Disclaimer: Jump St doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the wonderful Stephen, who could have had some very raunchy story lines. I am just filling in the raunchiness where he didn't

A/N: I really didn't know how to start this chapter, and I think in all this is actually the worst one, so I really do apologise for that.

Thanks: Especially to Lynny. I forgot to thank you a ton for chapter fives review, but thanks so much luv, and for last chapter too. And rubydoo, ihearttwojacks, Nina and Mags, thanks a bunch. Hell, to all reviewers, you really do make my day, I love reading anything from you, even one word!

And many, many thanks To AllyTCBK who gave me the title of this chapter and the adrenaline and ideas I needed. Without her, well, this chapter would have a) a crappy title and b) be even crappier, if that were possible!

And, to lovely NikkiCee- thank you so much for the encouragement!

- - -

To be Used
Chapter seven
Survivor's Guilt

It took a long time for Tom to stop blaming himself for his father's death; and it was only with a lot of help, negotiation, consoling, counselling and a feeble agreement that he had been able to. After Amy's death, the guilt of not even ten years ago had resurfaced and fused together with the guilt of her death. It may not have taken Tom longer for him to stop blaming himself, but it had been a lot more dangerous than last time. Amy's death had meant he had a legal gun; Amy's death had clearly spelt out what you could do in three point three seconds. Amy's death had led to a lot of temptations he had pushed aside during his father's death.

Tom had, thankfully, survived the torturous guilt he had for years and months felt imprisoned in. Still, in all these years to have passed, and all the maturing he had done, Tom could never push aside the feelings of isolation, devastation, remoteness and guilt that had flared at the worst, and sometime best, of times.

All those feelings- shame, betrayal and guilt- had resurfaced, brining along a friend to keep company.

Tom truly felt broken, and who else to blame but himself?

Wasn't it he, Tom, who had deliberately, spitefully, gone to Booker's place? Wasn't he the one who almost wanted Booker to kiss him? Shouldn't he have pulled away, knowing it would only upset Doug? Couldn't he have stopped it, prevented this. Shouldn't he have prevented this? And hadn't he blatantly lied to Doug's face, denying the sensual touch, the gentle kiss, the enjoyment and arousal?

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, confused by his running thoughts. Somewhere, he knew not to blame himself, but years of guilt and shame had taught him different, and it seemed exceptionally reasonable to blame him self for this. He had evoked this on himself, had done nothing to stop it. Just like he hadn't helped his dad- and later distraught mother- just like he hadn't help Amy.

Anguished, he lifted up the oversized blue t-shirt- the one Booker had given him just before leaving, refusing to let Tom wear home just the leather jacket- and gazed transfixed at the raw tender skin where it had been grazed and broken, blood dots appearing and dried, smeared blood running over his ribs. Gently, he traced lean olive fingers over the assortment of colour that was slowly working its way over his skin, embedding the multi-colours into each cell. He probed at a rib and winced back in pain, a whimper on his lips. Somehow, the pain made it all the more bearable, all the more real. He felt stronger in a weaker way and weaker where he was once strong. It made no sense to Tom, but sense wasn't what he was looking for.

He was looking for answers.

Tom let the cotton material fall and let his nimble hands grip onto his wrists, where dark, finger like bruises had appeared. Courtesy of Doug's lethal grip and torment, proof of what Doug really was capable of. Studying hypnotised at his wrist, Tom felt nausea creep its way up, the acid burn sliding up and down his oesophagus. His stomach muscles tightened and on instinct he turned to his side, ready for the contents to spill over his floor. He dry heaved continuously. His stomach in agony, his chest tender and sharp with each attempt. The empty contents of his stomach allowed nothing but water and bile to surface its way up and Tom felt the hot sensation of tears prick the corner of his eyes.

'Because clearly, Doug owns you'

Tom had never considered those words to be as right as they were. He was owned and oblivious until now to it. Had it been as obvious as it was to Booker to everyone else? Was he owned by all and not just Doug. Was he a mere marionette for their enjoyment?

He felt sick, he felt dirty, he felt…disgusting.

"It makes you feel disgusting! It makes you so disgusting"

His stomach continued to roll. Doug's words an echoing taunt, an echoing remembrance. He wasn't disgusting, no, he wasn't…he wasn't…he….wasn't…

A creamy liquid spilled over his lips and down the cotton t-shirt and Tom viciously spat it out. Tears ran freely down his tender and bruised face, and with a shaky hand he ran the back across his mouth. He hadn't meant to kiss Booker; he hadn't meant to rile Doug. He hadn't meant for any of this he had…he had just….he had…what?...

