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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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From his position by the door, Tom observed Booker lower himself onto the couch and carefully settle back against one of the throw cushions he’d plumped to within an inch of its life a mere two hours before. There was a hint of discomfort on the dark-haired officer’s handsome face, a slight furrowing of the brow that would have gone unnoticed if Tom weren’t scrutinizing his friend’s every move. It was a worrying sign, and dropping the backpack from his shoulder, the young officer hurried across the room. “Are you okay?”
Fed up with life in general, Booker pursed his lips and remained silent. By ignoring the question, he didn’t have to acknowledge the fact he wasn’t okay, and probably wouldn’t be for a very long time. It was a coping mechanism, and as it turned out, a somewhat effective one. Although Tom meant well, sometimes, he didn’t have the energy to deal with his constant pampering. All it did was reinforce his infirmity, and that was something he was desperately trying to forget.
He longed for the day when he didn’t have to think about how to move his body without aggravating his injury. His physiotherapist had assured him that day would come, but for Booker, it wasn’t happening fast enough. Every day he spent away from his beloved job was a day wasted. Five weeks was a long time for an energetic twenty-four-year-old man to remain idle, and so he counteracted his perceived inactivity by working hard at his therapy. Sometimes, he pushed himself a little too hard, which earned him a gentle reprimand from his therapist. But he needed to give it his all because anything less was, in his mind, a cop out. Not that it helped his mental anguish. Even when his body ached from the physical exertion, it wasn’t enough. He missed the companionship of his coworkers at the chapel, and while he knew he should be enjoying his time alone with Tom, his mind was never far from the job he loved...or Tyrell Carson.
When Tom didn’t badger him with any more questions, Booker closed his eyes and attempted to get comfortable. But his relief was short lived. Moments later, he felt the seat beside him depress and opening his eyes, his face contorted into an angry scowl. “What now?”
“Nothing,” Tom murmured. It was not the homecoming reunion he’d hoped for, but the problem with reality was it rarely met one's inflated expectations. Disappointed, he rose to his feet and retrieving the discarded backpack, he walked into his bedroom, leaving his friend alone on the couch.
Too tired and disillusioned to apologize, Booker closed his eyes. He needed time away from his thoughts, and so he cleared his mind and lost himself in the welcoming silence of his new home.
**
After tossing the contents of the knapsack onto the bed, Tom started sorting through the items. Booker’s dirty clothing went into the handheld wicker hamper ready for him to take down to the laundry room, the unworn clothes he left in a neat pile on the bed. He was glad he’d had the sensitivity and presence of mind to know when to step back and give his friend some space. Otherwise, a few sharp words could have erupted into a full-blown argument. And it was all thanks to his newly honed social skills.
It might have taken twelve long years, but thanks to his relationship with Booker, he was finally starting to evolve. Relearning how to read the attitudes and feelings communicated by others was a big step forward in his personal growth, and one he took pride in. Only a few months before, Booker had accused him of having his head so firmly up his ass, he knew nothing about human interaction. And as much as Tom hated to admit it, his friend was right. But all that was slowly changing. He liked to think of himself as a work in progress, as sometimes, he still misread the obvious signals. Not as frequently as before, but it did happen on occasion. And it appeared Booker’s homecoming was one of those times. It wasn't the dark-haired officer’s fault, he was obviously tired and in pain. But the sharpness of his tongue had cut like a knife, and Tom found himself struggling to reign in his animosity. However, he was trying hard not to let it spoil their night. Come hell or high water, he would calm the impending storm, or—metaphorically, at least—die trying.
Throwing the assortment of toiletries into the basket, Tom picked it up by the handles and carried it out of the bedroom. He kept his eyes lowered to the floor, thereby avoiding the figure on the couch. Dropping the hamper outside the door, he gathered up the shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and comb, and entered the bathroom. In no mood to treat his friend’s items with any respect, he unceremoniously dumped them onto the vanity and set about putting them away. As he placed the well-worn toothbrush in its holder, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and his hand stilled. It was a total recall moment, and turning his head, he studied the face staring back at him.
