(And thanks to Jenlmr for hosting me)
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys nor do I make any profit from my writing. I just like to play with them and I mostly put my toys back as good as new.
Warnings (if needed): Non-consensual sex, graphic in places. References to violence.
Summary: An AU from the episode (sorry I don't have the name) where Tom accompanies Doug down to Colombia to find his wife. In the midst of extricating themselves and getting back to the US, they are captured by the Colombian army and tortured for information about the rebels. In the episode, they are both rescued. In this AU, only Doug escapes. Tom is wounded and pinned to a wall by a bayonet wielding prison guard. Doug is forced to leave him behind and Tom becomes one of the Disparu, the Disappeared. More than a year has passed since then when this story opens.
Also, in this AU, Doug and Tom are established lovers; using "don't ask, don't tell" philosophy, it's an open secret at Jump Street that no one pries into.
Coming Home
by rita
"Booker? It's Fuller, from Jump Street."
Dennis Booker sighed. Captain Fuller calling always meant trouble. "What can I do for you, Captain?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on his battered desk.
"I took a call for Doug Penhall - he's out on assignment. It came from Colombia." He paused. "They've located Hansen."
'Shit! Thank God Doug wasn't there to take the call.' Dennis thought, sitting upright again and grabbing pencil and pad. "Go ahead, Captain."
"He's alive. Healthy physically."
Dennis knew the Captain too well. "But?" he prompted.
"He was tortured. He's not the same, apparently doesn't even know who he is."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Doug's ... well, he's got a lot on his plate now. Clavo, Joey, it's a lot to bend your mind around all at once. I don't think he'd be able to handle it. And I don't really know how bad off Tom is. Would you ... consider ... going to get him?"
"Give me the details."
***
The last place Dennis Booker had expected to find himself was the pastoral setting of a rural convent. It looked like something out of a movie set in the middle ages. And the nun, in full penguin regalia, who led him through the convent to the fields beyond, fit right in.
"He is over there, Senor Booker," the nun said with a softly sibilant accent. She pointed at a stone bench shaded by a broad-leafed tree. A slight, dark-haired man sat on it, apparently gazing at the flocks of sheep or perhaps over their heads at the mountains in the distance.
"Gracias, Sister." Dennis started over, but the nun pulled him back with a hand on his arm.
"Let me go first, por favor," she said. "He is easily startled and he is ... afraid of the men. He understands some things, I think. If I tell him you will not hurt him, perhaps ..." she trailed off and shrugged.
Dennis nodded and gestured for her to go ahead. "I'll wait here," he said. Thinking about how to appear less intimidating to Hansen, if it was him, or whoever the traumatized man was, he sat down on the grass.
The nun nodded her approval and moved slowly toward the man on the bench, rustling the grass as loudly as she could. As soon as she was within earshot, she began speaking. "Senor Tomas? You have a visitor from your home. Would you like to greet him?"
Tom Hansen, for it was he, rose slowly and turned around. His eyes followed the nun's gesture to where Dennis was seated. He showed no recognition of his one-time comrade, but his eyes widened in horror. He looked pleadingly at the nun, shaking his head frantically as he took a step back.
"It is all right, Tomas," she said soothingly. "He has come all the way from America to see you." She stepped close enough to take Tom's arm and led him to within an arm's length of Dennis.
Dennis could see the tremors running through Tom's body. The nun nodded to him and he rose slowly. "Hi, Tom. It's Dennis. Do you remember me?"
Tom forced himself to actually look at the man in front of him. He wasn't from the Army; that was good. He sounded like an American, no accent, but that could be a trick. Lord, it could all be a trick, even staying with the nuns. Maybe he was never actually rescued, all a set-up to wear him down. 'Don't go there, Tommy,' he warned himself. 'Don't start thinking again; safer not to think. Just do what you're told. If they're gonna hurt you, they're gonna hurt you. Fighting them only makes it worse, much worse.'
"Tom?" Dennis prompted as the man's gaze became unfocused and he swayed on his feet. He was thin and drawn anyway. Dennis questioned Fuller's use of the word "healthy".
"Sorry."
The word was so soft and hesitant that it startled Dennis and he looked up sharply. His motion and expression spooked Tom. He took a quick step back, before forcing himself not to bolt.
"Do you know who I am, Tom?" Dennis repeated himself quietly. Tom looked at him again, forcing himself to stay focused this time. He looked familiar, but Tom couldn't place him or give him a name. He shook his head. "Sorry," he repeated.
"Senor," the nun intervened. "He does not even know his own name. We call him Tomas because it was ... written on him when he was left at the gate." She turned to Tom. "You show him?" she asked.
Tom unlaced the top of the soft peasant shirt he had on and pulled the edges apart. Jagged scars from slashes into his chest, just below his collarbone spelled out "Tomas".
"Jesus!" Dennis muttered and averted his face.
Tom looked to the nun for direction.
"Senor Booker has come to take you back to your home. You go to your room and pack, yes?"
Tom nodded, then looked at Dennis and back at the nun.
"Senor Booker, why do you not come with me and I will tell you what I know about Tomas?"
