Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

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
- 38
- 39
- 40
A loud guttural retch tore through the fabric of Booker’s dream. Opening one eye, the dark-haired officer peered into the shadowy darkness and waited for his sight to come into focus. Once free from the fog clouding his mind, his gaze immediately fell on the various packing boxes littering the floor of his bedroom. His heart skipped a beat and forcing his other eye open, he held his breath and listened. When another round of vomiting reached his ears, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Tom had finally made it home, bringing with him the shocking memory of Will’s betrayal. It didn't take long for a kaleidoscope of images to flash through Booker’s mind, the colorful visions destroying the last remnants of his dream along with any thoughts of rolling over and going back to sleep. The Sandman had officially left the building and suppressing a sigh, he laced his fingers behind his head and thought back to the day before.
After Tom had stormed from the apartment, he had finished packing up the Hansons’ belongings on his own, the stress of his friend’s reaction to the photos weighing heavily on his mind. Any hope the young officer would return had faded with the slow passing of time, and when the clock had finally struck six, he’d loaded his car and returned to his apartment alone. He’d spent the night staring blankly at the television, his thoughts in turmoil. Will’s death hadn’t changed a damn thing. Tom was still his victim, and with their planned move to a new apartment only a few hours away, their future together hung in the balance. Life no longer seemed as simple as it had only a few days before, and Booker was once again starting to question the wisdom of sharing a home with a survivor of abuse. Was love, or, at the very least, friendship, a good enough reason to uproot his whole life for a man he barely knew? He had his doubts, but as he listened to the sound of the young officer’s wretched vomiting, he knew he couldn’t lie back and ignore his suffering. Like it or not, Tom needed him, and like it or not, he, in a weird way, needed Tom.
The distinctive flush of the toilet spurred Booker into action. Climbing slowly out of bed, he pulled on his discarded boxers and jeans and cautiously approached the bathroom. An eerie silence greeted him, and taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door.
Tom sat on the edge of the tub, his head resting in his hands. The astringent stench of vomit invaded the small space, the oppressive smell casting an invisible vapor of whiskey-soaked despair throughout the room. In need of some fresh air, Booker walked over to the small awning window and cranked it open. A light breeze wafted in, carrying with it, the faintest hint of the summer heat to come. It was the tonic the dark-haired officer needed and closing his eyes, he stood for a moment and allowed the familiar vibrations of the city to roll over him. There was no point getting angry at Tom for going on another alcohol-fueled bender. His friend had suffered a terrible shock, and although drinking himself into a state of oblivion wasn’t the answer, he understood the need to numb the mind of pain. He too had turned to alcohol when dealing with the loss of Jacob, and therefore, he had no right to judge. But that didn’t mean he would sit back and let it become a habit. Therapy was a much healthier alternative, and he hoped once Tom sobered up, he would speak to his psychologist, and together, they would devise a plan to help him cope with the heartache of Will's latest betrayal.
The blast of a car horn snapped Booker back to the present and opening his eyes, he turned his attention back to Tom. The young officer remained on the edge of the tub, his hands now dangling between his legs, his face hidden behind a curtain of matted hair. While it was a relief to know his friend was safe—humiliated, but safe—the dark-haired officer knew Tom’s homecoming was just the beginning of his problems. He had no idea how to broach the subject of Will’s treachery, and so he took the easy way out. Without speaking, he sat down next to Tom and taking a deep breath, he placed a comforting arm around his shoulders.
Unnerved by the contact, Tom instinctively jerked away. “Don’t,” the young officer muttered without looking up. “A hug’s not gonna fix it, not this time.”
Lowering his arm, Booker stared at the open window. “No, I s’pose not. But Tom, you can’t keep getting drunk every time—”
“Every time, what?” Tom mumbled, his eyes never leaving the floor. “Every time I discover another one of Will’s sick secrets? Well, gee, Booker, I’m sorry if I’m not handling this very well, but finding out your brother never really loved you and only kept you around for his own sexual pleasure is...Fuck! I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but then...he took PICTURES of me, Dennis! Naked...fucking...PICTURES! Why would he do that? Why? WH-WHY!”
The final word choked from between Tom’s lips and burying his face in his hands, the distraught officer gave into his grief. He cried for the brother he’d never really known, he cried for the parents whose lives were lost, but most of all, he cried for the twelve-year-old boy whose only crime was to love his sibling without question.
Compassion misted Booker’s eyes and ignoring Tom's previous request, he gathered him in his arms and pulled him against his chest. But despite his urge to console, he had no soothing words, no comforting explanation. Even the well-worn platitudes one usually relied on when faced with an awkward situation remained unspoken. And when his distressed friend didn’t pull away, he relaxed in the knowledge he’d made the right decision to stay silent. An insipid gesture of meaningless words would have only trivialized the seriousness of Tom’s plight, and he was pleased he’d had the presence of mind not to panic and blurt out something inappropriate. Because there were no answers to his friend’s questions, there was only supposition, none of which would help Tom heal. Even a trained professional could only help him find some sort of closure. Life had dealt him a cruel blow, but the reasons behind his brother's abuse would never be known. The whys and wherefores had died along with Will, and in Booker’s mind, it was better that way. Sometimes, ignorance really was bliss. Knowledge did not always bring happiness, especially if the truth was more horrifying than the mind could imagine. And given the elder Hanson's propensity for deviant behavior, it was a distinct possibility that was the case. But in the end, only God himself knew what other offenses Will had committed, and in the end, only He had the right to cast the final judgment. Will Hanson was dead, and rather than driving himself crazy with the unanswerable what ifs, it was time for Tom to close that chapter of his life and concentrate on healing his damaged mind.
