Chapter Four

Jim woke up at five-thirty Saturday morning. Christie was asleep next to him, but there seemed to be an invisible line down the center of the bed. She was safely sleeping on her half and Jim didn't dare cross the line. He got up and dressed without making coffee. He'd spend the morning at the gym, hiding from a confrontation with his wife. He wasn't sure what project she was working on for the magazine, but he figured that as soon as it was over, he'd have to contend with her missed birthday. He wasn't ready yet, couldn't defend himself. Especially not when he could still taste Simone on his lips, feel her lipstick on his cheek, smell her on his shirt mixed with bar smoke. He was sure Christie would see it all, especially the finger strokes in his hair.

After wearing himself out physically his mind was still whirring out of control. Jim headed for the 8. He could review the files they'd made on the case, see if they'd overlooked something.

The floor was quiet except for the dinging of the elevator closing behind him. Jim let Hank go with a smile. He seldom got time alone to think anymore. Used to be, at the 77, he'd spend a lot of Saturday afternoons lazing around at his desk, sometimes working on a case, sometimes just enjoying the quiet. He'd been able to just stare into space and think without anyone bothering him, without any pressing issues cropping up. He even enjoyed the weekend homicide investigations; they always seemed so laid back.

"Didn't anyone tell you it's Saturday?" Marty asked from his desk.

Jim froze in the mouth of the hallway and tried to smile. Marty was the last person he'd expected to be spending a Saturday with, but he headed for his desk as planned.

"What is that, Armani?" Marty asked.

Jim paused in shrugging out of his overcoat and raised a hand to his chest, unable to remember what he was wearing. He grinned as he sank into his chair. "It's a t-shirt, Marty. Latest style." He slid his laptop out of his bag as Hank flopped into his usual spot on the floor. "You forget something here?" he asked, wondering how long he would be graced with company.

"Nah. You?"

"Nope." Jim settled into work, playing back file after file, listening to the stilted speech of the computer. He was surprised to find Marty quietly working at his own desk, that they worked together quite comfortably. Jim leaned back in his chair as far as his earpiece would allow, committing every fact and fiction to memory.

"Hey, Dunbar."

Jim paused the tinny voice and looked over at Marty.

"Lunchtime. You coming?"

Jim frowned, thinking he'd misheard somehow.

"No ulterior motive. Honest."

"Sure. I mean, I didn't think you had one, just—sure, I'll come." Jim shut the top of his laptop and pulled out his earpiece. Hours had passed and he felt good, like he'd accomplished something.

They ended up at a deli a few blocks away, quiet but companionable. Usually around the people in the squad Jim found himself too busy being defensive and skeptical to be hungry, but this time he was starving.

"So that girl yesterday…" Marty said while they waited in line.

Jim groaned. He should have known. "There was nothing between us."

"You were married, though, right?"

"Yeah. I was married. Can we talk about something else?"

"Yeah, didn't realize you were so touchy."

"I'm always touchy about something I did wrong. Especially when it keeps coming back to haunt me."

"Your wife know?"

"Marty…"

"Sorry." Marty moved up to the counter and ordered, then Jim followed suit. "I'll get the tray," Marty offered.

"Thanks."

They picked a table dead center. Well, Marty picked the table and Jim sat. He could feel people moving all around him, hear them every which way to the point of distraction. Used to be he liked to sit at the back at restaurants, a wall behind his back, always keeping an eye on the situation, not being at the center of everything. He felt the same way now.

Jim grabbed the plate Marty slid across the table. He loved sandwiches. He always had, but ever since he'd lost his sight, he found their appeal a hundred times greater. He didn't have to worry about eating, nor about embarrassing himself or anyone with him. Christie'd never been a big fan of finger foods—he'd only gotten her to eat ribs once, juicy and hot and doused in BBQ sauce, and she'd eaten them with a fork and knife. That, he'd found embarrassing. He was just glad they hadn't been out with his friends, he hadn't had to explain Christie's meticulous eating habits, hadn't needed to apologize to anyone when she came away from the dinner not even needing a wet nap.

"So… Why'd you become a cop?" Jim asked halfway through his sandwich when he'd satiated his immediate hunger.