Dennis saw Tom relax slightly. 'He thought he was going to have to take me to his room,' Dennis realized. 'No, he was *scared* that's what he had to do. What have I gotten myself into? Captain, what did you throw at me?' Aloud he replied, "Sure. Sounds like a good idea. I'll see you when you're packed, okay, Tom?"
***
"I shouldn't be long," Dennis said as he headed out the door. He waited until Tom nodded. 'Things are coming along,' he told himself. He cheered himself as he drove to his appointment by remembering how *bad* things had been at first.
The trip home hadn't been bad. Tom, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt Dennis bought for him on the way to the airport, had docilely followed Dennis. Dennis handled the tickets and sat in the middle seat, effectively shielding Tom from the other passengers. Once they were home though, situations just seemed to develop one after another.
First, remembering the nun's warning, Dennis had given Tom the only bedroom and camped on the couch. The nun apparently didn't know about Tom's violent nightmares. Maybe he didn't have them in the small cell in the convent; Dennis didn't know. But he certainly had them now.
As silent as he was when awake, in his sleep, he made up for it. He begged, pleaded, tried to cut deals, screamed in pain. Dennis knew he wasn't supposed to touch Tom, but he needed to comfort and calm him somehow. The two men got little rest for the first week, until Tom started working with a psychiatrist.
And that had been another unexpected problem: finding a psychiatrist Tom could tolerate. Male doctors were out of the question and finding a female who had experience with male torture victims wasn't easy. But finally, with the department's help, they had located Felicia Lange. The sedatives she prescribed allowed them both to recover from their exhaustion and the varied dosages dependent upon what Tom's activities were allowed him to appear "normal" - at least to people who had never known Tom Hansen.
Which brought up the biggest and ongoing problem: Tom and people. He was fine with women. 'When hadn't Tom Hansen been fine with women?' Dennis wondered with a chuckle as he signaled for his exit off the highway. But men were a different story. His mind drifted back to the first time he had left Tom alone.
***
Dennis let himself into the apartment and looked around. It was dark and it looked like someone had tossed the place after thoroughly cleaning it. Well, Tom had always been a neatnik, that would explain the cleaning. Even the bedding he put on the couch had been changed. A basket of
clothes and linens stood next to the door waiting to be taken down to the laundry. It was as close to a hint as Tom could give, and Dennis grinned. They'd go out for pizza and then do the laundry. Tom was up to that these days. But where was Tom?
Dennis recognized the knocked over chairs and scattered books meant Tom had been startled and run. But where in the small apartment could he come to ground? Dennis followed the trail of debris into the bedroom. Now he could hear muffled whimpers. Tom was attempting to quiet himself, but failing wretchedly. A trembling mound of rags and newspapers under the desk gave his location away.
"Tom?" Dennis squatted down next to the pile that Tom had hidden under. "Tom, it's Dennis. Please come out." He kept his voice even and low, as Dr. Lange had instructed.
The pile moved, an eye-hole being created from inside. A chocolate-brown eye peered out, disappeared, and a hand replaced it, widening the hole. Eventually, Tom's head popped through. He shook his dark mop of hair out of his eyes and blinked to clear them. He looked warily at Dennis, ready to retreat.
Dennis offered Tom a hand. This was new, dictated by Dr. Lange only this week. It didn't always work. Tom sometimes ignored the hand, sometimes cringed away from it. Sometimes, though, he hesitated then extended his own to lie limply in Dennis's palm. Dennis breathed a sigh of relief when Tom's hand touched his this time.
To Dennis's surprise, Tom grasped his open hand and used it to lever himself out of his hiding place. Tom shook his hair out of his face again and looked at the ground. "I got scared," he whispered.
Dennis knew Dr. Lange had been encouraging him to express himself. It hadn't happened until now. "What scared you?" he asked, reusing Tom's words, as Dr. Lange had suggested.
"Man in the window," Tom replied. He made patterns in the carpet with one finger. "Stupid!" The word exploded from him. "Must have been the window-washer. 'Course I didn't think about that 'til now. Try not to think at all," he muttered.
The flash of the old Tom Hansen took Dennis by surprise. So much so he nearly missed the last few words. He knew without being told by Dr. Lange that he shouldn't let it slide. "It wasn't stupid. I may not be a cop anymore, but I'm still a detective. I've got enemies. It probably was the window-washer though," he said looking through the clear glass. "I'm glad you thought about it. Why do you try not to think?"
Tom shrugged and sat down cross-legged facing Dennis. "Doesn't help. Makes me want to fight them or try to escape. No point in that. Safer not to think. Sometimes I can hide."
Dennis didn't try to make sense of Tom's disconnected phrases. He knew they came from his time with the Colombian army, when he was held captive and tortured. Dr. Lange was exploring this with Tom, frequently having to sedate him before their hour was up, and Dennis didn't want to provoke Tom. He changed the subject. "Why under the desk though? Why not hide in the closet?"
"No, no, no. Not the closet. Please! I'll be good. I'll do whatever you want. Please!" Tom's whole demeanor changed. He stiffened and began to shake. Strangely enough, he didn't move away from Dennis.
'Maybe moving away made the torture - whatever it was - worse,' Dennis thought. "I'm not going to put you in the closet, Tom," he assured the terrified man.