Maybe he was disgusting.

Finally, his only rational voice seeped through the taunting, mocking ones and Tom distinctly heard, 'So what does that make Doug then?" In a wave, Tom felt an aggression that fuelled him to do what he had so timidly been denying himself to do. What his rational voice had been trying to get through to him, what his coward self would refuse to.

Grunting, he heaved himself off of the floor, glaring daringly at his reflection as he passed the mirror. He slammed the bathroom door shut and stripped, tossing aside the speckled blood shirt and mentally reminding himself to later chuck it out. He had to act now, before he chickened out and remained the docile boy he was sick of everyone perceiving him to be.

Tom had puppet strings to break.

- - -

"Domestic Violence?"

Penhall nodded lethargically; weary and tired from yesterday and the stress that had been slowly building on top of him for months.

"I'm, ah…I'm…" he furrowed his brows, agitated and confused, "I'm sorry Penhall, but why in Gods name do you need to know this?"

The excuse had been ticking over in his mind since he had set foot in the office, and the worst spilt easily and plausibly from his mouth, "The Caitlyn case. I think she was involved with a guy who's still at the school…"he paused uncertainly, "I just wanna make sure I…well I think he may be one of the reasons why she up and left, so I just…"

"You're not on the case any more, Penhall." Fuller was unable to keep the irritation at bay. It had taken an unwanted amount of paper work to transfer Doug off the case and Booker on and he was not in any means pleased to have the possibility of more paper work at his hands.

"I know that sir, I just…I think I may have a lead."

Adam Fuller sighed, "You think he may have been abusing her, Doug?" He could not afford to risk the chance of new, discovering evidence slip by because he was too unwilling of yet another case transferral.

"Could be the reason why she ran." Doug swallowed heavily. He was risking a lot now, by putting Fuller in a position to send out more information, false information, and false hope to the parents. It would cause trouble for the perfectly innocent boyfriend, the group Hanson and he had hung around with and when Doug got caught- for he doubted anything passed Fullers knowledge- the consequences would be severe. Yet Doug was persistent; he had to know if the doubts he had pushed so far inside of himself were true. That perhaps he was a Domestic…

"Doug!" Fuller's sharp tone cut him from his musings and he sat up startled, mumbling out an apology. "Penhall, you realise that discussing this matter further, laying out the evidence and suspicions you have, puts you back on the case?"

He nodded, ignoring his nagging conscience, "And Booker off."

"No, it won't."

"What?!" the thought of working with Dennis Booker infuriated Doug.

"His already made some more leads, knocked back some evidence and narrowed it down some. He's doing good, Penhall, and you can either jump back on and figure out your assumptions, or hand them to Booker to go and search what you already would know. Tom and he are doing fine."

Doug wasn't even aware of his hands gripping knuckle white to the chairs' arms, or the low emitted growl, "Fine, I'll work with Booker." He knew Fuller disapproved the venomous spite on Bookers name but he couldn't help the fury that bubble at the mere thought of Booker and Tom working well together.

"What time of Domestic Violence do you think it was, Penhall?"

"I don't know," he mumbled irritated, "That's why I came to you."

"You're going the right way to be taken back off of the case Penhall," with a forced pleasantry smile, Adam continued. "Domestic Violence occurs when a family member or partner attempts to physically or psychologically dominate another."

Doug nodded a gesture of continuance.

"There are many forms, but the most common are physical violence, sexual violence [abuse and emotional abuse" his back was straight against the chair, hands crossed. A position of sombre seriousness.

Doug nodded, a hand leaning against his right cheek, "Yea, I remember something like that from the Academy. They said something about dimensions or levels or some crap."

Adam nodded back, "Mode, frequency and severity. Mode determines the type, frequency how often and severity the extent. But they vary on reasons behind the dominant abuse. What category does Caitlyn's boyfriend fall into?"

"Mode?" he paused, unsure of how to answer, "I think it's emotional and sexual. There's never been a mark on her that I've seen," his lies were becoming bigger and scenarios of trouble were dancing in his mind, "and as for frequency, could be anything really."

