A shrill shriek of fear and panic suddenly pierced the silence of the small room, like a sudden bolt of lightening striking down just inches from you. And Booker heard it, had been sitting in the silence when the noise invaded his thoughts. He jumped, falling off of the couch and onto the carpeted floor below. He sat there a moment, dazed and confused, and laughed at the reference his mind made with Led Zeppelin. Another second and the wave of dizziness that had washed over him slowly started to disappear, leaving a feeling of unease in his stomach. With a groan of pain and a mumbled fuck, Booker stood shakily, unsure of what the hell that noise had been. It had come only once, and now it was silent once again. Eerily silent. Of course, this wasn't his house: It was Tom's.

Tom. Realization hit Booker like a ton of bricks, thoughts quickly forming and swirling throughout his mind. It should have been obvious, but the suddenness of the noise had startled him into not thinking too clearly. At least that was his excuse. But the noise, the shriek, had been human. It had been a human crying out in fear and panic and Booker knew it had to have been Tom. And that didn't seem like such a good thing to Booker. If Tom had awoken panicked, then that meant he had probably had a bad dream. And there was only one clear thing that Dennis knew would invade Tom's peacefulness while he slept.

Tom had remembered.

He had been sleeping, and once his mind had shut down and succumbed to a sleepy haze, that's when the memories resurfaced. Because when he dreamed, nothing was real. There was no pain to push away more pain, or clear thoughts telling his mind to shut the 'dirty secrets' away. When he slept, the monsters escaped, climbing out of the closets that they had been locked into. And that's when the memories resurfaced. And this time they were vivid and clear. He saw everything. He remembered everything. And then he knew everything that had happened the night before.

He was walking, or at least he was attempting to. A better term for it could be a drunken stupor; he staggered left to right, to left, to left, zigzagging slowly through the small bar, trying to make it to the washroom. Except he couldn't exactly walk in a straight line and it took him five minutes to get there. And then there was the fact that he kept bumping into the tables and chairs situated haphazardly in no particular order. Then there was the chair, just lying out of sight, in the middle of the floor. Maybe, maybe if he hadn't drunk six beers, then maybe he would have seen it. He didn't. His foot caught on one of the wooden legs and he fell forward, not quite realizing what was happening. Now he lay there, legs tangled over the chair, laughing hysterically. Luckily the bar was fairly empty, the majority of its patrons sitting near the back, drunk out of their minds wasting away their paychecks on more booze and the strippers. They didn't know it now, but they would later when they stumbled into their bedrooms drunk to find their wives sitting up in bed waiting for them. But Tom wasn't one of those men; he just wanted to go to the washroom. As Tom stood, the memory faded away, dissolving into a completely different scene.

Tom stood at the sink, rinsing away the soap suds, watching the foam dissolve under the stream of hot water spraying down onto his hands. It was amusing to him, his mind a haze of drunkenness and unknown thoughts mingled together. So he stayed like that, watching until the soap had vanished and his hands were wrinkled. Sighing absentmindedly, having forgotten why he was staring down at his hands with such awe, he stepped back, turning the water off as he did so. The paper towel dispenser was empty so he just quickly wiped his hands off on the front of his shirt. If he had been sober, he never would have done that, instead opting to wave his hands rapidly in the air. Except he wasn't sober. Maybe if was, then what happened next might never of happened.

Except it did. Because he wasn't sober and he definitely wasn't thinking clearly.

Tom turned around slowly, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He was definitely going to be sick. He knew there were stalls near the doors and made one of those his next destination. But instead of seeing his intended destination when he turned fully around he saw Booker.

"You okay?" Booker asked, concern in his voice. And Tom found this funny. It wasn't funny because he was drunk. It was funny because he never knew Dennis to show concern for anyone, even if he had only just met him. Because Dennis Booker had not portrayed himself as that kind of person. But Tom was drunk, so he let the strange show of emotion pass through him, muttering, "No, think I'm gon' be sick," slurring his speech.

