Rating: MA – suitable only for those over 17 years of age
Spoilers: Fancy Footwork
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters belong to Steven Bochco Productions.
Author's Note: This idea just wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to interrupt Chapter 4 of "Weekend in the Country" and jot this one down. Forgive the delay in Chapter 4 – hope you enjoy this one while you wait. It's set right after the dance class at the end of "Fancy Footwork."
UPDATE: I revised the fic based on an observation from maggiethecat (thanks Maggie) that NYPD officers personally own their guns. So Jim won't have to turn his in – he'll just give up his right to carry it concealed on the job.
"You've been pretty quiet tonight."
Jim heard the flick of the light switch as he and Christie stepped into the apartment. Dropping her arm, he turned to close the door and throw the deadbolt. Then he stood still for a moment, face to the door, listening to Christie's high heels and the sound of his own steady breathing.
"Yeah," he answered finally. "Sorry about that."
A short silence ensued, in which Jim imagined Christie was making some facial expression, or maybe shrugging. She was so physically expressive, it was almost ironic that she was now married to a blind guy. He smiled to himself, then looked over in her direction when she started speaking. "Anything wrong? You seemed to be having fun at dance class."
Jim moved toward the kitchen area, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it over one of the chairs at the island counter. He rested his duffel bag on the seat of the chair and listened to Christie pull from the refrigerator the bottle of pinot grigio she'd put there to chill before they left for class.
"No, I'm fine," he replied. Though he didn't voice the thought, Jim admitted to himself that he had really enjoyed their final dance class. Smiling, he remembered the smooth way he'd managed to twirl and dip her. A great recovery from the previous session's humbling spill in front of everyone. "Could you grab me a beer while you're in there?" he asked.
"Could you hang up your jacket and take your bag to the bedroom?" she asked, playfully echoing the tone of his question to her.
Jim sighed and dipped his head as if in defeat. "Okay, okay." He gathered his things and did as she asked, heading to the bedroom. As he dropped the bag on the bed and unzipped it, his stomach clenched as he remembered what he wouldn't find inside. He would never again remove his holster from his waistband, or carefully place the revolver in a desk drawer until the next morning. The department would revoke his carry permit, probably the very next day, and it would suddenly be illegal for him to leave his house with it safely tucked under his suit jacket—something that was as natural to him as breathing. He could at least keep it as a self-defense measure at home—if Christie didn't insist that he get rid of it. She'd never been comfortable with a handgun in the house, but she'd tolerated it because it was a necessary part of his job. But what he'd do with it now was a whole other argument, one that he wasn't ready to have at the moment. And it really didn't matter. It was useless now as far as Jim was concerned. Just a hunk of metal that mocked him and his new reality.
Suddenly overwhelmed with grief, he sank down next to his bag, on the edge of the bed. Utterly naked—that was how Jim felt, even fully clothed. He'd felt the same way during the year of his rehabilitation, but now it was worse, because then he was always looking toward the light at the end of the tunnel, when he'd be able to put that holster back where it belonged. Would he ever feel that he was a complete person—that he was himself—without the reassurance of that soft leather and cold steel juxtaposed on his hip? Surely lots of sighted men went without carrying a weapon. But not cops. Jim couldn't help but feel that he'd been emasculated by giving up the gun. Emasculated by the blindness, really. No matter what Christie said about acceptance, or what Dr. Galloway said about the new person he'd become being an improvement over the old.
"Sweetie?"
Christie's hesitant inquiry startled Jim back to reality, and he realized with a pang of embarrassment that a single tear had escaped his eyelids and was making its way slowly down his cheek. He brushed it roughly away and looked up in her direction as he heard another light switch flick, and then her footsteps as she came over to sit down next to him on the bed. He didn't speak right away, his throat clogged with emotion, and as if she knew what he was thinking, she lay her head on his shoulder and wrapped a loving arm around him, squeezing gently.
They sat like that for several silent moments, Jim mourning the man he used to be, and Christie reassuring the man he now was. Finally, Jim cleared his throat and turned his head, placing a kiss deep in her sweet-smelling mane of hair. "I'm not gonna be carrying my gun anymore," he said softly, his gravelly voice still thick with unshed tears. "There's nothing left for me to give up."
"Oh, Jimmy…" Christie murmured, rubbing his back. She raised her head and kissed his cheek, her heart aching at his sorrowful expression. "Do you think it's the right thing to do?"
Jim cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to get a grip on his emotions. "Today we interviewed this boxer, and…he's on medical suspension for a head injury, but he's still getting in the ring because he's too proud to admit he can't fight anymore."