Tom leaned forward, his hand on Dennis's crotch. "You want?" he asked.
Dennis sat still. Tom's voice sounded almost hopeful, as though this would be a preferred alternative to being put in the closet. "What the hell was in the closet?" he wondered, not realizing he spoke aloud.
Tom blinked rapidly, as though waking up from a deep sleep. "You don't know?" he asked.
Dennis cursed inwardly, but just shook his head. Gently he removed Tom's hand from his crotch. There'd been rumors about Tom and Doug, but if there was any truth to them, the two had been too discreet for anyone to get proof. Dennis didn't care, but he didn't swing that way.
Tom settled back into the cross-legged position. He laced his hands together and sighed. Thinking was bad. But disobeying was ... much worse than that. "The closet has hooks. I hang from the hooks and ... you can do what you want then close the door and leave me there." He held up his arms and Dennis could see the scars, like a tattoo of a chain around each wrist and the base of each thumb. "But sometimes, if they didn't come on orders, just to have fun, I could hide under the straw. They'd make too much noise trying to find me if they weren't supposed to be there, so it was safe."
Dennis had known the scars were there, of course, but he hadn't known how they got there. He had just assumed ... what? He had assumed Tom had been chained to something. But not hung by those chains and left, hurt, closed up in a closet. "My closet doesn't have hooks like that," he said
firmly. "And I don't do that kind of thing." He wasn't sure exactly what "kind of thing" he meant, but he knew he had to make clear to Tom that he was *not* one of the men who had tortured him.
Tom raised his head and gazed at Dennis soberly for several minutes. "No," he said finally, his voice low, but steady. "No, you're not one of the ones who kept me like that." His brow furrowed. Thinking *hurt*; remembering gave him a physical headache unless he was asleep - then he remembered everything all too clearly and he couldn't make it stop. He rubbed his temples with his fingers, still looking at Dennis. "I know you - knew you, didn't I? Before. Before ... they had me."
Dennis nodded. Dr. Lange had been very clear that he wasn't to *tell* Tom anything, but he wasn't to refuse Tom the truth either. He cleared his throat. "We ... worked together," he said.
"I was a cop." It was a statement, not a question. Tom arched an eyebrow at Dennis for confirmation.
Dennis had explained to Tom a few weeks after they got back that he was a former cop, now private detective. That was with Dr. Lange's approval, so that Tom would understand Dennis's unconventional hours and not feel abandoned when he wasn't back at a specific time each day. But Dennis had never mentioned to Tom how they knew each other, or even that they did. Tom had remembered *when* they worked together.
Dennis nodded, forcing himself not to volunteer any information.
"We worked in a team. One of the others, he went down ... there with me. He got caught, too. Only, only ..." Tom spoke in a rush then came to a sudden halt. In whisper he finished his sentence. "Only he got away."
Dennis nodded again. "You remember who we are?"
Tom shook his head. "No. You look familiar and I can place you with the others. Maybe they'd look familiar, too, if I saw them. But no names, no faces, just ... I know how it was. The only *pictures* are of *them* - army? Yes, army. Colombian army. We were with the rebels." He shook his head again, massaging his temples. "Can you write it down? What I just said?" he asked. "I'm supposed to write down what I remember for Dr. Lange. But my head hurts so bad ..."
"Sure, I'll write it down for you," Dennis said quickly. "Let me get you your meds first, to take care of the headache." He rose gracefully and saw that it was fully dark out. How long had they been sitting there? he wondered. Without thinking, he offered Tom a hand up. To his delight, Tom took it firmly without hesitation.
Tom grinned, another first, even if it was a weak grin. "Just so you know, this is the first thing I've remembered from before. It's nice to know I *did* have a life before."
***
Dennis realized he'd been sitting in his parked car lost in memory. He was late for his appointment. Although his client would wait for him, it meant he'd be late getting back. Tom wouldn't answer the phone, but Dennis knew he'd worry and start to panic all too quickly. 'Never should have told him I have enemies,' he thought. Too late now, he realized. Whom could he call?
The only one who knew Tom was back was Captain Fuller. But having a muscular, bearded black man come through the door was the last thing Tom needed when he expected Dennis. It was unfortunate, but Fuller could be mistaken for a dark Hispanic. It had made sense not to tell anyone else, he and Fuller had agreed, to avoid any of Tom's well-intentioned friends from springing themselves on Tom. Dr. Lange had agreed, saying she'd let them know when Tom was ready to be reunited with people from his past. Now, however, Dennis needed someone to let Tom know that he was all right and would be late.
His first call was to Dr. Lange, but she was in with a patient. He sighed and tapped his address book; it was only getting later. Had to be a woman and someone who knew Tom. Someone who would postpone asking questions or could be redirected to Fuller. It had to be Judy Hoffs. She answered on the second ring and Dennis thanked whatever guardian angels were watching over him that day. Quickly he briefed her and told her where the spare key was hidden; Tom wouldn't answer the door any more than he'd answer the phone. Maybe they could work on that, he thought, filing the idea away to review with Dr. Lange.
Satisfied he'd done all he could, Dennis hurried to keep his appointment.
