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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
- 44
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- 46
I have taken a couple of liberties with this chapter. Firstly, Reservoir Dogs was actually
released in October 1992. But you probably wouldn't have known that if I hadn't told you!
Secondly, Tom's recovery has happened quite quickly. The reason for this is twofold.
a) I don't want this story to drag on any longer than it already has and b) I wanted Dennis'
birthday to coincide with Tom's "reawakening".>
Thanks for your understanding.
In peace,

OpenPage xx
Three months later - Monday March 23rd, 1992 (7.22 p.m.)
The smell of burnt cheese assailed Booker’s nostrils and closing the apartment door, his gaze turned towards the small kitchenette.
Tom stood in a slightly bent-over position, his oven mitt encased hands resting just above his knees and his brow crinkled in amused perplexity as he peered into the open oven with narrowed eyes. Tendrils of smoke wafted around his head, giving him an ethereal appearance in spite of the apron tied around his waist and the unpleasant odor permeating the air. When the sound of the door alerted him to Booker’s presence, he turned his head and straightening up, he smiled a crooked smile. “I cooked dinner, but I think I burned it.”
Tossing his jacket onto the sofa, Booker marveled at the sight of Tom in an apron and oven mitts. “You can’t cook.”
“Okay, I heated dinner,” Tom confessed with a laugh. “But I’m pretty sure it’s beyond saving. I wanted to do something special for your birthday, but maybe we could stay in and order pizza instead. We could put candles on it, and if you play your cards right, I might sing.”
Booker rubbed furiously at his chin, and his gaze flitted uncomfortably around the room before settling back on Tom’s grinning face. “Um, I kinda told Harry and some of the guys I’d meet them at The BoHo for drinks… but you can come along… if you want.”
The lively sparkle immediately faded from Tom’s eyes. It was obvious the invitation was an afterthought, and he could not believe Dennis did not want him to be part of his birthday celebrations. His lower lip started to quiver with emotion, but he quickly pulled himself together and yanking off the oven mitts, he threw them forcefully onto the kitchen counter. “Gee, can I?” he growled through clenched teeth. “Thanks, pal.”
The sarcastic tone was not lost on Booker, but he chose to ignore it because he did not want to get into an argument. He knew Tom was hurting, but it was his birthday and for once, he wanted to go out and not have to deal with any drama.
“What was I supposed to do, Tommy?” he asked with a weary sigh. “They want to celebrate my birthday with me, I couldn’t say no. Besides, I figured you wouldn’t feel comfortable being with a group of men you didn’t know. ”
“Fuck you!” Tom snapped, his lips twisting into an angry snarl. “Just say it. I’m a fucking embarrassment, and you don’t want to be seen in public with me.”
Booker was not about to let Tom emotionally blackmail him and he immediately bit back. “Okay, fine. When you behave like a spoiled brat, you are a fucking embarrassment. In case you’ve forgotten, Hanson, the world doesn’t always revolve around you! It’s my birthday, and I can do any damn thing I want!”
Ripping off his apron, Tom screwed it into a ball and hurled it at Dennis. “FINE! HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY, ASSHOLE!” and with tears blurring his vision, he grabbed his keys and stumbled from the apartment.
**
Monday March 23rd, 1992 (9.38 p.m.)
“You did what?” Harry shouted over the music.
Booker stared despondently down at his boots and shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, he hunched his shoulders inward. "I kinda told him he wasn't welcome.”
Harry's eyes widened in shocked surprise. "You didn't? Shit, man, that's harsh. No wonder he’s pissed off."
Embarrassed and ashamed of his actions, Booker immediately went on the defensive. "I didn't mean to! I was just psyched to go out with the boys. We've been working so hard on this damn case... and... you know Tom, he's always so moody. I just wanted to have some fun without worrying about him, you know?"
Taking Booker by the arm, Harry steered him into the adjacent bar that was a little less crowded and not quite so noisy. He found a table and when they were seated opposite each other, he leaned his elbows on the flat surface and propped his face in his hands. “You know he’s still in love with you, right?” he revealed with a knowing smile.
Booker’s eyebrows shot into his hairline before settling into a contemplative frown. He knew he should not be surprised at Harry’s level of perception, but it never ceased to amaze him how intuitive his friend actually was.