Marty swallowed and took a drink of his coffee before answering. Jim munched on a pickle while he waited.

"It was back in high school, middle of a football game. I was flat on my back 'cause the other guy was off-sides. He was so mad at the call, he jumped up and went after one of my teammates. I mean, the guy was taunting him, so he was provoked, but still. Before I even thought about it, I was on my feet and I jumped the guy—twice my size. He plays professional football now, I just found out last week. But I wasn't going to let him hurt anyone else.

"And while I was lying there, I realized there was more to life than high school football and maybe I'd just saved Josh's butt—I mean, the week before this kid from another school had been killed, neck just snapped after almost the same thing. He hadn't been expecting the hit, and pow.

"I guess I thought it was a good idea, fighting to save peoples' lives, trying to keep the world safe."

"You like it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. You must like it, I don't even have to ask."

Jim smiled. "I do. Worthwhile, right?"

"Doesn't hurt to get to beat people up once in a while, right?"

"Careful, Marty, sounds like police brutality."

Marty laughed. "So why'd you? Become a cop, I mean?"

"I'd just gotten my discharge from the military. I guess I liked the idea of continuing the fight for justice on a smaller scale, one person at a time. Being a cop wasn't that different from what I was used to."

"Just 'cause you're used to it… That doesn't mean there's not another job out there for you somewhere," Marty said awkwardly.

Jim shook his head.

"Can't blame a guy for asking. I mean, I know you're good at your job, don't get me wrong. I just wanted to..."

"Make sure I'd explored all my options? Don't worry, I think I was pretty thorough. I had almost a year to think about it."

Marty was quiet across the table and Jim didn't expound. Jim wasn't ready to look back over the time since he'd been shot and Marty probably wasn't ready to hear it yet, either.

Jim polished off his sandwich and the coffee, trying to think only of the future, of the case. But the food was a far cry from what he'd had to eat in the Gulf. And being a homicide detective wasn't nearly as gory as clean-up duty had been. It was more satisfying mentally, being able to find the answer, instead of just knowing how all those people had died during the war. Being a detective was downright cushy compared. But he couldn't decide whether or not he'd go back, if it meant being able to see again. Maybe it was a toss-up.

"More coffee?" Marty asked.

"Sure." Jim grabbed his cup and handed it across the table. He tried to follow Marty's movements back to the counter where the coffee was sitting, but he lost him when someone walked between them, loud bangle bracelets and chunky boots, a windbreaker that scratched when the fabric rubbed together.

Jim turned on his observant side, picking out individual people sitting around him and trying to describe them to himself from their movements. The place was loud with people talking and laughing and cell phones playing various tunes competing for spotlight over a piped-in radio station. But nothing could hide the person sitting directly behind him whose dentures clacked dangerously with every bit. Or the way two kids were playing Chinese Fire Drill at the back of the deli, switching chairs, running around the table on command every few seconds.

"Here."

Jim whipped his head around. He hadn't been listening for Marty to come back and he hadn't heard Marty set the mug down on the table. Just quiet as he stood there holding the cup and waiting for Jim to take it. It felt like he was back that first day on the squad, waiting for Marty to try to take his gun. Only now the tables were turned, like Marty was challenging him to try to take the mug.

Jim felt his jaw tighten. He reached up a hand, Marty hadn't made another move, wasn't even breathing loud enough to give Jim a clue as to the whereabouts of the coffee mug.

The mug slid into his outstretched hand after a moment. Jim quickly set it on the table, facing Marty's chair, waiting. He listened as Marty sat down, and he waited. He finally picked up the coffee and took a sip, still waiting.

Hank yawned and batted at something under the table. Jim hoped briefly that it would be a rat, that someone would jump up screaming and in the chaos, between calls to the city health inspectors, the awkwardness of the moment would be forgotten.

Jim started to wonder what time it was. He could be at home with Christie, pretending everything was okay between them. They could be cooking dinner together like they used to do and she could feed him half-cooked pasta and vegetables to see if they were seasoned right, how much longer they needed to cook. He could be popping open a bottle of champagne—or red wine, Christie was going through a phase where she preferred red wine. They could go back to the couch while dinner simmered and profess how much they loved each other—they'd always been masters of the sweet nothing, though they could barely scrape the surface of the deep conversation.

