Chapter title inspired by "Criminal" by Britney Spears

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Claire hated to admit it, but Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were actually bearable. Of course her parents had zero filter, zero boundaries, and about five million opinions. But they also seemed to genuinely like Jim, once they got past their initial reservations about his age and his divorce.

Jim was enthusiastic about honing his kitchen skills, so he spent most of his time shadowing Diane, a skilled home cook who ate up all of his praise and attention. Claire enjoyed helping them, much to her surprise. She was grateful that the concrete task of cooking kept them from more controversial topics of conversation. Her dad played classic Christmas movies, which also served as a nice distraction. Claire's gift to her dad was a car detailing set, so he and Jim spent some time Christmas afternoon in the carport out back, shining Doug's 1969 cobalt blue Chevy Nova.

Claire had excitedly opened her gift from Jim, her heart beating rapidly as she uncovered a Burberry purse and matching scarf. She'd never owned anything that nice; Stan certainly could have afforded such things, but he'd been much too self-absorbed for gifts. She wasn't one to splurge on herself, hoping to stretch out the funds he'd left her as long as possible.

Grinning, she jumped up and threw the strap of the beautifully crafted bag over her shoulder. Draping the scarf haphazardly around her neck, she posed with a sexy pout while Jim took her picture with his phone. She loved that he'd obviously remembered her Burberry print skirt from the night she'd played "Teacher" at the club. Her parents didn't understand the significance, of course, but they were definitely impressed at the lavishness of the gift.

Claire bent over to grab her present for Jim. It was heavy and hard to grasp, and she set it gingerly in his lap before curling up to his side.

"Look at that!" he exclaimed. "100 Greatest Cowboy Classics. 24 DVD set with collector's book."

"Now you won't be at the mercy of whatever is on TV," she said, giving him a squeeze. He gave her a sweet and innocent kiss, but his eyes burned into her and told her he was recalling the way she'd mounted him on the sofa while he'd watched Jesse James. She gave him a smile that promised many more such encounters in the future.

"Thanks, kiddo. It's perfect."

"Open up yours from us next, Claire," her mother chirped.

Claire accepted the large but lightweight holly berry bag and pulled out a folded quilt, brightly colored with intricate squares of different patterns, words, dates, and symbols. Some of the squares near the top were more yellowed than others, and those at the bottom featured fabric from her parents' old uniforms, her yellow daisy baby blanket, and white lace she assumed must be from her mother's wedding dress.

"It's an heirloom quilt, of course," her mom explained. "Each row a different generation on my side, all the way back to Denmark. You don't have to sew to keep it up; just collect fabrics that mean something to you and take it somewhere to have them added. I was always going to give it you as a wedding gift, but since it's been seven years since we saw you, I thought I better not waste any more time. In case it's awhile before we see you again." Her voice quavered a little.

Claire ran her hands over the different textures and gave a small smile. "Thanks, Mom. I'm glad I was able to come back and get it."

"Let's take a look," Jim said cheerfully, taking it from her lap. He studied each section with interest, which was no surprise. Jim loved tradition and family, and he seemed to have more of a sentimental side than she did. She laid her head on his arm and studied it alongside of him, allowing her senses to enjoy the crackling of the fire and the sugar cookie candle burning on the coffee table. It was a far cry from how she usually spent Christmas. She chuckled inwardly as she thought of her fur trimmed red romper sitting in her locker at the club. Mrs. Claus would have to send Jim Gordon an IOU.

They said their goodbyes to Claire's parents before bed that night since they had to leave for the airport around 3:30 a.m. Claire actually didn't mind giving them goodbye hugs. It hadn't been the easiest three days of her life, but it had ended on a rather peaceful note. She wasn't sure she would ever be one of those women who called home every day, or even every week, but it was nice to not be a stranger any longer. Seven years was an awfully long time and had created a chasm she hadn't known how to bridge. She was grateful to Jim for helping her forge a way, and for recognizing that she'd needed it. As their plane soared to cruising altitude with the sunrise peeking through the clouds, she realized how incredible it felt to have someone in tune with her needs at all.

"You okay, kiddo?"