A lot had changed since the day he’d scurried into the bathroom at Nino’s Café like a frightened rabbit. His face was a little fuller, a little pinker, and even though he looked tired, the rosy tinge in his cheeks gave him a healthy glow. As the memory of his first outing with Booker took hold, he pushed up his sleeves and held up his hands. Slowly, he twisted his wrists from side to side. Gone were the bracelet-like contusions that had marred his flesh that day, the angry marks a product of one of Will’s brutal rages. He’d grown used to them over the years, and he’d always believed he’d managed to hide his injuries from those around him. But looking back, he wondered if that really were the case. Maybe his coworkers had noticed but had chosen not to care. After all, not everyone was as altruistic as Booker, especially those who thought making fun of his shy ways an amusing pastime. Not that he really blamed his tormentors. By not fighting back, he’d made himself the perfect target. It was the ingrained mechanism of basic human behavior. Survival of the fittest...kill or be killed. If he were a wild animal, as the perceived runt of the litter, he would never have outlived the strongest in his pack. But by some miracle, he had survived, and even at his lowest, he thanked the universe for giving him a second chance at life. At the age of twenty-four, he was Thomas Hanson, Mark II, the new and improved version of his former self. But as he was slowly discovering, it wasn’t always easy to let go of the past.
A sudden need to continue his physical examination had him jutting his chin forward, and peering closer into the mirror, he carefully examined his lightly stubbled jawline. It took a moment to find what he was looking for, but when he did, his gaze homed in on the small scar. A shiver ran down the length of his spine and lifting a hand, he traced the tip of his index finger over the dented flesh. The physical pain may have faded along with the bruises, but the memories remained and closing his eyes, he thought back to the day he’d received the injury.
The morning had started normal enough. Will had woken early, and by the time Tom had finished dressing, the tantalizing aroma of bacon and eggs was already wafting through the apartment. Caught off guard by his sibling’s uncharacteristic good mood, the young officer had wandered into the kitchen and plucked a rasher out of the pan with his fingers. But before the tasty morsel had touched his lips, a hand had grasped the back of his neck and slammed his face into the kitchen counter. His chin had taken the full force of the blow, leaving him with a permanent reminder of what not to do when his brother was cooking. Not that it mattered anymore. Will was dead, and Booker, being the man he was, would never consider laying a finger on anyone unless absolutely justified.
Opening his eyes, Tom pushed the unwanted memories to the back of his mind. He wanted to rejoice in his friend’s homecoming, not wallow in his past, and so he turned his attention back to the discarded toiletries littering the top of the vanity. It didn’t take him long to restore order to the bathroom, and closing the cupboard door, he wandered back into the living room.
At first glance, it appeared Booker hadn’t moved from his position on the couch. But on closer inspection, Tom noticed several scrunched-up pieces of paper strewn across the coffee table. Curious, he walked over for a better look. On closer inspection, he saw one page had hand drawn-diagrams, the other a handwritten list of instructions.
Picking up the sheets, he carefully perused them before addressing Booker with an encouraging smile. “Are these your physiotherapy exercises? Geez, some of them look pretty intense.”
“Yeah, I s’pose.”
The laconic response wasn’t very encouraging, but determined to get his friend talking, Tom persisted. “How many times a day do you have to do them? I haven’t had a chance to unpack your gym equipment yet, but if you want, I could clear an area for you so you can—”
“For God's sake, Tom, stop fussing! I don’t need you to do anything, okay? I’m perfectly capable of doing things for myself!”
Stung by the brutality of the verbal attack, Tom’s shoulders instinctively hunched inward, his body visibly wilting under the heat of the dark-haired officer’s malevolent glare. The uncharacteristic venom-laced words were so unexpected, he remained rooted to the spot, his head bowed close to his chest so he wouldn’t have to continue to witness the animosity projecting from his friend’s dark eyes.
Swearing softly under his breath, Booker struggled to his feet and approached Tom. “I'm sorry, baby,” he apologized, his arms pulling the young officer into an awkward hug. “I'm just so tired of every conversation focusing on my recovery. So, let’s talk about something else. Okay?”
Still aggrieved by the ferocity of the hurtful words, Tom squirmed free from Booker’s hold and tossing the papers back on the coffee table, he moved over to the couch. Perching stiffly on the edge of the seat, he threw his friend a stony look. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
Booker reigned in a sigh. He felt bad for hurting Tom’s feelings, but he was so damn tired, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to indulge his friend’s fragile ego. But when he looked into the young officer’s soft brown eyes, he knew he’d move heaven and earth to make things right because Tom was his drug, and he was addicted.
And so, even though his friend's body language suggested he wasn’t welcome, he sat down beside him and attempted to make amends for his fractious behavior. “Okay. Well, how about we talk about the apartment. You’ve done a great job. I really like it.”