***
Judy Hoffs climbed the stairs to Dennis's apartment counting as she went. She stopped about halfway up and fumbled with a crack in the plaster of the wall. "Why aren't there more lights on the stairs?" she groused. "The landlord should be cited. Someone could fall and get hurt - ah, there it is," she interrupted herself as her fingers found the hidden key.
"Tom?" she called as she opened the door. She saw light spilling from the bedroom, where the door was ajar. "It's Judy Hoffs, um, a friend of..."
A slight figure appeared silhouetted in the bedroom doorway. "Dennis? Or me?" a soft voice asked.
"Um, well, both actually. Only Dennis said that I wasn't supposed to tell you anything. How did you..."
"Your voice sounded familiar. From ... Jump Street?"
"Yeah. Dennis said you didn't remember Jump Street."
"I didn't 'til right now."
They stood in silence for a few moments. Then Judy asked, "May I come in?"
Tom hesitated. "Sure, if you want."
"Thanks. It's kind of dark," Judy said, stepping inside and closing the door. "Does light bother your eyes?"
"Um, no. I'm usually in the bedroom. Light switch is to the left of the door." He disappeared into the bedroom.
When Tom came out again, Judy was seated on the couch, having stacked the pillow atop the blanket and folded back the sheet that Dennis used. She tried to think of something to say to open the conversation - it seemed wrong to just give Dennis's message and leave when Tom had been her friend, her savior more than once, for so many years.
Before Judy could think of something, Tom spoke up. "Are you meeting Dennis?" he asked.
"Not exactly," Judy said, glad Tom had started the conversation. "He called me - he said you don't answer the phone or the door, that's why he didn't call you and I let myself in - I'm rambling aren't I?" she finished.
Tom shrugged, but remained silent.
"Anyway, he asked me to come here and tell you he was running late."
Tom was silent again, then realized he was being rude. 'Focus, Hansen,' he told himself. Hansen! That was his name. "Uh, thanks. Could you excuse me again?" he asked, struggling to be polite and act normal. "I just remembered something else and I need to write it down." He knew how ridiculous that sounded, but Dr. Lange had given him an order to write down anything he remembered. As soon as he thought that, he realized that he was still blindly obeying, and wasn't sure he could stop. Judy was speaking. "I'm sorry. I ... get lost inside my head sometimes. You said?"
"I asked what you remembered," Judy replied awkwardly. She wished she had taken the time to get the whole story from Fuller.
"Oh!" Tom grinned. "I remembered my name. My full name. Thomas Hansen." Fighting the voice in his head screaming that he'd be punished for disobeying, he moved into the room. "I'll write it down later. Can I get you anything?"
***
"Set the table for four, Tom," Dennis said as casually as he could manage. "We're having company for dinner." He waited for a response, but the only thing that happened was Tom opening the silverware drawer and taking out more utensils. "Don't you want to know who's coming over?" he asked.
Tom shrugged. "I didn't know whether you wanted to tell me." Unspoken was the follow-up thought, 'and I didn't want to risk getting punished if you didn't.'
Dennis "heard" the unspoken words. "You can always ask a question, Tom. I'll never hurt you. I won't punish you no matter what. And certainly not for asking for information."
Tom finished setting the table, chewing on his lower lip. Finally he worked up the courage to ask, "Can I eat first, or do you just want me to take my meds and go to bed?"
"What?"
A hard ball of fear grew in Tom's stomach. He could trust Dennis, he told himself. Dennis had never lied to him, never set him up to get hurt. Tom patiently repeated the question
"Don't you feel up to joining us for dinner?" Dennis asked, not sure where Tom's question had come from. Tom seemed more and more aware of where and when he was, but every now and then he'd say or do something that revealed how much he was still anchored in the nightmares of his recent past.
"Sure."
Tom's monosyllabic response spoke volumes. He was on the edge of a panic attack, terrified of the unknown. Dennis had wanted to make the dinner low-key, so he hadn't prepared Tom at all. 'Can't win for losing,' he thought. "Judy Hoffs is coming over and her boss, Captain Fuller, is joining us . I didn't mean to be mysterious, I just didn't want to make a big deal out of it."
Tom nodded. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then grabbed the back of a chair for support, his other hand going to his head.
Dennis stood still, ready to help if the pain overwhelmed Tom, but knowing it signaled memory returning.
"Captain Fuller. Captain ... Adam Fuller," Tom muttered. "My boss, too. Or was."
Dennis moved then, to pull out the chair and gently lower Tom into it. "Is," he replied. "You're on long-term leave." 'No harm in telling him something he wouldn't know,' Dennis thought.
***
The buzzer rang and Tom moved slowly to the intercom and opened the connection. The open connection would signal to anyone who knew he was there that they should speak. Instead there was silence and heavy breathing. Just as Tom was about to close the connection the visitor spoke.
"That you, Booker? I heard the line open so I know you're in there. What is it now? Is there a secret password or something I'm supposed to know? Well, I don't, so if you don't want to have to explain a busted door to the landlord, you better buzz me in."
Tom's hand shook but he hit the buzzer and went to the apartment's door. He held it open just enough to see down the long staircase to the entryway, where a burly man was shouldering his was through the door. They'd found him. And he'd let one of them into the building.