Jim lifted her chin and tilted her face toward him. Claire didn't even realize she'd teared up until a drop pooled on his finger. She nodded in reply, knowing if she tried to speak the tears would overflow.

"Come here," he whispered, and she rested her cheek against his soft sweater vest. He stroked her hair and squeezed her so tightly it would probably hurt after awhile, but in that moment it was all she needed. He was quiet for a few minutes, and she figured he was waiting for her to elaborate on the reason behind her sudden emotional outburst. She wasn't even sure herself. Her parents still drove her crazy; she saw them as narrow-minded and naïve and far too brash, but they were hers. She had a family, and she had Jim. For the first time since Stan had died, she wasn't alone.

"I love you, Jim," she finally whispered. She was aware of his fingers' firm grip on her arm and the sound of his heart beating just beneath her cheek. His lips brushed her hair softly.

"I love you, too."

XXXXX

Claire lifted the warm takeout from the paper bag and breathed in the smell of garlic and oregano that wafted through the air of her small kitchen. She'd laid a new red tablecloth on her tiny bistro table and topped it with a bottle of Chianti, taper candles, and plates that actually matched. She had considered cooking the meal herself, but Gotham's Little Italy was just over the bridge, and she figured it would be insulting to attempt it herself when perfection already laid just outside her door.

Jim was due at her doorstep any minute now. He'd spent nearly a week in Cleveland with kids, leaving the day after they'd returned from Pennsylvania. This separation had been even harder on her than the one before. Her heart was so tangled up with Jim now. Her bed felt cold and lonely without his lean body curled up next to hers. She missed the manly smell that wove through his clothes, the warmth of his skin, and the gentle yet strong touch of his fingers creating circles of sensation on her body. She missed the way he blinked as he pushed his glasses up his nose, the way his lips pursed with amusement beneath that chestnut mustache, and the way his hands sat on his hips, pushing his suit jacket back as he surveyed a scene or pondered what to do next.

Claire was even beginning to think wistfully about Cleveland, the nagging question of when she might meet his kids starting to tickle at the back of her mind. Hell, in some twisted way she even wanted to meet Barbara, if only to ease the anxiety and begin solidifying her own role in Jim's life and family.

She'd decided to poke fun at herself last night and watch Stepmom on Netflix, which of course presented her with a whole new crop of undesirable scenarios she hoped were exaggerated by Hollywood. Claire wasn't quite sure how to transition from Mistress to Mom, but she thought starting the homework on the subject might be smart.

She also still needed to perfect her transition from Mistress to Claire. And that required laying bare the secrets Mistress had always kept tucked away, and the pain that went with them. If she was going to lay everything on the table, it might as well be a lovely, romantic table. As she arranged cheese ravioli, Tuscan chicken, and antipasto salad on the table, the irony hit her of telling her Stan story alongside food from Little Italy. She frowned; hopefully Jim would chalk it up to coincidence and not cheekiness.

Truth be told, she was terrified. Claire had never met a more principled man than Jim Gordon. She was afraid he'd see her as dirty, corrupt... irredeemable. Hell, even the bed he was sleeping in these days had been purchased with dirty money.

Claire, you were an idiot to let it go on this long, she chastised herself. Now you're in so deep loving him that if he leaves you you'll surely drown.

But the way he'd held her on the plane ride home, so tenderly yet so strongly, as if he'd never let go, gave her hope that he indeed wouldn't. Jim's birthday was tomorrow, and they had planned a night out in Old Gotham after work to celebrate. Claire liked the idea of clearing this hurdle tonight and kicking off his fifty-second year with a fresh start... no secrets. She'd also purchased a surprise gift for him that she didn't want to give as long as there were any doubts or unresolved issues between them. Tonight had to be the night.

Her doorbell rang around seven-thirty, nearly forty-five minutes late. The snow must have delayed his landing. Claire's stomach was knotted more than the garlic knots on the table at this point. She jumped up to answer and leapt into his snow-speckled arms the minute she opened the door.

"Someone's happy Daddy's home," he teased her with a grin as he lowered her back down. Claire slid behind him and removed his overcoat, hanging it on her wall rack. She linked her arm through his and led him to their makeshift Italian restaurant.

