Disclaimer: I own…nothing.

A/n: Thank you all so much for the kind words and interest in this. Means heaps, and makes the enjoyment for this even higher. It's probably half way done now, not many more chapters to go, so please keep reading and reviewing.

Note: Purely out of my own fault- I've yet to see the series, apart from you tube, - but I'm not sure what Doug owns; car or motorbike. I've been told- by a very lovable friend- that he owned a yellow car in the fourth series and definitely had a motorbike and did use a car sometimes. I've decided to do the motorbike, as it seems the safest too me, but if this is wrong, please tell me and I will change parts of the story, otherwise, Bike it'll be.

- - -

To be Used

Chapter Five.
Forbidden.

"Hi."

The door was pulled further away, revealing more of the hidden room. The owner of the apartment stood staring in a mixture of disbelief and confusion. "Hi."

They stood facing each other, staring awkwardly, searching the others eyes for readable signs, hidden words. Finally, the smaller man shrugged. "Don't I get to come in?" His hair was damp and flicking at the ends, wet from the quick sprint he had made from his beloved Mustang up the cold steel, stairs and standing outside a tired looking door.

"If you want," was the uncaring tone back, a leather covered arm stretching further as he opened the door an inch or two wider, allowing the other man in.

"I'm sorry," he blurted.

Booker could seen no reason for the younger Officer to apologize and his brows knitted in confusion, then arched again as his coal eyes widened, a realization hitting him, "What did he do too you?!"

"Nothing! Please…" an unheard beg, his mask of joy slipping, "please Dennis, let me in."

- - - - -

Doug hadn't been able to dismount from his motorbike. He felt too much pain, too much guilt, too much hurt. He knew his behavior towards Tom had been completely unacceptable over the last few days. Knew it was making the younger Cop's head swim in confusion and making his heart ache, but Doug knew it was better this way than admitting the truth.

For the truth would only send Tom over the already far too close edge.

He squeezed the handles of the bike, the rubber burning under his palm, his looming apartment in view. He could go in now, watch a replay of last night's game, and binge on popcorn and hotdogs and fall asleep, today forgotten. Or he could go and find Tom, apologize to him and tell him the truth.

He sighed, the latter option was more confusing and painful, but it needed to be done. Yet how do you tell your once lover that you no longer love him, after so many months, that you no longer want him for life, that you're playing for the other team again?

It would only confuse and humiliate Tom, more so than it had already Doug. Hadn't he, Doug, just spent the afternoon fondling Tom, asking, begging, for Tom to continue and becoming enraged when he declined? He wasn't so sure what he wanted anymore. One moment he longed and pined for Tom, needing the body of comfort and warmth and needing to take charge of the vulnerable man he could be and then becoming aroused when Tom grew fiery, became strong and overpowering.

And then there was what made Tom up, the smell of Tom, the gestures and reserved smile for only him. He loved his laugh, his voice, and the full lips that formed into a desirable pout when he didn't get his own way. The view of Tom's body as he lay on top, thrusting his love into him, heart melting at the moans and mewls of Tom. He loved the golden glow of his accentuated body, the out line of stretching ribs and long-fingered, curious hands. He loved that all about Tom, yet he didn't love Tom.

"I've just been there for your enjoyment, your fun, your pleasure, but not love" The words had been tattooed on the inside of Doug's eyelids. Tom was so quick to figure out, and just as quick to forgive and forget that all Doug felt was pure shame for himself. Tom Hanson did not deserve to be treated the way he had been. He had to end this.

Yet, he wanted more of Tom. He needed more. Tom was a beautiful drug, rare and illegal and full of beautiful things, beautiful doings and Doug was the addict, desiring more, wanting more, craving for more and doing anything he could to get it.

Even so far as to hit, abuse, his friend. His lover.

Doug still couldn't find an explanation for his actions, only that he was tired, angry and blinded by his mixed feelings that he had to keep quiet the man who kept asking questions. Questions about Cynthia. She was no one to Doug, just your average street prostitute and Doug, being unsure of which side he played for, had invited her over. She believed it to be more, maybe because of the words he had said to her, but Doug didn't want anymore from her. She had helped him make up his mind, and that was enough. This is why, when Tom had questioned the phone call, Doug had become embarrassed and upset and a little shove had turned into a hit.

But he couldn't tell that to Tom. Never; and Doug still wanted Tom. He just…wanted him, for no reason but for wanting. Tom was the only man that Doug had fallen fall, had been aroused by and that had confused him to know ends. Didn't bi-sexual- for that it was he believed himself to be- mean you liked both sexes, not just one sex and one person from the other? Tom just had that affect, though, on everyone and Doug had been caught in his web.

This is why Doug had actually believed that the more he hurt Tom, the more Tom would start to hate him and then breaking up with Tom would be a little easier, perhaps Tom would even do it for him. It was unfair though, for both of them, to ruin something they had equally loved and cherished.