Christie didn't respond, so Jim took a breath, then continued, "I realized today, talking to him, that it was just my pride holding onto the gun. And…"
Jim trailed off, unable to continue for fear of losing control completely and breaking down in Christie's arms. A moment later, she prompted, "And?"
He took a deep breath. "Marty told me today that the whole squad would be better off if I stopped carrying. And I…I think he's right. I might still think I'm qualified to carry it but…it'll be easier for the squad—and the lieutenant—if I give it up. So that's it."
Christie brushed a hand against his cheek, then ran her fingers through his spiky hair. "I know this must be hard. But I'm so proud of you. Of who you've become—who you are."
"I don't know who that is. Am I even a cop anymore?" he asked, his words colored with anger and frustration.
"Of course you are, Jimmy," she said soothingly. "Did the lieutenant tell you he was going to change your assignments?"
Jim shook his head. "No," he admitted. "But what about Karen? She deserves to be partnered with someone who has her back."
"If the department will let you partner up, they must trust you to be able to handle yourself in a situation, right?" Christie pointed out.
Jim shrugged. "It's just…it's harder than I thought it would be."
"Hey," Christie said, still combing his hair with her fingers. "Listen to me. You are different. But you're not less. Less of a man, or a detective…or a husband," she finished in a whisper, kissing his cheek.
Fresh tears sprang to Jim's eyes, and Christie saw herself reflected in their shimmer as he turned toward her. Then their eyes were closed, and they were lost in an urgent kiss, their hands moving over each other, caressing, needing. The beer bottle and glass of wine completely forgotten in the kitchen, they lay back together on the bed, caught in a sudden wave of passion.
As his lips hungrily moved over her smooth skin and his senses became intoxicated with her scent, Jim was overcome with love for his wife, who had saved his life the year before and continued to amaze him with her generosity, loyalty, and determination to make their marriage work against all odds. Because he couldn't express to her with words the depth of his feelings, he poured that emotion into every touch, every caress, every kiss in the hopes that she would understand how he truly felt about her. He felt his pulse quicken as his hands roamed over her soft—what was that, cashmere?—sweater and found the edge to pull up over her head.
Christie responded with an equally fiery fervor, struggling to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt, her hands sliding over his taut chest and belly, dipping lower to unfasten his pants and push them down and away from his body. Jim groaned as her fingers danced across him, igniting his desire even more strongly. Once they managed to shed most of their clothing, Jim grasped her gently under the arms and shifted them both so that Christie was trapped beneath him and he was moving over her, pressing their bodies together in a sensuous rhythm, his breath hot against her cheek. In another moment, he was inside her, and they were lost in each other.
Later, they lay together, spent but happy. Christie rested her head on the inside of Jim's shoulder, and he dropped light kisses on her wherever his lips landed. "Feel better?" she asked eventually, breaking the easy silence between them.
"Wish I had that beer," Jim responded, deadpan, but when he heard the indignation in Christie's sharp exhale, he chuckled. "Yeah," he said, replying truthfully to her question.
"Gonna be weird tomorrow, though."
"I bet it'll be easier than you think," Christie told him. "I could tell you'd been having doubts about the gun for a while…right?"
Jim shrugged. "I guess."
"Well, I hope I proved to you that I don't think any less of you now. In fact, quite the contrary. A man who lets go of his pride once in a while is very sexy, you know."
Jim harrumphed. "Yeah," he repeated, but this time the word was edged with scorn.
When he didn't elaborate, Christie propped her head up on her elbow and looked at him. "Yeah," she echoed, stressing the word. "I think you're very sexy, with or without a gun."
Jim sighed, but the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "Oh, I've got a gun, and it's loaded, trust me," he said, and they both laughed.
"Yeah, I think you made that pretty clear," Christie said, still smiling. "I'm going to go get my wine. Want me to bring you that beer?"
"Nah, I'll come with you," he replied, sitting up. "I'm a little hungry, too."
As she started to move off the bed, he reached for her, pulling her close to him again. "Hey, I just wanna say…thanks. You know, for supporting me through this and not letting me get too far into self-pity mode."
Christie shrugged, then placed her hand gently against his cheek. "I think you're pretty amazing. I think that most of the time, but tonight, most of all."
Jim smiled, dipping his head to kiss her slowly, deeply. "I'm a lucky man."
They broke apart, and Christie got up and went to the closet. As she slipped into a satin robe, Jim called to her. She stepped out of the closet and saw him still sitting on the edge of the bed, mostly naked and looking wonderful. "Yes?"
"I love you," he said simply, looking in her direction. "You know that."
Christie smiled. "I love you, too, Jimmy." And with those few words, she knew he was going to be okay. And he knew it, too.