"I've missed you so much," she admitted. "How was your trip?" She busied herself serving his plate as he helped himself to wine.

"Good," Jim replied. "It's just tough, you know? When you're living out of a hotel, without the comforts of home. The kids kind of expect constant... and expensive... entertainment. We could spend more time at Barb's, of course, but that's stress in and of itself. It seems like she and Dan have gotten closer since the holidays, and I just feel like I'm in the way. I don't know. It would be easier to have them here. Maybe this summer. I would need to introduce you, of course."

Claire nodded enthusiastically. "I'd love that, Jim.

He smiled and started in on the salad. "How was work for you this week? I got quite a few calls. Probably enough to turn about half my PTO back into the bank."

"Busy," answered Claire. "Foley got a lead on Magnon and needed some clerk work done. They gave it to me since you were out and didn't need me."

"Oof," Jim commented. "He's pretty demanding. I bet it was a tough week."

"Demanding, sarcastic, full of himself... yeah. I definitely missed you filling my time and keeping me busy. We'll... I'll... be glad to have you back."

"I'll be glad to have you ON your back," he quipped with a wink, downing his wine and going back for more. Claire felt his shoe stroke her black leggings beneath the table, and the heat between her legs threatened to take over her sensible plans for conversation. She cleared her throat in attempt to recover.

"Before we go down the road that leads to the bedroom," she began lightly, "there was something I wanted to talk about tonight, if you're up for it."

Jim nodded amid a ravioli bite. "Sure, kiddo."

Claire took a deep breath. "I've owed you a backstory for awhile now. You said you knew bits and pieces, but it's important to me that you understand the world I came from."

"Lititz, PA?" he said with a laugh. "I get it. You were bored and hemmed in there. And I can imagine your parents kept their gorgeous girl under lock and key. It's no wonder you went a little wild when you got out on your own." He winked adorably again.

"Yes, but I told you I'd tell you about that night... the one Ben mentioned... the one I hinted at that night I first took you to the club. How 'Mistress' came to be." She paused, both for effect and to calm her racing heart.

"When Grace and I were eighteen, we were flying home from a spring break in Spain when we met these two older guys in an airport bar. They were well-dressed, smart, sexy — one was around thirty-five and the other early forties. Business partners, I guess you'd say. Shady business— they both had guns. And we would later find out they were pretty heavily involved in... well... organized crime."

Claire winced, bracing for Jim's reaction. Just as expected, he paled and blinked a little.

"And?" he prodded her, his tone reserved.

"And... we lost our virginity to them that night. Grace's experience was incredible. Even though her guy was a criminal mastermind, he was classically romantic... gentle. Had her swooning. He's why she's such a perfect sub today. And you met him, at the holiday ball.

"My guy was... rougher. Scarier. But I was very attracted to him. I wanted him... I just learned that night that I wanted him more when I was in charge. And it turned out he liked it better that way too. Grace's guy— Hans— helped us both realize that. Hans has visited Grace often from the beginning. My guy, Stan— well, he came to see me too, those first couple of years. I... I actually collared him." Claire felt awkward again as those words escaped her mouth, and she already saw the disappointment drift across Jim's face.

"He was just my sexual submissive, since he lived in New York," Claire added hurriedly. "He was a cop up there, actually... DEA. We weren't necessarily together. He'd just visit when he needed to... take a load off."

"Does he still?" Jim asked quietly. She could tell he was stewing. "It sounds like he means something to you."

Claire shook her head. "No. I mean... Stan means something because he's the reason I became what I am. But he doesn't come to see me. He died, two years after we met."

"How did he die?"

Claire didn't want to get into specifics. Jim didn't really need to know everything Norman Stansfield had been tangled up in. "He was killed on the job."

"A real job or a mob job?" Jim sounded bitter.

She sighed. "I guess you would say a mob job. He was moving in on a hitman who had a personal vendetta against him because of some people Stan killed as part of a deal that went sour. The hitman took out some of Stan's men, and Stan... well, he had a temper. So he went after revenge, and it ended with Stan getting blown up. Apparently he had me listed as an emergency contact on all his stuff. I got the call a couple days later that they'd found his wallet among the rubble. And he... he left me his money."