He started the bike, needing to find Tom. He had to tell him the truth, had to tell him why he was being a complete dick towards him. Maybe they could still have something, even if Doug had a girlfriend and Tom a boyfriend, they could always still have something.

"I've just been a little toy for you." Doug couldn't remember if he'd hit Tom after those words or not, but they had been part of the fury Doug had felt that night. Secretly, deniably, Doug thought of Tom as a little toy, and if they were still to have a chance, even after their respected ways, Doug would only think of Tom as a toy.

He revved the bike, spinning it around; something had to change about this situation.

- - - - -

"At least change into this, you're drenched and you'll freeze, and I'm not carrying an ice cube back to the Chapel."

"Thanks," he slipped neatly out of his own denim jacket, pulling off his red tank as well, throwing them to the ground with a wet slap. With stiffness, he pulled on the leather jacket of Bookers, noting it was several sizes to small for the taller man as it fit Tom snugly. "Girlfriends'?" He paused, correcting himself, "Boyfriends'?"

Booker glared, "Neither." His narrowed eyes, which had been memorized with the olive, smooth chest and hardened, chilled nipples, and ice tone keeping Tom quiet.

A mug of steaming coffee was placed in front of Ton, spilling liquid staining the cheap woods surface. Booker set his own mug down, the coffee darker and stronger, and then sat a little down the couch from Tom, hands wrapped around the coffee mug. Tom shrugged into the jacket, its warm lining sending shivers of comfort down his spine, before he too wrapped his hands around his mug.

"So…"

"Yea," Tom took a large mouthful of the burning liquid, letting it rest on his tongue like thousands of knives, then sliding down his esophagus as if he had swallowed a fireball. He repeated this again, hoping in vain Booker wouldn't ask the unwanted questions.

"Cold?" Booker eyed Tom; his wet hair, damp body, and occasional tremble of the shoulders. "I got a blanket if-" Tom cut him off with a shake of the head; he did not need to have these comforts and compassion bestowed upon him, especially when they seemed so forced.

"You sure? S'no trouble, you'll get sick and-"

"I'm already getting sick," he silenced Bookers next words with a glare, "And yes, I am aware, and no, I don't care if I get worse and yes, I appreciate it, but no thanks all the same." He snapped, taking another burning sip from the mug.

"Right," Booker was clearly unimpressed with Tom's behavior. "You just feel like being a jerk."

Tom sighed, aggravated with himself, "No, I'm sorry…I just," he just what? He didn't even know, he wasn't even sure what he was doing, sitting on the couch of his enemy's home. It made little to naught sense to Hanson, yet somehow it felt completely right. "I'm tired," he concluded, allowing his weary mind to finally comprehend his exhaustion.

"Yea," Booker did not doubt that, but knew it was not all that was troubling the other man, "Is it…is it because of what I told you, on the bus, has that…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have." He wasn't sure where the easy, calmer, more compassionate side of Dennis Booker was coming from but he knew, for at least this moment, it was needed.

Tom stared at his mug, watching the dissolving froth swirl in hypnotizing patterns, "No," he finally drawled, confusion evident, "No it wasn't I mean," he confusion worsened, "It's thrown me off a bit, you know? But I am glad you told me." He gave a little sigh then locked eyes with Booker, "I am glad Dennis. I'm just a little confused is all."

Booker nodded, accepting this, "I am too." He watched another violent tremble wrack Tom's body and he set his mug down, "I'm getting you a damn blanket."

Tom knew it was futile to argue, and only accepted the dark blue checkered blanket in a soft voice of thanks. He slung it around his shoulders, bringing it across his chest, wincing as the rough fabric dragged across his raw and bruised jaw.

"Okay?"

"Yea," he muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. Knees pressed together to keep warm, "I'm fine."

"What happened Tom?"

Tom couldn't remember a time Booker had used his name without mocking or jeering him and he relaxed at the comfort, "Nothing, I'm just…really confused." And he was; about Doug, about him, about Dennis and about the missing girl.

Dennis' mind seemed to be focusing on other things though and he shifted down the couch to Tom, now easily in arms reach of him. "Who hurt you Tom?" His lean hand came up to capture Tom's jaw, thumb and forefinger running lightly over the assortment of colors.

Tom knew he should've pulled away, should've have resisted and accused Dennis, but he found that he wanted the touch, more than he needed it. Something in Booker's words had made Tom's heart wrench, feeling the agony he had long denied. Something about Dennis Booker made Tom feel completely at ease.

"He didn't mean it," was all he managed, leaning into the caressing touch. He could not blame Doug, he never could. Doug was such a strong part of him.

Tom felt the weight of the couch sink as Booker shifted closer, his thigh now touching Tom's. Dennis knew, even before he had voiced the question, who had hit Tom, but he suppressed his rage, playing along for Tom. "I think the person who hurt you," his forefinger came to run across the dry lips, "doesn't know," the finger lingered, parting the two lips, "what he's got."

