker divulged what he knew about Mosco’s suicide. The emotion Tom had so bravely held inside eventually spilled from his tortured eyes and rivulets of tears streamed down his pale face, the salty droplets forever washing away a part of his old life. Mosco was dead, and no matter how indirect his role might have been, there was no getting around it; he was still responsible. It was another notch in his belt of death, alongside Amy and Doug’s and he began to wonder if he was predestined to take the lives of those he loved.
He began to wonder if he was The Reaper.
When Tom’s face crumpled in grief, and a loud sob choked from between his lips, Booker could no longer sit idly by and do nothing. Getting to his feet, he crossed to the other side of the table and squatting down, he wrapped his arms around his friend’s trembling body. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmured against Tom’s sweet-smelling hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Several pairs of curious eyes stared in their direction and immediately Booker’s protectiveness came to the fore. “C’mon,” he whispered against Tom’s ear. “Let’s get out of here.”
Tom lifted his head from the warmth of Booker’s chest, revealing a blotchy, tear-stained face and red-rimmed eyes. “Why does God keep punishing me?”
It was the first time Booker had heard Tom allude to a higher being, and his brow knitted together. “No one’s punishing you, Tom. It’s just life.”
“Is it?” Tom croaked, his wide eyes brimming with fresh tears as he desperately sought reassurance. “Is it really?”
Although Booker was not a religious man, he did wonder why it was that Tom seemed to draw the short straw in life. However, he was unwilling to reinforce his friend’s insecurities and placing a hand on Tom’s head, he lovingly ruffled his hair. “Of course,” he smiled, in what was a thinly veiled attempt to assuage his fears. “Now, can I drive you home?”
Too tired to protest, Tom rose to his feet and gave a nod of resignation. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Booker replied softly and tossing several bills onto the table, he placed a comforting arm around Tom’s shoulders and led him from the diner.
**
Saturday November 30th 1991 (11.09 p.m.)
Standing in Tom’s dank, two-room, basement apartment, Booker struggled to keep his expression neutral, but in reality, his heart was breaking. He cast his mind back to when Tom was living a life of drugs and prostitution, and he suppressed a sigh when he realized his friend’s living conditions had not improved. The furnishings were sparse and once again, the only luxury appeared to be a small television sitting on a wooden crate in the corner of the tiny living area. However, unlike Tom’s last apartment, the home was neat and clean, except for a pungent smell that permeated the damp air. Casting his eyes surreptitiously upwards, he immediately noticed several distinctive patches of black mold on the painted exterior wall and around the frame of the small, street-level window. It was a telling testament to the unsanitary state of the cramped rental, and he felt an overwhelming sense of sadness wash over him. Despite Tom’s best intentions and giving up eighteen months of his life in the hope of redemption, his circumstances had not improved in the slightest. If anything, they were worse.
Acutely aware of Booker’s failed attempt to hide his true feelings, Tom attempted to justify his meager surroundings. “I know it’s not much,” he stated softly, his lips tilting into a shy smile, “but it’s quiet… I like the quiet.”
There was so much Booker wanted to say, but for the first time in his life, he had the sensitivity and presence of mind to step back and give Tom some space. It was a delicate situation and if he voiced his opinions too assertively and too early, he risked alienating Tom altogether. Therefore, he made the decision to stay silent in the hope that he could persuade his ex-lover to meet with him again, and once their relationship was on stable footing, he could convince him to move out of the apartment and back into the protective sanctuary of his home.
With his plan now firmly in place, he looked at his watch, and his eyebrows shot up in a theatrical display of surprise. “Jesus, I didn’t realize how late it was. I should go.”
“Okay,” Tom replied quietly, his voice once again devoid of any emotion. “It was good seeing you.”
The statement sounded like a final goodbye and an acute sadness filled Booker’s heart. Stepping forward, he placed a hand on Tom’s bony shoulder and tried to engage him with his smile. “This doesn’t have to be goodbye, Tom. Can’t I see you tomorrow?”
Tom’s eyes twitched nervously. “Why?” he muttered, the tone of his voice completely devoid of enthusiasm.
The single word reverberated in Booker’s brain, and he too started to question why he felt the need to have his ex-lover back in his life. But although he had no definitive answer, he knew he could not just walk away. There was something he could not quite put his finger on… a connection between them that he could not ignore. Fate had brought them together and even though he was perceptive enough to know it was probably a mistake, he had always been one to follow his gut instinct. Tom was a part of his life, whether he liked it or not and if he could help him emotionally or financially, he would do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.
Once he had his thoughts straight in his mind, he smiled broadly and gave the answer he thought Tom would find most convincing. “I dunno, for old time’s sake?”
Unmoved by the warmth of Booker’s spirit, Tom shrugged his shoulders apathetically. “Okay, I guess,” he replied in what was becoming a monosyllabic rhetoric.
Although his patience was beginning to wear thin, Booker managed to contain his frustration. “So, what time should I come over?”
Tom hesitated for a moment before giving his answer in a flat voice. “I finish work at one.”
“Then I’ll see you at two,” Booker replied with a tender smile, and as he gazed deep into Tom’s dark eyes, his voice softened. “It really is good to see you, Tommy.”
A hint of a smile tilted the corners of Tom’s lips before quickly vanishing into the ether. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. “You too.”
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Chasing a Butterfly