DISCLAIMER: The plot is mine, everything else belongs to whoever owns 21 Jump Street (presumably Stephen J. Cannell). I stole some of the dialogue of season four's "Draw the line". It also doesn't belong to me as the episode was written by Glen Morgan and James Wong.

AN: Firstly, I know Tom is not a smoker. However, he did actually smoke a couple of times throughout the show so I figured that he is probably just one of those people who have a tendency to resort to cigarettes when they're under some sort of emotional stress. Which Tom will be in this one.

Secondly, this is sort of a filler. I figure Tom never went back to Jump Street immediately after his release from prison. So this story basically starts right after Doug picks him up in front of the prison gates and is going to end at some point later the following night.

Hope no one is too OOC. And please keep in mind – English is not my first language, although I'm usually quite comfortable using it. So in case you find errors in grammar and spelling you'll at least know why they're there.

77988*

The car had already been parked for a while but the young man sitting behind the steering wheel just couldn't bring himself to turn the key still imbedded in the ignition. With his eyes closed he was listening to the soft and yet powerful humming of the powerful engine that was hidden underneath the blue hood of his pony. Letting out a heavy sigh he eventually opened his eyes, turned the key in the ignition and listened intently to the sounds of the late night. There was not much to be heard apart from the usual sounds this part of town would provide at night. A lonely dog barking here and there, a car driving by in the distance, a cat meowing, and the distant voices of arguments between lovers or friends behind open windows.

Eventually Tom Hanson got out of his beloved '68 Mustang and went to the back of his car to open the trunk. Even though he had wanted to go straight home, after Doug Penhall, best friend and partner, had come to pick him up from his wretched accommodations of the previous months, Dough had insisted on taking him out for a beer or two in order to celebrate his freedom and the fact that justice finally had been served with the arrest of Frank Farrell. After some arguing Tom had reluctantly agreed and had steered his car towards one of their usual hangouts where Doug had insisted they'd go to.

~ a few hours earlier ~

"Come on, Tom" Doug whined while he was throwing a pleading look towards the man sitting right next to him. "We won't stay for long. Besides I was always looking forward to the day when we could go out for a beer while you were still… you know… in there."

"Why tonight of all nights? I've got a million other things to do. I need to find a place to crash…"

"Your place is still the way it was when you left it…" Doug interrupted with a crooked grin.

"Well…" Tom hesitated, apparently trying very hard to come up with another reason why going to a bar for a few beers wasn't such a brilliant idea. "I gotta go see my mom, stock up the fridge, get some cash – in case I still got a bank account, that is."

"Well there's a convenience store on the way with an ATM right outside, as you very well know. And if you want to we could go pick up your mom," Doug offered.

"Yeah, that's just what I'm gonna do. Walk up to my mom's door and say something like 'Hi Mom, I just got outta jail. Wanna go grab a beer?'. Brilliant idea, Doug," Tom snapped, throwing his friend a sarcastic sideways glance. "I need some time alone, Doug," he added more quietly, looking back on the road ahead.

"Hey, I'm sorry, man. I just wanna help you get back on track, that's all. Besides," Doug hesitated for a brief moment before he continued. "I guess I just missed you, you know," he said quietly with one of his usual puppy looks on his face of which he made an effort to hide it from his best friend.

"I'm sorry," Tom said after a while and made a right turn onto the parking lot in front of said convenience store. Killing the engine and withdrawing the key from the ignition he turned to face his best friend. "I missed you too. But this is just a little rough to process right now, okay?" He hoped to get Doug out of his misery by awarding him with a small smile. "Come on. I'll go get some cash and then you'll get your five bucks back. How does that sound?"

"Like you're actually gonna have to buy me a beer. You know for all the trouble I went through to get your little baby here cleaned," Doug grinned sheepishly and got out of the car, never noticing the relieved expression on his best friend's face when he finally got a moment alone.