Tom's throat felt dry and he swallowed heavily in nerves and adrenaline, "Yea," he croaked, body tingling.

It was all Dennis needed, and he pulled his finger away, slowly brining his lips towards Tom. He hesitated, giving Tom a chance to protest, to pull away, to leave; but Tom did none of those things and Bookers adrenaline increased.

Their lips met, tentative at first, but as Tom's latched onto Bookers, his own tightened and sucked on Tom's bottoms lip. Tongue running over the wounds, relishing in the sweet, metallic taste as blood spilled from the barely healed sores. He forced the lips wider, shoving himself deeper within, hands running to Tom's back, circling the shoulders and dropping seductively down to the small of his back. A clash of tongues ignited a ball of fire, and Booker felt Tom's arms swing around to latch behind his neck, fingers tangling amongst the dark hair, erection growing.

Booker knew he should stop, that the man he held so tightly and heatedly was not for sale, but he couldn't resist, was tempted by the devil, and would gladly accept all consequences if only for one taste of the forbidden fruit. He pressed his body closer to Tom's, their erections rubbing against another's, and Tom jolted, biting hard on Dennis' lip. A hand dropped from behind his neck to rest on his chest, fiddling with a button and Booker couldn't help but let his hand slip further down Tom's back to sneak under his arse cheek with a tight squeeze. It emitted another jump from Tom, and his laugh was muffled by Dennis' ravenous lips.

They broke apart slowly, panting heavily for needed air. A shy, embarrassed blush spread across Tom's face, and he lent his head against Booker's forehead, exhaustion hitting him hard. Bookers tongue ran over Tom's lips a last time, wanting to keep his bittersweet taste. Carefully, Booker pushed Tom away from him, letting him fall gently onto the couch, knowing no more should be done no matter how much he longed for it.

Silently, their breathing the only audible sound, Booker slipped an arm around Tom's narrow shoulders, needing to speak his mind. "Maybe, he doesn't love you as much other people do."

Tom nodded, so confused, vulnerable and guilty. What had he done? His shook his head slightly, he would not regret this yet he could not brush away the betrayal towards Doug he felt. He felt a tentative hand on his thigh, and he met Booker's nervous gaze. Knowing he had made a deal with the devil, Tom grabbed Booker's hand, savoring every breathtaking second. "Thank you, Dennis."

Dennis Booker never knew he could love his name like he did right now.

- - -

The only reason Doug had not spoken to Tom was because the latter was not at home, which was the reason behind Doug sitting on the steps to Tom's apartment, anxiety wracking him. He watched the cars drift by the apartment, a few coming in to the reserved parking bay, another leaving. None of them were Tom's.

Dough sighed, shifting a little, his elbows on his knees, face resting in his palms. Where was Tom? His gaze lingered on the shiny metal of his bike and decided that after tonight he would go and clean it; it seemed to be a target for the pigeons.

He shifted irritably again, a soft growl emitting from him. This was ridiculous. It was well after seven, it was dark, it was cold and it was definitely uncomfortable outside on the steps and where the hell was Tommy? It wasn't like he did much after work, went anywhere. Only bowling and Doug always knew when, and sometimes out drinking but that was with him. Sometimes to Judy's but Doug would've known, then there were the times he'd gone down to the pub to watch the game but Doug would've known about that, hell, he was the one that invited Tom down to those. So where was he?

A flash of headlights blinded him for a second or two and Doug's question was answered. "Finally," he muttered. He glanced at his watch. Forty minutes, forty minutes he had been out in the cold while Tom had been snug and warm in his car. Worst off, Tom didn't seem to realize Doug was there.

Doug watched his partner climb out of the car, singing, or attempting to, some song from the radio. He seemed happy enough. "Well that's nice," he muttered again, irritated that while he had been freezing in the cold, alone and miserable, Tom had been having a good time doing what ever it was he had been doing.

Tom let the door fall shut, locking it securely. He was still unaware of the eyes watching him. He ran a hand down the bonnet of the car, admiring his prized and very much loved possession. It wasn't the latest car, definitely not the best, but it was his; a good, old classic car that took him to where his dreams lived. He turned away, heading for his apartment, still yet to look up. He blushed at his own foolishness after slipping on the wet ground, finally taking a glimpse at what was in front of him.

Tom froze, shocked at the man sitting- now coming to stand- on his steps. He broke free of his stupor and smiled broadly, a faint glimmer of hope for the both of them rising, "Hey."

Doug did not smile, did not embrace the shorter man. He remained standing, taking an intimidating step forward, hand reaching for the soft leather, stroking it between his thumb and forefinger.

"That's not your jacket, Thomas."

- - -

Sorry if this seems a bit rushed and muddled, I did try though. Please let me know what you think.
Thanks heaps to rubydoo and lynny, loving you two very much. And Tilly, I will e-mail you! Cross my heart, you know how I can be sometimes blush