Fuller sighed, "Any signs?" Domestic Violence was something that never had sat well with him; he never truly understood how love could be in such a form, be mistreated in such a way. After his divorce, he had learnt the main reason she had left him was because of the emotional stress and pressure he had placed on her and although he wasn't purposefully- she had worried about him being a cop- he could never shake of the feeling of guilt.

"He's angry all of the time," he smiled a little, "But then, so are you."

"This isn't a comical matter, Penhall." He heard the mumble apology and continued, "Classic signs are anger, threats, forcefulness, and sexual acts without entirely willing consent and property damage. Probably the biggest sign and clue is possessiveness towards the partner, a strong surge of jealousy and a need to keep the partner isolated for fear of them leaving."

Doug felt sick. He could feel his hands shaking and his hair line ridden with sweat. The idea that he could be an abuser scared him more than anything, and he willed it to go away, for the guilt to stop gnawing at him, but he knew, deep down, that there was something wrong with him and his behaviour. He just couldn't accept it though.

"What about verbal abusing?

Adam nodded, "verbal, physical, emotional, sexual, interrogational…it's all apart of it."

The overwhelming sensation to cry built inside of him, and a few hot tears pricked at his eyes, forming on the rim of his eyes, ready to trail down his face, "Why-Why are people like that?" his voice a trailing whisper.

Sensing Doug's distress Adam shook his head regretfully, "Unfortunately, no ones entirely sure. It's usually put down to psychological issues and a mishap in the childhood, but there's always something else." He sighed, linked back to a memory, "Sometimes stress and worry, some of the simplest emotions, are factors of it.

"I just…I –I can't understand it." Doug couldn't understand why he was like this, why he was acting how a described abuser was.

"No one really can, Penhall, not even the abuser. Along the line, something's gone wrong for the 'abuser' and they take it out on somebody they love. Somebody, on whom they foresee to be perfect."

Doug was quiet, almost traumatised by the information that he had heard. He regretted ever asking. He willed what he rationally knew not to be true, he prayed that Tom would walk in without a sickening mark, but he knew ti wouldn't happen. Tears flowed freely done his face until he was smothered by his own quiet sobs.

"Doug,?" Adam's voice was quiet and timid. Unaccustomed to seeing the gentle bear, the lovable man, so worn and broke. He left his chair and stood beside him, a firm hand on his shoulder, "Douglas, what's troubling you?"

He shook his shaggy hair, unable to voice the lies. Finally, after a length of forever, he forced himself to look into his Commanding Officers, wiping away the tears from swollen, red, eyes. "Nothing Coach, I just…I just…" he shook his head, "I just hate this with a passion."

He left the room, mouthing a silent thankyou and slipped away; leaving the taller man to believe that long ago, something horrible must have happened to Doug.

- - -

Tom stood quivering in front a door. His arms were wrapped around his body, hands rubbing the chilling skin. He shouldn't be here; he shouldn't be doing this, if he was caught…But what if he wasn't? If he wasn't he could stop all of this, but if he was caught all of this would only worsen…but if he wasn't…

Tom jumped from foot to foot, a vain attempt to keep warmth and nerves at bay. He had come this far, he was standing outside the mans door, all he had to do was go in. Go in, sneak around, and sneak out. It wasn't so hard.

But if he catches you… …

Tom swallowed heavily, taking a subconscious step backwards. 'Just walk into the apartment, you have the key, it's his home as much as yours.' He bit his lower lip anxiously, 'He hasn't invited you in though, he hasn't said for you to come. You have no right to be here.' Tom breathed in deeply, greedily, needing the icy air. No, he had come this far, he was going to do this. He wouldn't get caught.

He couldn't afford to get caught.

He shakily turned the doorknob of Doug's apartment, entering it silently. Only after the door had softly clicked shut and he was certain no one else was in the house, did he allow himself to breathe. His cowardliness at bay, he heaved a sigh and with slumped shoulders walked around Doug's apartment.

Tom ran a light touch over tables and chairs, flicking through the pages of magazines and papers as he went. Everything felt so surreal to him. He had never pictured Doug-the lovable teddy bear- to take a sudden bend for the worse. Never imagined Doug could be capable of what he had been recently. Tom knew Doug could throw a mean punch, knew he could be jerk, knew he could easily kill someone with his bare hands, but threats and violence had always, always, been aimed at the 'bad guys'.

So did that mean Tom was the bad guy?