"Hey Doug?" Tom called after his friend who was already headed towards the store. "Where's my wallet?"

"Glove box!"

About half an hour later the Mustang's trunk was loaded with two paper bags containing some essentials and Tom was following Doug into the bar. He was quite taken aback when he discovered that his mother, Judy Hoffs, Harry Ioki, and Captain Adam Fuller as well as Sal Banducci were all there obviously waiting for the arrival of Tom and Doug.

"You set me up," Tom growled under his breath as he tried to return the smiles they were all shooting at him.

"You can thank me later," Doug grinned and continued towards the waiting crowd.

Tom smiled as he grabbed his jacket, the two paper bags and slammed the trunk lid shut with his free hand. It had been a lovely evening that he had to admit and it had worked miracles on his tortured mind to see all of them without cold metal bars between him and them. The reunion with his mother had been especially emotional as they'd both been convinced for months that they'd probably never be able to feel the comfort of the other one's embrace ever again.

Slowly Tom approached the building that housed his apartment and looked up at the few sparely lit windows. He found it quite difficult to believe that all of this was finally over, that he was about to go back to his old life as though nothing had ever happened. For the briefest moment he found himself wondering how the world had kept on turning while his entire life had been torn into pieces. Shaking his head in a feeble attempt to try and clear his mind he entered the building and started walking up the flight of stairs that led up to his door. As much as he was looking forward to finally being home again, to finally being alone again, without the constant chants of his fellow inmates in cell block C, a feeling of dread and uneasiness was beginning to form like a big lump in the back of his throat. Suddenly overcome by the urge to leave the outside world behind him he quickened his steps and eventually came to a halt in front of the white door that would grant him access to the only place where he had ever felt safe. 222. For a couple of moments he stared at the numbers right in front of him, all the while fumbling for his keys in the pocket of his jacket.

"Who are you trying to fool?" he mumbled to himself. "Even out here you're nothing but a number." Eventually he found his set of keys and opened the door to what had once been his life. Fumbling for the light switch he unceremoniously dropped the two paper bags to the ground while he kicked the door shut behind him. Heaving a sigh he picked the bags up and placed them on the kitchen table and began to store away their contents. To his surprise he found that someone had apparently already stocked up his fridge and judging by its contents it could have been no one but his mother. For a moment he felt like the small boy he had once been whose mother had always made it an effort of stocking their fridge with all his favorite food whenever he had trouble at school or he was sick and stuck at home. However, she had left some room for him to add whatever he felt was missing and so two six packs of beer and a few other things Tom had bought found their way into the fridge. Almost the very same moment that he was finished his phone rang. Quickly grabbing one of the beers he sprinted to answer it.

"Hello," he spoke and found himself wondering at the same time why his phone was actually still working.

"Hello, Tommy."

"Mom, I told you…"

"I'm sorry, I know. I won't call you Tommy anymore." There was a couple of moments of silence and Tom was about to apologize when his mother spoke again. "I just wanted to make sure, you're okay," she whispered and by the sound of her voice he could tell that she'd been crying.

"I'm fine. Trying to settle back in, I guess. Thanks for stocking up the fridge."

"I took care of your place while you were… gone. I always knew that this wouldn't be forever." Margaret was crying again. "I was so scared, Tom. I thought I'd never see you again," she sobbed. "And when they told me that you didn't want to see me – it broke my heart."

"I know, Mom. And I am sorry about all of this, believe me. But I couldn't let you see me like this." He paused and before she had a chance to protest he continued. "I didn't want anybody to see me in there. You know, I really thought my life was over and I kinda needed to deal with this one way or another. Being constantly reminded of everything I had lost didn't help. I… I…" He hated himself right then and there for what he was saying to her, but telling lies had never been a custom in the Hansons' household. Besides, that burning in his eyes and in the back of his throat didn't make any of this any easier. Pinning the receiver to his shoulder with the side of his head he quickly opened the beer and threw the cap on the coffee table. "I'm sorry," he said quietly after he had taken a sip from the bottle. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know you didn't. So," she said clearing her throat. "Are you going to go back? Rejoin the force?"