Tom was about to slam the door, locking and chaining it, before barricading himself in the bedroom when something odd happened. Odd enough for Tom to remain where he was: The intruder stepped aside and politely held the door open for one of the elderly women who lived on the ground floor. He even took her packages from her and trouped after her down the hall to her apartment. The actions were completely out of character for one of his captors, Tom realized. But beyond that, the gestures, the walk, even the body shape of the man was familiar from what Tom referred to as "before".
Tom unconsciously stepped out onto the landing, one hand on the rail post at the top of the stairs. He leaned over to get a better look at the man from the back. Shaggy hair went below the collar of his jacket. The man was bulky but not at all fat. 'Rather nice butt,' Tom thought, then wondered where *that* thought had come from. He pulled back , but remained at the top of the stairs as the man came back down the hall.
"Hey!" the man called up the stairs, squinting into the darkness. "You're not Dennis Booker."
Tom shook his head, then realized the man probably couldn't see the movement in the darkness. "He's not home," he called.
The man cocked his head at the voice, as if trying to place it. "Who're you?" he asked, a puzzled frown on his face.
Tom was relieved that the man didn't come barreling up the stairs. He didn't even seem particularly angry. Just annoyed that there was something he didn't know. Tom found he could answer the question. "I live with Dennis," he said simply.
The man grinned. He had a beautiful, goofy grin. "I didn't know he played both sides of the road," he said, chuckling. "I might have given him a try myself."
"You'd better not have, Doug Penhall!" Tom heard himself exclaim. Suddenly everything clicked into place - names, faces, his whole life up until a bayonet pinned him to a wall on a prison stairwell in Colombia. He pushed it all into the back of his mind as he raced down the stairs to his partner, his best friend, his lover.
"Tom? Tommy!" Doug raced up the stairs and they met halfway in a breathless bear hug.
Suddenly Tom became aware of the arms clutching him and pulled free, backing up two steps, arms out in a warding gesture. "No. Don't. Don't hold me like that. Stay back!" He was barely holding on to his sanity. His mind was screaming about what would happen next.
Doug dropped his arms. His expression turned from joy to misery in a single heartbeat. "That's right. You said you lived with Dennis now. Sorry. Tell him I stopped by, okay?" He turned to go.
"Doug, no! Wait! That's not it. I don't ... can't ... " Doug didn't turn around and Tom, in desperation cried out, "I wouldn't betray you like that!" He collapsed onto the stairs, head in hands. His world had come together and fallen apart in seconds.
*
The door was swinging wide open. 'Not good,' thought Booker as he took the stairs two at a time. 'Not good at all.' Something had been dragged up the dusty stairs. Also not a good sign.
Booker drew his gun as he approached the landing. There was no sound from inside. Maybe Tom had hidden successfully, Booker hoped. His police training took over as he went through the door with no backup. The place was a shambles. Quickly Booker searched closets and under the couch for possible hidden assailants. No one. He treated the kitchen the same way with the same result. Taking a deep breath he headed toward the dark outline of the bedroom door.
Tom was lying on the bed curled in a fetal ball, eyes closed. He wasn't rocking; he wasn't moving at all. 'Please, no,' Booker prayed as he cautiously approached the bed. Tom was breathing, shallow rasping breaths, but still breathing. There was blood, but not a great deal and none gushing from anywhere.
Booker hadn't lowered his gun and even seeing Tom lying there didn't prevent him for checking for booby traps or intruders now that he knew he was alive and apparently not about to die. Nothing. Only then did he lower the gun and go to Tom's aid. "Tom? Tommy?" he spoke softly.
Tom heard the soft, concerned voice and some part of his brain that hadn't shut down recognized it as "friend". He opened his eyes.
"You okay, Tom?" Booker queried.
It took Tom some time to process the question and identify the questioner. Booker. Booker, who had rescued him from El Salvador. Booker, who was the real object of this assault. He struggled to answer the question. Couldn't. Succeeded in shaking his head. No, he wasn't all right.
"Oh, God! Okay, Tom, okay, relax. I'll ... " Booker realized he couldn't handle this himself. He reached for his cell phone, eyes never leaving Tom's, and punched in a number from memory. "Patch me through to Jump Street."
***
"How could you let this happen?" Penhall was screaming at Booker in the living room when the police doctor walked out of the bedroom and quietly closed the door. Inside his own head, Penhall was screaming, 'How could *I* let this happen? I was here - it must have only been a few minutes before. Why did I leave?'
Dennis was amazed at how fast everything had happened. He had arrived home less than an hour before. The Jump Street folks began piling into the apartment within five minutes of his call. He just shook his head at Penhall, unable to come up with an answer to the question he was asking
himself.
The doctor cleared his throat and both men turned to him. The three other occupants of the room, Judy Hoffs, Harry Ioki, and Adam Fuller rose from their seats and approached also, so that the doctor was surrounded by worried police officers. "He's bruised, has a cracked rib, sprained wrist. Possible mild concussion. Otherwise, severely traumatized, but not seriously injured physically. He should probably be in a psychiatric facility." He paused. "That's Tom Hansen, isn't it?"