A look of confusion passed over Tom’s face until he suddenly remembered the shooting had occurred before they’d even had a chance to unpack. When Booker had left for work that fateful morning, every available floor space was still littered with boxes and displaced furniture. In a way, it was a Godsend for Tom. In need of a distraction, he had thrown his energy into organizing the chaos into a warm and inviting home. And it had paid off. With Booker out of rehab, they were about to spend their first night together in their new apartment. Not that things were going too well. There was an awkwardness between them, a feeling they were both invading each other’s space. But Tom didn’t consider it a real problem. It was to be expected after the stress of the shooting. Visiting someone in a hospital was vastly different from spending time with them in a home environment. It was early days, and he still had high hopes after spending some quality time together, they would find their groove and relax back into a comfortable living arrangement.
Determined to start the process sooner rather than later, Tom pushed aside his animosity and offered up a shy smile. “Thanks, but it wasn’t just me. Judy helped with some of the personal touches. She’s been really nice.”
In an unguarded moment, Booker almost blurted out, “Oh, great! You made a friend!” But he managed to catch himself just in time. “Oh, great! You ma—may have to keep an eye on her though. According to Harry, when she helped him move, she tried to fill his apartment with all kinds of girlie stuff. God only knows what she’ll turn up with the next time she visits.”
The image of Booker living in an apartment with flowery curtains and scented candles tickled Tom’s sense of humor, and with the ice between them finally broken, he seized the opportunity to announce his news. “Um, I kinda have something I want to tell you.”
“Ooo-kay. Shoot. What’s on your mind?”
Picking up one of the throw cushions, Tom absently picked at a loose thread. “Penhall came to see me this afternoon.”
“Penhall came here?”
The raised pitch of Booker’s voice brought a smile to Tom’s lips. “Yeah, I know, even I can’t believe it. He’s barely spoken a word to me in all the years I’ve known him, but he sure had plenty to say today.”
“He did?” Booker prompted. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What did he say? ‘Cause if he came here to bully you, I’ll—”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” Tom reassured quickly. “He came here to tell me he’d come up with this idea. It’s a program where officers mentor young offenders. He’s spoken to Fuller about it, who spoke to the mayor and they’ve agreed to give it a trial run.”
Immediately losing interest, Booker shrugged his indifference. “So?”
Flustered by the lack of enthusiasm, Tom twirled the thread around his finger and pulled, breaking the cotton free from the cushion. He’d expected his friend to show more interest in the idea, and for a brief moment, he reconsidered his involvement in the program. But his unease didn’t last. He had faith in the project, and for the first time in his adult life, he dared to stand his ground and speak out for what he believed in.
“W-Well,” he stammered, as he got his thoughts in order. “Here’s the thing. Now I’m seeing a therapist, Fuller says I can return to work. I can come back to Jump Street as an undercover officer if I want, but they’re also offering me the position as the program’s first ever mentor. It’ll only be part-time, but I can take some courses and maybe, if I’m good enough, I can study to become a social worker.”
It took a moment for the meaning behind Tom’s words to sink in, but when they did, Booker’s face split into a wide grin. “Geez, a bloke gets shot and spends five weeks in a hospital and all of a sudden, everything’s changed. Shit, man, that’s fantastic news. You’re perfect for the job. Are you gonna do it?”
Embarrassed by the vote of confidence, Tom’s lips twitched into a shy smile. “Well, yeah, I think I am. It’ll give me some freedom.”
“Freedom for what?”
“Freedom to be me,” the young officer confessed in a shy voice before suddenly becoming animated. “B-But you don’t have to worry. I can still afford my rent, and I’ll always pay my own way. I promise.”
Booker couldn’t give a flying fuck about the rent. Money had never been a motivator in his life, happiness was, and Tom’s smile made his heart sing with glee. It was a simple philosophy, but one that worked, and forgetting his injury for the first time since the shooting, he pulled Tom into a tight hug. “Damn, man,” he whispered into his friend’s hair. “I’m so fucking proud of you. You’re gonna be the best mentor ever. But if you ever need a break, don’t leave me hangin’, ‘cause I’d love for us to be partners again.”
Back in the loving arms of the man he adored, Tom snuggled against his friend’s chest and took pleasure in the intimacy of the warm embrace. But his euphoria was short-lived. A sharp intake of breath had him pulling back, and resting a hand on Booker’s knee, he studied his pale face. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” Booker lied, the tight, steady throb in his gut bringing beads of perspiration to his brow.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Now, tell me more about this program.”
A broad smile, brimming with confidence, stretched across Tom’s sweet face. With a meaningful job in his sights, he had a purpose in life, and he was, once again, Booker’s equal.
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Cries of a Shadow