Jim was fidgeting with his napkin, eyes fixed on his near-empty plate. He was silent for an excruciatingly long time.

"Jim, this isn't a..."

Jim pounded his fist on the table, sending forks and spoons clattering against the plates. "Isn't what, Claire? It isn't you telling me your first love was part of what I put my life on the line every day trying to take down? It isn't you telling me that you come to work every day in a police station, with top secret investigations crossing your desk, and then you fuck mobsters at night? Emergency contact, Claire? What the fuck?"

"Jim, calm down," Claire said quietly, placing her hands on her lap and taking another deep breath to steady her terrified heart. "Stan died over fifteen years ago. I haven't been with anyone like that since... well, even if I did, I wouldn't know. You know we keep business and sex separate at the club. And I didn't even really know with Stan. He didn't tell me the specifics of what he and Hans did. It was only after the phone call about his death that I learned more."

"But you knew it was shady business, and you continued with him anyway."

"Jim, I was eighteen. He was sexy. Should I hold you liable for things you did when you were eighteen?"

"When I was eighteen I joined the armed forces!" His blue eyes were blazing now. "After serving I worked on a SWAT team in Chicago and met the woman that would become my wife and the mother of my kids! I enrolled in school to study Criminology so I could work my way up... I wasn't screwing around with drug dealers. Assuming that's what he was. Stan... Stan who? Was he some big name?"

"Not really. His real name was Norman Stansfield."

"Norman Stansfield? What hell, Claire? And Hans... Hans... Hans fucking Gruber?"

"You know about them," Claire said simply. "Of course you do." She swallowed back the lump forming in her throat. Jim was an expert on organized crime. And crime families didn't end at state lines. It shouldn't come as a surprise.

She stood and began clearing the table, distracting herself watching tomato sauce swirl with water down the drain as she sniffed back tears. She would give him a few minutes to calm down. Jim was passionate about justice. But he was also fair. Surely he would see how absurd it was to hold a thirty-six year old woman responsible for her teenage self.

Or... her front door would slam shut as Jim Gordon made a hasty exit.

XXXXX

I can't. I just can't...

That singular thought kept pulsing through his brain as Jim trudged through the snow in search of a drink. He found a pub with windows still outlined in Christmas lights not far from her place. That would do. It wasn't like he was going to show up at The Asylum. Not now. He probably wouldn't set foot in the place ever again. The whole idea of her world tasted bitter in his mouth.

He ordered a gin and tonic and cradled his head in his hand. What the hell was he going to do now? Was it as easy as breaking up? They'd said they loved each other; he'd met her parents. He'd been on the verge of having her meet his kids— thank God she'd come clean before that. If it could be called clean. It felt so fucking dirty... he felt dirty.

No wonder she'd left her wholesome small town and her "naïve" parents, as she liked to call them. She'd been ashamed, and she was certainly justified in feeling so. Hans Gruber and Norman Stansfield had been murderers, plain and simple. Hans still was, for all Jim knew, and Grace was still fucking him. Claire had danced with him with a grin plastered to her face, happier than she'd looked with her own father last weekend.

No, Jim was done. How did he know she didn't just go after him for information? A better inside track to his investigations, hoping he'd divulge something in pillow talk that she wasn't privy to at the station?

Hell, should he go to Kay? Should Claire even be working at the station? That's probably how she wound up there in the first place, as an informant. For Christ's sake.

"You all right, hun?" the female bartender asked as she polished wine glasses. "Broken heart?"

Oh, great. Another mind-reader Mistress wannabe, thought Jim.

"I'm fine," he said dismissively, downing his drink. He plunked some cash down on the bar and took off, realizing he was in no shape to drive the Corolla after drinking wine and a cocktail in such quick succession.

Jim was about as far away from fine as he could possibly be. His family was gone and his hopes of a new one dashed in an instant. At least he had work tomorrow. His relationship with Gotham PD seemed to be the only one that had any prayer of ever succeeding. He dozed behind the wheel of his parked car while he waited to sober up, not even noticing a freezing Claire bundled up in her balcony hammock as she watched the tiny dot of his car below.