He shook his head of such thoughts and sneered down at every worthless possession of Doug's. He could not allow such thoughts to filter through his mind. Cautiously- tossing glances over his shoulders to the front entrance- Tom sleuthed his way towards Doug's phone, searching for an address book of sorts. Tom didn't have to look though; stick-it notes and sheets of papers were sprawled over the table, covered in numbers.

"Jesus Doug," though Tom had loved everything about Doug, from his once compassion to his untidiness, at times like these, Tom wished Doug could be organized. Methodically, Tom searched over various numbers, looking for a name. He spotted his own name; Circled and marked, written over and over again on a single stick-it note. Some how, the small gesture made Tom smile and a flutter buzz his heart, and even the nag of yesterday didn't move the angled smile.

Then he spotted it.

With sweaty hands, Tom picked up the phone and dialled the hurriedly scrawled number.

'Bring….bring…..bring……'

He waited impatiently, foot tapping furiously on the floor. He searched outside the windows, praying Doug wouldn't unexpectedly turn up early from work.

'

'Hello, Cynthia Legato speaking.' Tom swallowed, closing his eyes, his free hand running characteristically through his hair. "Hi…I ah…I was…" he could hear her impatience on the other end, and he wished he had thought through what he was going to say. Stupid instinct. "You don't know me…but ah…"

'You alright, baby? It don't matter if I don't know you. Remember you don't know me."

Tom frowned, puzzled. What was she on about? "No, I mean….I think….I just need to ask something."

"Sure sweetie, anything."

Tom could hear and almost see her seductiveness and slowly ideas started to tweak and Tom's confusion lessened. "Do you know a Doug Penhall?" He almost laughed at the shocked tone in her voice.

"Oh….Ah…wh-…A Doug Penhall? Yea, sure, know him well. We caught up last week, a first timer with us. Great guy, really nice." Pause, "A little nervy, but he seemed pretty into it." Pause. "Why? You wanna make it a three way?"

Tom gawped and blinked a few times, startled by the question and the smile he could almost see from her. "Ah…no, no …I just…" he swallowed nothing, "I just….I just need to know if you…you too are, well…are you going out with him?"

'Hey, you alright there? Is there anything I can ah, help you with?'

Tom smiled crookedly, "No thanks, you've been enough help."

He ignored her confused voice and hurried questions and hung up. Lost in his own thoughts. Why would Doug do something like that to him? Why, why the hell would he do that to him! Rage took control and Tom yelled aloud, an incomprehensible, yell of fury. What the fuck was Doug doing?! What the fuck was he doing! Was he not good enough for Doug? What was so wrong with him that Doug had neglected and even abused him?! What the fuck was wrong with Doug Penhall!

He hauled the half full glass next to him and hurled it at the wall, watching it shatter into pieces. He didn't care though, he was furious with Doug, and it took a large amount of resistance to not ruin the rest of Doug's cheap apartment.

"Am I not fucking good enough for you Doug!" he roared to empty rooms, "Well guess what buddy, you're not that fucking great either!" his deep bellied yells reverberated off the bare walls and Tom was left with the dull echo of his voice.

Chest heaving, he headed back through the kitchen to the lounge, taking his last glance at the place he had spent so many months at. So many years. He cast his gaze at the bedroom and sighed, he couldn't even remember the last time he had been in there. The last time they had made out with desired lust and heated passion.

And Tom felt the overwhelming sensation to cry.

He had lost so much of what he had gained. So much of what, for years, he had been neglected of. He had lost the one thing he had thought he'd never find again after everyone that had ether turned him away or left him suddenly. He had lost love and instead acquired a form of abuse from a protector. He didn't think anything could sting as much as the day of his dad's death, but Doug's change, Doug departure, Doug's lack of love, matched it.

Tom couldn't help the feeling of guilt that smothered him. Somewhere, somehow he had done something wrong to upset Doug and he wished, hell he fucking prayed, that he could take whatever it was back. He still loved Doug, and he would do anything to have it aimed back at him. He finally averted his eyes and made for the door, maybe tomorrow, back at work, Doug would be better.

On his way out, he forgot about the shattered glass.

-I know that chapter was a bit of a bore, sorry for that; it was one of those chapters that had to be in here, or nothing makes sense. Things will pick up again next chapter. Please review, they always make me smile : ) Sorry about the formatting too, ffent is fucking with me, and theres a missed line before Cynthia says Hello, but every time i added it...poof. Same if i tired to bold this.