Fuller nodded. "He's been recovering from a serious trauma. He was just starting to get his memory back."
"He's shut down almost completely now," the doctor replied. "Any progress he was making has almost surely been erased." The doctor paused. " Oh. He wants to see two of you. From his gestures, I'd say you," he pointed at Booker, "and you," he nodded at Penhall. As they both started towards the bedroom, he called out, "One at a time!"
The two men glared at each other. Booker muttered, "It's my house."
Penhall, in a voice lowered so that only Booker would hear, replied, "He's my lover." Booker just stared at him evenly. After a few moments, Penhall sagged, broke eye contact, and nodded.
Booker continued through to the bedroom. "Tom?" he called softly. The man on the bed looked more comfortable than he had when Booker had first seen him lying there, but his eyes were closed again. "It's Dennis, Tom."
Tom opened his eyes. Recognizing Booker, he held out an arm. Booker walked over to the bed and perched on the edge. "I'm right here," he said.
Tom insistently held out his hand.
Dennis realized there was something in it. A torn piece of paper. He took it from Tom. A note from Tom's assailants. He read, "Consider this a warning, Booker. Get rid of whatever evidence you've collected and get off our case. Cute boyfriend you've got. Lucky for him none of likes pretty boys. Fights like a man though. The Creamers." Dennis turned to Tom. "They didn't..."
Tom shook his head no. They had taunted him, threatened him until he shut himself down. But now that he'd had a chance to become aware of his body again, he realized he hadn't been raped. Only beaten. Not that it mattered. Still, he thought he'd heard Doug's voice. He looked up at Dennis. With gestures he described Doug, large, shaggy. Then he gave Dennis a questioning look.
"Yeah, he's in the living room. Guess you heard us fighting."
Tom nodded. He wanted to tell Dennis it wasn't either of their faults. His own weakness and fear caused this. But he couldn't find a way. Part of him was still hiding. He shuddered. He gestured for Doug again.
"You want to see him?"
Tom nodded, then winced as his head pounded from the motion.
"Look, I'm sorry I never told him. I was going to, now that you remember, but I never got around to it." He turned to rise and get Doug.
Tom grabbed Dennis's arm. There was something important he needed Dennis to tell Doug. If he could only communicate it. He signaled for Dennis to be patient with him. Then he pointed at Dennis's crotch and his own, shaking his head no. Finally he pointed at the door.
"You want me to tell Penhall that you and I aren't ... lovers?" Dennis asked.
Tom nodded vigorously, then winced again.
"Why would he think that?" Dennis wondered.
Tom gestured that Doug had been here and left. Angry.
"Shit."
Tom nodded again.
"Okay, I'll tell him. I'll have to bring him in here to tell him though."
***
Booker spent a few minutes in the bedroom with Penhall and Tom, then came out. Quite a while later Penhall came out.
"Is it all right for him to go to sleep, Doc?" he asked.
"Did he seem disoriented or confused?" the doctor asked in response.
"No, not at all," Doug replied.
"Hmm. He certainly did to me, but then I don't know his current mental state," the doctor said. "I suppose it's all right. He should be waked every hour to ensure he's alert and knows who and where he is. Can you do that?" He looked around the room, not sure whom to address the question to.
They all nodded and Fuller said, "We'll take shifts. How long should he be watched?"
The doctor replied, "I'll be back this time tomorrow. If he's no worse, he should be fully recovered within a couple of weeks. If he does start to deteriorate - in any way - call me immediately." He handed his card to Fuller, who took it with a nod of agreement.
***
"I don't like it," Dennis groused as he laid out clothes for Tom to put on. "But it's dangerous for you here. I know you *remember* everything now, but you're less able to protect yourself than before. You can't even call for help."
Tom shifted away from the comforting hand on his shoulder and immediately looked up apologetically. He knew Dennis wouldn't hurt him, but he couldn't bear to be touched. He also didn't seem to be able to make any decisions for himself. Not a good way to be, he thought. He had shut himself down altogether too thoroughly, he knew, and he couldn't bring himself back.
The Creamers had returned - right after the shifts staying with him had stopped. They must have been watching the apartment. Pretty smart for a street gang. This time they had raped him. Not themselves, but with cooking utensils. Even after hospitalization for the physical injuries and intense rehabilitation with Dr. Lange, Tom couldn't watch food being prepared. He could feed himself again, with encouragement.
Dr. Lange couldn't do much for him either, while he was unable to communicate. So she recommended he be among people he trusted in locations he was familiar with. After much arguing, it was agreed that the place he was most likely to be comfortable was with Doug Penhall and Clavo. So he was moving out of Dennis's apartment and back into Doug's home.
Tom dressed while Dennis packed his few belongings. "Doug's got most of your stuff," he said to fill the silence. "He and Joey were bringing it out of storage. He said he was gonna set it up so you'd feel at home." He turned to Tom who managed a nod, something he couldn't always do. "You okay with Joey?"
Tom sat down on the bed, wishing he could answer the question fully. He knew Joey, though not well. Being alone with the younger man made him nervous, and when he was nervous he withdrew even further. Joey was uncertain around him and not very patient, which compounded the problem. Tom sighed and shrugged. Joey wished him no harm; they'd learn to work together.