"Drank too much," Booker commented, looking at Tom with something Tom would have found suspicious if he had been sober.

It seemed everything would have turned out better if he had been sober. Yeah, if. Too bad he wasn't.

The memory changed again, swirling away in a hazy fog and then Tom found himself pinned against a wall, yelling violently and slurring together threats and curse words like a maniac.

"Geroffa me!" Tom yelled, the words he had thought out clearly in his mind blending together as he yelled them quickly without actually meaning to say anything.

"What?" Booker asked, a malicious smile playing on his lips. "Can't understand you, Tommy-boy."

"I said get off!" Tom yelled more coherently, because this time he had forced himself to think clearly as he repeated the phrase.

"Not too sure I can do that," Booker replied casually, the smile wavering but keeping in place.

Dennis had Tom up against the wall, had caught him off guard and pinned him there, holding both of the smaller man's hands above him in a firm grip. He pushed heavily against Tom, like wax melting against the side of a candle, stuck there firmly without plans on leaving anytime soon.

"G-et off," Tom slurred, no anger left in his voice, just fear and panic as Dennis' unwarranted attack became too intimate for him.

"What's the matter, Tommy? Scared?" Booker spoke gently into Tom's ear, sending jolts of electric fear throughout Tom's nerve system. Then he pulled back, leaving a small gap between his and Tom's chest, studying Tom's face for any trace of fear.

"N-no," Tom whispered, his voice betraying him. And Dennis found fear; he found fear in Tom's eyes, dancing wildly like the light of fireflies caught in a jar.

"I don't think you're telling the truth," Booker replied, once again leaning heavily against Tom so he could whisper his words into the older man's ear, relishing in the shivers that attacked Tom's body. This time he didn't pull away.

As Booker turned his head and latched his lips onto Tom's, the scene faded away, leaving Tom alone and cold, very confused as to where he was. He could hear movement beside him but couldn't place the source of it. He tried to sit up but a sharp pain in his head prevented that. And his eyes were closed. Maybe he had been asleep? He turned his brain into gear, focusing his thoughts on opening his eyes. Sitting up could wait. Because sitting up caused pain.

"About time you woke up," a harsh voice cut through Tom's thoughts suddenly and he quickly snapped his eyes open, turning his gaze towards the voice.

"W-where am I?" Tom asked shakily, looking around the room he was currently in. He recognized it as Dennis' living room, having been in it very recently. Why was he in Booker's living room?

"You passed out, so I got a cab to bring us back here," Booker replied casually, watching Tom carefully, as if excepting the older officer to make some sort of movement.

"I-I did?" Tom asked, trying to find somewhere in his mind memories of doing the afore mentioned action. He came up blank.

"Why's it so cold?" Tom asked suddenly, looking down at himself. His shirt was gone, and so where his jeans. All he wore now were his boxers. Oh fuck no he thought, panicking, fear-filled ideas of what had happened invading his mind.

"Take a lucky guess," Booker replied harshly, his eyes turning an icy black as he stared down at Tom lustfully, his eyes roaming over the naked chest.

"What'd you do?" Tom asked, Booker's gaze making him nauseous. Although he was already pretty certain of what had happened. He just didn't want to believe it.

"Relax Tommy, you wanted it," Booker replied. "You passed out afterwards."

"I-I don't believe you," Tom replied, trying to sit up. All he succeeded in was falling off of the couch, landing on the floor with his legs sprawled out underneath him.

"Well you better," Booker replied harshly, "'Cause it's the truth."

Tom tried to stand but tripped, falling back onto the couch. Booker still looked down at him and tears filled Tom's eyes. He couldn't have wanted it; there was no way he had.

And then he awoke, a panicked scream escaping him, echoing around him in the confines of his bedroom. He hadn't remembered everything, but he had remembered enough to be afraid of Dennis Booker.

TBC...