Website: http://www.geocities.com/jennylmr/index.html (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.

END PART 2