"I don't know yet."

"Promise me something, Tom."

"What?"

"Don't make any rash decisions. I won't lie to you. I don't think you should go back. That job nearly cost you your future and your life. It cost your father his life. I just cannot afford to lose you, too."

"I'll think about it. Probably not tonight. But I promise that I'll think about it. Besides, I'm not supposed to meet with Captain Fuller before next Monday, anyway."

"Good. Look, if there's anything I can do…"

"Actually right now I kinda need some time for myself. Some peace and quiet, you know?"

"I understand. Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"I love you, Tom."

"I love you, too, mom," he smiled at the receiver and hung up. Taking another huge gulp from his bottle he let himself drop onto his couch and closed his eyes, listening to the silence surrounding him. He half expected to hear the chanting of his former fellow inmates, but all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. Apart from that the silence was complete. No arguing from his next door neighbors, no crying from a kid that had just woken from a nightmare, no iron doors slamming shut with the promise that he was about to be buried alive in a place not much unlike hell where he didn't belong.

Tom allowed his mind to wander while he just sat there with his eyes closed, still clutching to his bottle of beer and thinking of nothing. He was so full of mixed emotions that they made him feel numb. It was almost as though something somewhere deep inside of him had decided to shut his emotions down, leaving him to merely exist. No thinking. No emotions. No feelings.

"Yo fish… yo fish! You there? Answer! You're gonna die."

"Payback! Payback!"

"We know what you are."

"I wait for you."

"You know man, when they finally do come for ya, I gotta turn my back. You're on your own."

"Skin the pig… skin the pig… skin the pig…"

He could feel their burning eyes on him, could sense that soon his time would come. They would come and get him. They didn't care whether he was innocent or not. He was scum, the enemy, for some of them the reason why they were in there. He tried not to show his fear so they couldn't feast on his dread like vultures on a carcass. They were coming for him, he knew it. And when they did, their stinking breath against his skin made his hairs stand up, made him want to scream and shout. Their dirty hands taking hold of him as they touched him everywhere, while they were carrying his struggling form somewhere he had never been before. Darkness surrounded him while the tight grip they had on his throat forced him to fight for at least some air to fill his lungs with. They kept dragging him somewhere he deep down inside knew he didn't want to go and from where he would most likely never return. While seconds were stretching into hours, days even, he felt his resistance slowly die, his will to survive and prove them wrong ebbing away as soon as he let his body go limb in their hold, no longer trying to fight them off and accepting whatever was going to come his way.

Their words and chants became mere whispers, they disappeared in the dull numbness of defeat that he had allowed to wash over him and take away his fear, his pain, his will. He'd dug himself a little hole somewhere deep inside where he was hiding, waiting until it all would be over. A little boy was sitting next to him, watching him out of the very same eyes he had once used to look at the world with. And then it suddenly hit him. That boy was him, many, many years ago, all full of hopes and dreams and plans of what he wanted his life to be like. There wasn't any pain etched into those dark depths, no memories of his loved ones leaving him behind, no feelings of guilt and remorse carved into the frightened stare.

"You're gonna die…" A dark voice brought him back to reality as they dumped him unceremoniously onto a hard chair. He couldn't see, could only feel how his wrists were held down tightly against its arms as they proceeded to wrap rigid leather straps around them to hold him in place. Another one was wound around his forehead, two more around his ankles until he was completely deprived of his ability to move.

"Come on, man! Open your eyes. They've all come for you, 77988. They're all here for you, 77988." Someone slapped him hard across the face as he refused to open his lids and actually see what was going on. "Open them, 77988," the same voice screamed and he eventually submitted himself to his tormentor's will.