With a heavy sigh, he slumped in his seat. “I know. FUCK! It’s so screwed up. We’re drifting further apart because I’m constantly fighting to keep our relationship platonic, but what I really want to do is rip his clothes off and…”
When Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, he returned a tight-lipped smile. “Too much information?”
Harry grinned back. “A little. But I understand what you’re saying. What does his therapist have to say about it?”
Booker shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Tom won’t discuss it with me.”
Tilting his head to one side, Ioki gave his friend a measured look. “Have you asked him?”
Booker absently rubbed at his lips and after a long, drawn-out pause, he exhaled heavily. “Not in so many words.”
Ioki’s expression softened and the corners of his full lips tilted upwards. “Well, maybe you should.”
**
Monday March 23rd, 1992 (10.38 p.m.)
Unable to shake thoughts of Tom from his mind, Booker left the bar with his co-workers teasing rendition of Bryan Adam’s (Everything I do) I Do It for You ringing in his ears. He hailed a cab, and after giving the driver his address, he climbed into the passenger seat of the vehicle and stared out of the window during the short drive home. Arriving back at his apartment, he turned his key in the lock and opening the door, he found himself welcomed by darkness and a deafening silence. Flicking the light switch, he closed the door and tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, he walked over to the closed bedroom door and after a moment’s hesitation, turned the handle.
Tom lay on the mattress under the window that had served as his bed for the last three months. Only his dark hair was visible from beneath the duvet, the messy strands standing in soft peaks around his head.   His soft breathing and the steady rise and fall of his shoulders indicated he was asleep, but Booker was impatient. He had an overwhelming need to get all his thoughts out into the open and clearing his throat, he spoke in a loud voice. “Tom?”
A disgruntled moan sounded from beneath the covers, but he was not about to be ignored and he spoke in an even louder voice. “TOMMY!”
Seconds passed before there was finally some movement beneath the duvet and Tom’s eyes peered out from beneath the protection of the bedclothes. “What?” he asked, his tone conveying his annoyance.
Booker shrugged out of his jacket and tossing it onto a chair, he sat down on the edge of his bed. “Are you angry with me?”
Unable to believe the audacity of the question, Tom moodily avoided eye contact, preferring to keep his gaze firmly fixed on Booker’s boots. “Gee, what gave it away, officer?” he asked in a stony voice.
A visible weariness passed over Booker’s face and standing up, he huffed out a sigh. “Forget it. Go back to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”
As he started to turn away, his gaze fell upon a rectangular parcel tucked beneath his pillow and with a curious frown, he picked up the slim package and turned it over in his hands. “What’s this?”
Tom struggled to a sitting position and wrapping his arms protectively around his bent knees, he addressed Booker’s boots. “It’s your birthday present.”
With his heart hammering heavily in his chest, Booker ripped off the paper with shaky hands and stared at the spiraled notebook. “Your journal? Tommy… I—”
“Pretty fucking stupid, huh?” Tom interjected in a flat voice. “Who wants a journal of someone else's thoughts?”
Booker started to speak, to tell Tom that it meant everything to him that he trusted him with his innermost secrets. But the words stuck in his throat and he remained mute, his eyes transfixed by the words TOM'S JOURNAL written on the cover in Tom’s shaky handwriting.
When he received no answer, Tom clambered slowly to his feet and gathering his pillow and duvet into his arms, he stared despondently at the floor. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered and turning away, he walked out of the room and closed the door.
Shocked by the turn of events, Booker stared at the closed door for several long minutes before sitting back on the bed. He struggled internally with his emotions, but eventually, he came to the decision that it was best to leave Tom alone, at least for the interim. Propping up his pillow, he leaned back against the headboard and bending his knees, he rested the dog-eared notebook against his thighs. A slow shiver of apprehension tingled his scalp and taking several deep breaths, he mentally prepared himself for the secrets contained within the slim volume. He was not sure he wanted to journey inside Tom’s damaged mind, but he knew there was no turning back and opening the book, he began to read.
1/7/92
So, I’m supposed to keep a ‘Thought Journal’ and write at least two entries a week. It’s a stupid idea. What am I? A fucking
12 year old girl?
Therapy sucks.
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1/10/92
What to write … what to write … I don’t have any thoughts because to think means opening the vault of my mind and if I do that, then I’ll have to acknowledge all the memories I’ve kept buried for so long.
I hate this.