Anne had been good at that. She would argue with him and try to make him a better man, where Christie just tried to take him better places to be with better people and left the better man part up to him. It had been Anne's obsession with talking over deep life prospects and morals that had convinced him to come clean with both the women in his life. If it hadn't been for that, he probably would have eventually just broken it off with Anne and hoped Christie never found out so things wouldn't change between them. Not that things had been going so great between them when he had confessed, but that was what he was most ashamed of in his life. Seeking forgiveness, he'd had to watch Christie's heart break, watch the betrayal pierce her eyes, watch the tears and hatred.

She'd never been able to forgive him. He didn't blame her.

"So at a crime scene, without Karen, you're helpless, right?" Marty asked.

Jim's teeth were clenched and he found he couldn't lift his gaze from the table where it had fallen when he thought of how much Christie must truly hate him, and how he wasn't making it any easier for her to forgive him.

"I prefer to think of it as a team effort, Marty," Jim said and finally wrenched his gaze upward. He wasn't going to let Marty think he was ashamed of being blind. Shame had nothing to do with it.

"But without Karen…?"

"I'd make do. I admit, it helps to have her there describing some things. But I hope I manage to give something back to her, too."

"Does she feel the same way?"

Jim shrugged and lifted his chin defiantly. "Solving a crime is always a team effort. One cop doesn't document everything, comb the place for clues, interview everyone, and make an arrest."

"So if you stumbled onto a crime scene first—"

Jim stood up so quickly Marty bit off the rest of his sentence. Stumbled, is that what Marty thought he did all day? Normally he wasn't so touchy about a choice of words, but it was Marty and chances were he'd chosen deliberately. It didn't help that Marty'd been asking about Simone, got him thinking about Anne.

"Didn't mean to insinuate anything."

"I thought we'd taken care of all this."

Silence, maybe a shrug.

"Anything else?" Jim picked up Hank's harness.

"I'm not trying to offend you. I just want to make sure you can do your job and no one's going to get hurt, okay?"

"You've seen firsthand for months, Marty. What more do you want?"

"Just making sure you're not slacking," Marty justified.

Slacking. Jim wondered briefly, if he'd given Terry hell, if he'd have managed to keep him on the job. Maybe they all needed someone to ride them, someone to prove themselves to. Like Marty'd said, they all need an enemy. Jim nodded. "You'd be the first to notice if I was."

Marty stood up with the tray. "I really wasn't trying to offend you…"

"Then stop questioning my ability to do my job!" Jim said, but quietly, deadly quiet. He wasn't going to make a scene.

Marty headed for the door, dropping off the tray. Jim followed. Once they were back on the sidewalk he felt Marty's hand on his arm and stopped. Marty pulled away and jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. "It was just…"

"The coffee," Jim supplied.

"Yeah. I thought I'd just stand there until you noticed—"

"I wasn't paying attention. Don't tell me you've never not seen someone walk up. And if you ever bring me something again, just set it down. I'll find it a lot easier than if you're waving it in the air." Jim nudged Hank toward the precinct.

"I forget you're blind sometimes," Marty said quietly after a block. It sounded like he'd just noticed that himself.

Jim almost stopped as surely as if he'd run into a solid object. He willed his feet to keep walking as he mulled that over, though it felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. Was that even possible, for someone to forget he was blind, when they worked with him every day, sat right across from him and stared him in the eye, obsessed the way Marty had at first?

How, he wanted to ask, but couldn't get the word out.

He wondered if Christie ever forgot. They usually spent so much time together. She'd been with him since the beginning.

Christie wouldn't forget, Jim decided. She wouldn't let herself. His blindness was probably the only reason she was still with him.

One of these days, he'd get up the courage to ask her about it. Right after he got up the courage to apologize.

Jim reached the door of the precinct first. It wasn't until he'd pulled the door open that he realized Marty wasn't right next to him anymore. His footsteps were still twenty feet away and Jim stood outside holding the door, waiting.