The bright white light of the room was blinding him at first and he was beginning to hope that his eyes wouldn't adjust, but they did. He found himself in some sort of a very sterile looking room, floor and walls covered with white tiles – except for the wall right in front of him. Behind a huge thick glass window he could make out a large group of people just standing there, some of them facing him, others with their backs turned to him. At first he couldn't see who they were until Frank Farrell's face came into view and he was laughing at him like a madman. Then there were Judge Warren Biggs, the DA Katherine Sullivan, and all the members of the jury that had condemned him to this living hell, all of them looking at him indifferently, as though none of this meant anything to them. The view changed, as they were driven in the background of the room and he found himself staring at the backs of the people he cared about the most. There was Doug's broad frame, and Judy's delicate one, Harry's lean and yet muscular outline, right next to Fuller's tall and strong build, and standing next to him was Sal – all of them with their backs turned towards him. His mother was there, her one hand entwined with his father's larger one and they also wouldn't allow him to take comfort in looking at their beloved features. His cell mate was there, looking him straight in the eye, no more than a number just like him, his lips forming words. "You gotta deal with it."

One last person was there, standing somewhat further afar from everybody else. His head was bent low and his face was hidden behind long greasy bangs of dark brown hair but he knew instantly who he was facing. The man's head jerked up and stared at him out of a pair of very dark brown eyes. Something weird happened. All of a sudden the leather straps holding him in place were gone and he found himself looking out of the very eyes he had just been looking into, watching what was happening to himself from the other side of the huge glass pane. They had strapped him to the gruesome chair, electric wires attached to his head and leg, his chest bare, the bloody red outlines of the number 77988 etched into the ghostly pale skin of his chest. A clock attached to the white wall right above his head was ticking mercilessly, as the minute hand was ever so slowly making its way towards the number on the top of the circle where the hour hand was already waiting for it. Fear was replaced by an overwhelming panic. He wanted to shout at them, tell them that he was innocent, that he didn't deserve this, that he wanted to continue living his life. But they couldn't hear him. Not a single word passed his quivering lips as his eyes wandered back and forth between the clock on the wall and the man strapped to the electric chair. The minute hand was almost at the top now. Only one more minute left before it would all be over. He turned towards the other spectators, tried to force them to do something – anything. But they didn't move. They didn't care. The seconds were flying by now as he stood and watched helplessly and mesmerized. The clock kept ticking and after what seemed like an eternity captivated in a mere moment, the minute hand moved to the peak.

Tom woke with a scream. His heart was beating rapidly against his chest as he felt the hot burning sensation of tears streaming down his face. Breathing heavily he jumped up from his couch, his mind still trapped in the nightmare, panic still making his heart race at a pace, that he was afraid it would explode. The bottle of beer he had been holding in his hand when he had fallen asleep was now on the floor, its remaining contents spilt on the carpet. Ignoring the mess he stumbled towards his desk and began searching its drawers frantically for the pack of cigarettes he kept hidden in there. Eventually he found the red and white pack and quickly grabbed it before he darted into his kitchen where he retrieved a bottle of bourbon from the top shelf. His hands were trembling when he opened it and since it was still full some of the amber liquid spilled over his hand as he brought it up to his lips to take a huge gulp. His throat and stomach burned as soon as he had swallowed it, but he couldn't care less. He just wanted to chase this nightmare away, to force the memory of it into oblivion. With his fingers still trembling violently he got a cigarette out of the pack and after he had lit it he inhaled the blue smoke deep into his lungs, holding his breath for a little while so it could do its calming magic in a combined effort with the alcohol in his stomach.

After what seemed like forever he felt a bit calmer, but the memory of the nightmare just wouldn't go away. He slowly made his way towards one of the windows of his living room and leaned heavily against the wall next to it.

"They never got me," he whispered quietly to himself.

'Yeah, well. Remember that after your first nightmare.'

* 77988 was the number on Hanson's shirt while he was imprisoned.