***
"Tommy? Oh good, you're awake," Doug said as he walked into the master bedroom, pulling a shirt over his head. Tom had opened his eyes immediately on hearing Doug's voice. He rolled over in bed to face him. "Listen. I just got an emergency call from Fuller and I gotta run. Joey'll get you up and moving, okay? May take him a little longer than me 'cause he's not used to Clavo's tricks in the ..."
The seven-year old flew into the room as if on cue and launched himself onto the bed. "Tio Tomas! Tio Tomas!" he cried, hugging the unresisting man.
Doug watched bemused as Tom put one arm around Clavo and ruffled his hair with the other hand. No one else could touch Tom without having him recoil, but he welcomed Clavo. "Like I was saying," he concluded, gesturing at the escapee as Joey entered the room at a run.
"He got away from me," Joey panted. "I don't know how he does it. Come here, you little rascal!" He started towards the bed, then remembered and stopped short.
Doug turned towards him. "I gotta run, Joey. Think you can handle things?"
"Sure, bro'. Don't worry about a thing. Clavo may miss the school bus, but I'll see that he gets to school on time. Somehow."
"Okay, then, I'm off," Doug forced himself to sound cheerful. "Tommy, I'll be home for dinner after all, I promise. Fuller gets me in at this ungodly hour, he sure as hell ain't keeping me late!" Doug knew he could make that promise because Fuller understood the situation. Tom got increasingly anxious when he wasn't with Doug for long periods of time. Stakeouts had to be carefully explained and Doug called Tom as often as he could, so Tom could take reassurance from his voice.
Doug pulled his younger brother into the hall with him. "Listen," he hissed. "Don't you *dare* leave Tom alone. Better that Clavo is late to school. You know what I mean."
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry so much," Joey said. "Tom and I'll be fine. We're starting to work together real good."
"Okay, then. Oh, hey! I didn't make Clavo lunch. Peanut butter and banana sandwich, a juice box, a bag of chips - one of those small bags - and four cookies, okay?"
Joey pushed his brother to the door. "Get out of here before Fuller calls again and I gotta lie for you. I hate doing that." The door closed and Joey padded back into the main hall, turning his head between the master bedroom and the kitchen. How was he going to get it all done? Suddenly he felt a gentle tug on his pajama top. He turned, expecting to see Clavo, but it was Tom who released him and took a step back. "It's okay," he said as soothingly as he could.
Tom nodded, then pointed at the wall clock then back at the bedroom, where the sounds of Clavo using the bed as a trampoline could clearly be heard.
"Yeah, I know. But I gotta make his lunch, too. And get you dressed."
Tom looked towards the kitchen and shuddered. No, he couldn't do that. But maybe ... He took a deep breath then pointed between the bedroom and the bathroom.
Joey tried to puzzle out what Tom meant. Did he need to use the john? No, 'cause then he wouldn't have pointed at the bedroom first. "I'm sorry, Tom," he said admitting defeat. "I don't understand."
"I can ... help?" Tom forced out in a gasp. "Get Clavo ready?" He cringed after speaking.
"Sh - sure," Joey managed to get out. "You know how?"
Tom nodded. "I ... remember."
"That would be a big help. Then I can make his lunch and, umm, get dressed myself," Joey said, looking down.
Tom looked at his own pajama-clad form. "Me, too?" he asked.
"Yeah, if you could get yourself ready, that would really speed things up," Joey said, going with whatever was happening and determined not to question miracles. "We're still gonna miss the school bus, but we can get Clavo to school then grab some breakfast ourselves, if that works for
you."
Tom nodded and turned away. To Joey's amazement, as he entered the kitchen he heard, "Okay, Clavo, let's get you washed up now." Followed by a compliant, "Okay, Tio Tomas!"
***
"I *can't* come in!" Doug yelled into the phone. A month had passed since Tom began speaking hesitantly. He was still silent more often than not, especially around anyone he didn't know, but he cared for himself now and that took a great deal of the burden off Doug and Joey. Still, he couldn't be left alone. "Fuller knows damn well that Clavo's at summer camp and Joey's on a stakeout. You tell him that the only way I'm coming in is with Tom." He slammed down the phone only to have it ring thirty seconds later. As he picked it up he noticed Tom move from the
couch - Tom's white Naugahyde couch - where they'd been enjoying a lazy Saturday still in their pajamas at noon, and head towards the bedroom. "Yeah?" he snarled, then changed his tone completely. "Oh, hi, Captain!"
When he hung up again, Doug found a fully dressed Tom Hansen waiting for him. "Well, I gotta get dressed, too, you know," he said mock-defensively and was rewarded with a ghost of a grin and a mock-disapproving headshake. "You're gonna come down to Jump Street with me, okay?"
***
An hour later the two men walked into Jump Street Chapel, Tom a half-step behind Doug. As Tom looked around uncertainly, Captain Fuller came out of his office.
"About time you got here, Penhall," he called. Coming closer, he greeted Tom. "Welcome back, Tom. Grab a desk." Following Tom's gaze to his old corner desk, which was occupied by a newbie, Fuller yelled, "You, O'Hearn. Find another desk to put your feet up on. The owner of that
one's back on duty."