When the flow of his tears finally eased, Tom gently extricated himself from Booker’s hold. Wiping a hand under his streaming nose, he stood up and walked over to the sink. After splashing his flushed cheeks with water, he brushed his teeth. Once satisfied he’d rid himself of the offending aftertaste of vomit, he spat out the residual toothpaste and turned off the faucet. Reaching for a towel, he stalled for time by vigorously rubbing his face dry. The thought of meeting Booker’s sympathetic gaze was almost too much to bear, and he silently willed his friend to leave, so he could sneak off to the couch and find the comfort he craved in the dreams of his past. But he was out of luck. A gentle hand pulled the towel from his face and threw it on the floor. “C’mon,” Booker murmured, his arm circling Tom's waist. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Resigned to his fate, Tom allowed the dark-haired officer to lead him from the bathroom. But instead of walking toward the sofa, he found himself ushered into his friend’s bedroom. Light from a full moon spilled through the window, bathing the room with its luminous glow. Overcome with weariness, Tom leaned heavily against Booker’s muscular frame. Emotionally and physically exhausted, his legs had turned to jelly, and all he wanted was to close his eyes and replace the images torturing his mind with the peaceful visions of his dreams.
“Lie down,” Booker instructed in a soft voice. “You can sleep in here tonight.”
In a trance, Tom undressed down to his boxers and crawled under the covers. But as soon as he closed his eyes, the side-effects of too much alcohol had his head swimming. He quickly opened his eyes, only to find the room empty. Moments later, Booker reappeared, a blue plastic bucket in his hand. “Just in case you feel sick,” the dark-haired officer explained, and placing the pail on the floor, he flashed Tom a small smile and turned away.
“Don’t leave me.”
Booker stopped, the pitter-patter of his heart sending a pulsating S-O-S out into the universe. Tom’s words were innocuous enough, but the meaning behind them had alarm bells ringing in his head. Lying down next to the troubled officer, although tempting, meant entering dangerous territory. His friend craved affection, and being in such close proximity to someone whose needs he couldn’t, or more accurately, shouldn’t fulfill was a recipe for disaster. But when he turned and looked down into his friend’s dark, tortured eyes, all his good intentions flew out the window. There was no explanation for his change of heart, except life seemed simpler in the moonlight. Whether it was the faint shadows of the tree boughs dancing over the cream-colored walls or the distant call of a mockingbird fighting for dominance over the nighttime traffic, something was different. Suddenly, he no longer cared about the consequences of his actions. By professing his feelings, he’d made a verbal commitment to Tom, and he was tired of overthinking every move, every touch, every word of comfort for fear of further complicating their relationship. What if he’d actually found his soul mate, and if so, wasn’t he, after losing Jacob, entitled to a second chance at happiness? And then there was Tom, a man who had survived twelve years living under the tyrannical rule of a sexual predator. Surely, he, of all people, deserved a chance at love. After all, who could predict—with any amount of certainty—the right time to start a relationship? Tom’s therapist? His general practitioner? Himself? There were no guarantees in life, and this time, Booker was prepared to step into the murky waters of the unknown and take a chance. Fate had brought them together, and he’d be damned if he’d let fear tear them apart. Life was too short to deny himself the opportunity of real happiness, and so, under the hypnotic pull of the radiant full moon, he made his choice. “Move over.”
Afraid his friend might suddenly come to his senses and change his mind, Tom shuffled over to the opposite side of the bed and pulled back the covers. He hadn’t expected Booker to capitulate to his demand so readily, and he watched with interest as the dark-haired officer undressed. He was about to experience the thrill of sharing a bed with the man he loved, and that meant, he was one step closer to achieving his goal.
The intensity of Tom’s gaze had Booker blushing in embarrassment and desperate to hide his boxer-clad body, he hurriedly lay down and pulled the covers up to his chin. But a flimsy cotton barrier was no match for a determined Tom, and within seconds, an arm circled his waist, drawing him close. Booker’s muscles instantly tensed, but despite the pesky alarm bells clanging loudly in his head, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to move. A minute passed, then two, and just when the dark-haired officer began to relax, a warm mouth pressed against his lips. He started to protest, but his feeble objection melted away before the words could take form, and as the world slowly fell away, he met the tender oral caress with eager acceptance. The kiss was less awkward than their first, and when gentle fingers entwined in his hair, Booker tested the waters by slipping his tongue between Tom’s lips. Their tongues met, hesitant at first before finding a rhythm and dancing a slow, sweeping tango of erotic exploration. Time stood still, but when a faint trace of spearmint toothpaste burst over Booker’s taste buds, his mind awakened from its trance. Panic had him pulling away, and as he stared into Tom’s tranquil face, his eyes widened with wonder.
Unperturbed by the dark-haired officer’s flustered expression, Tom snuggled against him and closed his eyes. “G’night.”
Tongue-tied for the first time in his life, Booker lay in the arms of his friend, his mind in a whirl. It was a goodnight kiss unlike any he’d ever encountered, and the thrill of the unexpected contact lasted long into the night until the hypnotic tempo of Tom’s steady breathing, finally lulled him into a troubled sleep.
- 38
- 39
- 40
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Cries of a Shadow