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1/21/92
I didn’t write anything last week because I didn’t want to. Therapy’s a fucking waste of time and I’m only going because Dennis wants me to. I know I’m screwed up, I don’t need some overpaid ‘psychoanalyst’ telling me why I ‘feel’ the way I do. I’m responsible for the deaths of three people, it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure it out!!!!
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1/23/92
I saw the neurologist again today and he told me I have nerve damage and an ABI, which is doctor-speak for an acquired brain injury. So basically, this is as good as it gets.
I guess that means I’ll never bowl again.
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1/26/92
I caught Dennis staring at me today. I wonder what he really sees when he looks at me. A friend? A lover? A crim? A whore? A murderer? Shit. There are too many nouns to choose from. Maybe he doesn’t see anyone … maybe I don’t really exist … maybe I’m a ghost … maybe I really did die on that stinking mattress with Manning’s cock up my ass …
Maybe this is hell.
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1/29/92
Last night I dreamed about Doug. Dreams are better than nightmares, but it was still terrifying. He was on his bike and he looked angry. I called out to him, but he wouldn’t look at me. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for what I did and I don’t blame him. I took his life and
I don’t want to write about this stuff anymore.
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2/3/92
Doug’s haunting me. He’s in all my dreams, but he won’t talk to me. Why won’t he talk to me? Or yell at me? Or fucking punch me? All he does is sit on his bike and stare at me. At least he’s seeing me now, I suppose that’s something. I keep telling him I’m sorry, but … Fuck, I miss him so much it hurts. I’m sorry Doug. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’M SORRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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2/6/92
Amy’s with Doug now. Not ‘with’ with, but with. I can’t concentrate … What I mean is, Amy and Doug are both appearing in my dreams. She’s sitting on the back of his bike, which is weird because she hated motorbikes, she thought they were dangerous. But I suppose she doesn’t have to worry about dying now she’s dead.
Fuck. That wasn’t funny.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME????
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2/8/92
Why am I surprised that Mosco is now a ‘creature feature’ in my dreams? He’s wearing a t-shirt that has ‘I’M WITH CHICO’ written on the front. I miss being called Chico. I miss Mosco. I loved him and I’ve forgiven him for betraying me. Shit … maybe I shouldn’t have written that. If Dennis reads this, he’ll get pissed. I’m a cheater. I cheated on Dennis. I don’t know why I did that. I think I was lonely. And scared. I was scared and Mosco … He didn’t love me then, I was his toy, but he did love me at the end, I know that. He took his life … no, I took his life…
I need a break …
… I’m back.
I miss Doug. God, I miss Doug. But I don’t miss I’m sorry, Amy, I’m sorry you died. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I was such a shitty boyfriend. I’m sorry I didn’t love you. I’M SORRY!
I miss my mom. I miss Judy. I miss Fuller. I miss Harry. I miss my life. Harry comes by, but it’s hard to talk to him. I’m responsible for him getting shot, but he’s too nice a guy to cut me off completely. I think it’s because of Dennis. They’re best friends and Dennis and I are …
I have no idea what Dennis and I are.
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2/11/92
It’s hard being with Dennis every day. He’s so beautiful, but I’m not allowed to tell him because we’re ‘just friends’. I don’t want to be ‘just friends’, I want him to kiss me like he used to before I went to prison. I want him to fuck me, I want to see the ecstatic look on his face when he cums … even though I can’t cum … I want him to feel it, to experience the elation. But … I don’t want to be touched there, not since … How fucked up is that? Dennis should be with someone who makes him happy. I don’t think I make him happy. I can’t give him what he wants, even though I want to, my body won’t let me. What they did to me at the warehouse, it hurt so fucking much and when I think about it … Dennis should find someone else and forget about me. His life is passing by and all he does is work and take care of me. It’s not right. I’m killing him, but not in the same way I killed Amy, Doug, and Mosco. I’m killing him slowly. I’m suffocating him. I might as well hold a pillow over his face while he’s sleeping. It’s the same thing. I’m the Grim Reaper and if I stay here, I’ll suck out his soul.
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2/13/92
I hate myself.
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2/17/92
Happy fucking Presidents’ Day. Who fucking cares? I don’t. Dennis is still working. He works a lot. I think he does it so he doesn’t have to be with me. I wish we could do things together, like the fishing trip we took at Christmas. We had fun. I think that was the last time we had fun together. After that, he started keeping his distance. At first I thought it was because
Fuck it, I need a drink.