O'Hearn looked up startled. Since when did a desk have an owner? But at Fuller's glare and head-jerk he quickly gathered his paperwork and moved to a desk on the other side of the room.
Tom waited until the area was cleared, then moved slowly over. As he sat and rubbed his hand over the scarred surface of the desk, Doug came over and said jokingly, "Long as you're here, wanna finish my reports?"
To his surprise, Tom looked up and held out his hand.
Doug grinned and reached behind him to his own desk and grabbed up his handwritten reports. "Here, lemme login and you can go to work," he said.
As Doug followed him into the office, Fuller asked, "Will he be able to?"
Doug shrugged. "I don't know, Captain. Maybe. He surprises us now and then - he'll just make a leap forward, if you know what I mean. But he can't do any harm and it's keeping him occupied."
***
"Hoffs, I need you to interview that teenaged rape victim."
"Right away, Captain," Judy Hoffs replied. She looked around. Tom Hansen was in the corner entering someone's reports into the computer system. He had quietly returned to active desk duty, no one asking questions about his mental state. He never spoke in the Chapel, although some of the newer members of Jump Street had introduced themselves and now gave him their paperwork to complete, too. Today he was the only one there. Too many small fires to fight even for the enlarged group. "Captain?" she called. "Who can I take with me?"
Fuller looked out his door. He had to man the phones and the only one in the Chapel besides Hoffs was Tom Hansen. Doug Penhall's words echoed in his mind, "He surprises us now and then." Well, this wasn't a high-stress assignment. "Take Hansen," he called back.
Judy walked over to Tom's desk and waited until he looked up. "Captain just gave us an assignment," she said, smiling.
Tom shut the Chapel out of his mind once he was behind his desk, back to the wall. He could function that way. He did whatever computer work needed doing or played computer games. It was useful work of a sort, he supposed, freeing up the Jump Street officers to do real police work. It was also all he was capable of. Now, apparently, they wanted more of him. "Us?" he whispered, a quaver in his voice.
"Yup," Judy said, still smiling and ignoring the shudder that passed through her friend. "C'mon. Don't want to rile the Captain now."
***
"I'm Officer Hoffs and this is my partner, Officer Hansen," Judy introduced herself to the black teenager wrapped in pajamas, robe, and several layers of blankets despite the seventy-degree heat outside. The girl nodded but didn't move from the couch.
"Well, long as you have company, Latriece, I'm gonna get to the store before it closes, all right?" the girl's mother said, reaching for her purse. "You two just make yourself comfortable. I won't be long," she promised after Latriece nodded again.
After she left, Judy motioned Tom into a chair by the door. She perched on the opposite end of the couch from the girl, who pulled her knees in closer to her body. "Latriece, I'm here to take your statement. Can you add anything to what you already told the police in the ER?"
The girl shook her head. "Told 'em everything I can."
Judy noticed how she qualified the word "everything". "Latriece, you can help yourself get well if you tell us everything you remember."
"I'll be fine," the girl insisted. "I'll be back at school and work in a week. Soon as the bruises heal, the doctor said I can go back."
Judy talked until her mouth was dry about how there are different kinds of pain and healing and how keeping things inside can hurt. To no avail. Running out of points to make, she asked, "May I get a glass of water?"
The girl gestured with her head. "Kitchen's that way."
Judy stood at the sink, looking out the small window and trying to think of a way to convince the frightened teenager that hiding the identity of her rapist was worse than telling the whole story. Suddenly she heard a voice that nearly made her drop the glass she was holding.
"Latriece? May I ... may I come a little closer to talk to you?" Tom Hansen asked softly after Judy had left the room.
"I guess."
Tom moved halfway down the length of the couch and crouched next to it, not touching it. "I understand that you're ashamed of what happened. And when you talk about it, it seems all the more real and makes you more ashamed, doesn't it?"
Latriece started to nod in agreement, then stared at the thin white man kneeling in front of her. "What do you know about that?" she demanded
"I was attacked - raped," he replied, even more softly. "If you think it's bad being a woman and being raped," he laughed self-deprecatingly, "just think how it must be for a man, a policeman at that."
"You tole 'em everything?"
Tom shook his head. "No. I never even told anyone that it happened. I was too ashamed."
"Then why should I..." Latriece began.
"Wait. Please. Let me finish." Tom glanced up, knowing Judy must be listening. Sure enough, she was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, sipping a glass of water. "What happened was, I went on like nothing happened. But then, I was attacked again - somewhere else, by someone
else entirely. It was like I was wearing a sign - like I deserved it. I hardly tried to stop them. So they ... they did it over and over. And then, it happened a third time."
"So what difference does telling make?"
"I don't know. But every time, it wears me down further. And, you know, some of them, they're still out there. They may not get me again, but they're out there and they'll get someone else. And that's not right."
"So you finally told?"
"I couldn't until now. But now I can and I will."
"Then I will, too."
Tom held out his hand and Latriece took it. It didn't matter which of his arguments had gotten through to the girl. And the cost to him didn't matter either. Justice, that mattered. His father had died for it; the least he could do was try to see that justice got done. "Judy? Could you come here please? I think you've got a couple of depositions to take."