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2/22/92
I need to stop drinking. Not that Dennis notices, he’s never here, he’s working seven days a week on some stakeout. I think it’s a bullshit excuse. He’s avoiding me because he can’t stand to look at me anymore. My only company is Doug, Amy and Mosco, they’re with me all the fucking time. But they don’t speak, they just look at me. Maybe they want me to join them. Maybe I should.
I think I might be losing my mind.
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2/24/92
Dennis and I had a fight. He came home, found me passed out on the floor and he completely lost it. But at least he spoke to me, I can’t even remember the last conversation we had. He’s thrown out all the booze and told me that if I do it again, he’ll kick me out. I’m self-destructing and I don’t know why … No. That’s a fucking lie, I do know why. I’m doing it so Dennis will hate me and then he’ll be free to live his life without having to worry about an ex-junkie murdering whore. I don’t deserve him and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve a fuckup like me.
Why is life so fucking hard?????
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2/29/92
I’ve seen Dr. Li every day this week and for the first time since I started therapy, I feel like maybe he can help me. I’ve stopped drinking and Doug, Amy and Mosco don’t seem to be hanging around as much as they used to. I still see them, but they’re fainter like they’re fading away or something. Maybe the key to their eternal peace is my happiness. Fuck, now I sound like a shrink! This is so screwed up. I just want to get well.
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3/4/92
I’M IN LOVE WITH DENNIS BOOKER!!!
Jesus, maybe I really am a 12 year old girl.
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3/7/92
Went to the movies with Dennis and saw ‘Reservoir Dogs’. I think Tarantino might be more screwed up than me! Dennis and I are both trying really hard to get along and it seems to be working. I don’t want Dennis to look at me with sympathy anymore, I want to be his equal like I used to be. Dr. Li says I’m making progress, but I hate remembering everything that’s happened, I just want to lock the memories away in a box and throw away the key. But I know I have to face up to my past and accept what’s happened because if I don’t, I’ll be a nutjob forever.
I think I’m starting to heal.
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3/8/92
Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit! I woke up this morning with a hard-on! Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I was semi-erect, which was the most amazing fucking feeling ever! I tried to jerk off, but it didn’t last and I went soft again. But fuck! I WAS HARD!!!!
Today is a good day.
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3/9/92
I saw Doc Li today and I told him what happened. He told me not to think about it too much and to let my body ‘re-awaken’ in its own time. But it’s so hard (no pun intended) because I want this so fucking much! For the first time in nearly ten months, I feel like a man.
TOMMY HANSON IS BACK!
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3/15/92
I’m starting to stress out. I haven’t had another boner since the first one. Why is my body playing fucking games with me? Doc Li keeps telling me to relax, but he’s never felt the shame and embarrassment of not being able to get it up. How am I supposed to relax when it’s all I think about?
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3/17/92
Thank fuck. No orgasm, but at least I woke with a semi-erection.
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3/18/92
Two in two days!!!!! Things are looking up. Ha! Ha!
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3/19/92
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a hat trick!
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3/23/92
It’s Dennis’ birthday and I have a special gift for him. I’m excited, which is both amusing and kind of embarrassing. I can't believe I'm counting down the hours until he gets home. I have a feeling tonight is going to be REALLY special because I think I’m ready … I think it’s time to show him how much I love him.
I think I’m cured.
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Booker continued to stare at the final line for several minutes before closing the notebook and tossing it onto the bed. There was no denying it; he had screwed up big time. His selfishness had blinded him to the emotional turmoil of Tom’s recovery and he felt like a complete jerk. He had wallowed in his own egotistical discontentment when he should have offered his friend the support he needed to get through his therapy. Instead of avoiding him, he should have been there to celebrate each small step of his recovery and it was only after reading the journal that he realized he was the one responsible for the growing distance between them, not Tom. There was no denying it; he had failed his friend when he had needed him the most.
Standing up, he walked over to the window and kneeling on the narrow mattress, he pulled back the curtain and stared out at the crescent moon sitting high in the night sky. It was obvious by the last few feverishly written journal entries that his friend was no longer suffering from impotence and he felt a pang of regret. Not only had he robbed Tom of the chance to tell him his life-changing news, he had also cost himself the chance to witness the excitement in the dark brown eyes he adored. He had ruined the moment for both of them, and as he watched a cloud slowly hide the moon behind its wispy tendrils, he silently mourned his loss.
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Chasing a Butterfly