"Trying to escape?" Marty asked, walking past Jim through the door. "We were headed to the same place."

He hadn't realized he'd picked up his pace. He used to walk really fast when he was thinking. Used to be he thought best when he was out running.

"Truce, okay? Sorry I brought it up."

"Yeah." Jim nodded and pushed the elevator button. "You really forget I'm blind?"

"Sometimes. It's not that hard to do—don't give me that look."

Jim smiled.

"You ever forget?" Marty asked.

Jim thought it over. "Sometimes," he answered. He hadn't even realized it, but he did. He found he was long past the point where every waking moment was spent thinking about how he used to be able to see.

He sat at his desk and powered his computer back up while Marty shrugged out of his jacket. Jim opened the top of his watch, wondering how long he had before he should make an obligatory appearance at home.

"What time is it?" Marty asked.

"Almost three."

"Game starts at three. Nebraska/Oklahoma. I was gonna catch it at home, unless you don't mind me turning on the radio."

Jim shook his head. "Should be a helluva game." He listened as Marty reached for the radio and flipped it on. He leaned back in his chair, trying to review the case. "Before lunch I faxed the hospitals. Assuming, of course, that Samantha gave birth at a hospital. I asked them to pull the birth records for the day her son was born. Tamika gladly supplied that over the phone, along with a whole slew of unrelated data. She loves talking about that baby."

"So if she went to the hospital, maybe we can find out a last name?"

"And next of kin."

"Is that who you were on the phone with for an hour this morning?"

Jim grinned. "An hour and a half."

"Persistent, aren't you?"

Jim laughed.

"Before, were you always so…"

"Intense?" Jim supplied.

"Obsessive," Marty corrected.

"Yeah, I was." He couldn't wipe the grin off his face. Not only did it seem like things were back to normal between him and Marty, the tension long-gone, but Jim could tell he really hadn't changed all that much. He'd been so worried he'd lose himself. Now he knew there was no danger of that.

"I was starting to get worried." Christie's voice was quiet.

Jim dropped his keys on the table by the door, then reached in his coat pocket and held up his cell phone. "If anything would have happened, I'm prepared." He laid the phone next to the keys and knelt to take off Hank's harness.

"You were gone when I got up."

Jim nodded. "I went to the gym, then the squad."

"Case giving you grief?"

She was still being so quiet Jim found it worrying. She was worried about him, she wasn't giving him the third degree about where he'd been all day. "Yeah. Lack of evidence."

"That's always bugged you."

"There's evidence somewhere, we just can't find it, that's what bugs me."

"Especially now? Since you can't go look for it yourself?"

Jim pressed his lips together and headed for the kitchen. He'd been right—Christie would never forget he was blind.

Then again, none of the people at the squad had known him before. Christie couldn't help but look at him and realize he'd changed, that he wasn't the same man. Compare him.

Not all the changes had been for the worst. He wanted to sit her down and tell her all the good things he was noticing about this new man he'd become.

"I thought we could spend the evening together?" Christie asked when Jim didn't answer. "We haven't spent a lot of time together lately."

"Yeah, that'd be great." It would be awkward, be honest with yourself, Dunbar, he thought.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy lately. We haven't gotten to spend much time together."

We've been avoiding each other, he thought. There's a reason for that. "I've missed you," he found himself saying.

She followed him to the refrigerator and kissed him. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Are you hungry?" She pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and handed it to him.

"Not yet."

She tugged his hand. "Let's sit on the couch and catch up. I really wanted to spend a quiet evening alone, just the two of us."

Jim followed her to the couch, staring at what would have been the back of her head, wondering, do I love you anymore?

Jim wasn't satisfied. He'd spent the whole evening with Christie. It had been pleasant. What an awful word for an evening with his wife.

Then again, it wasn't unpleasant, not like some nights he'd seen pass between his own parents.

And how about his grandparents? Those were two people who could cohabitate. There'd been no passion, no fireworks, more like a business partnership. Things got done that needed doing—and it was pleasant. When he was younger, spending time with them, that's what he'd hoped for in a relationship.

Until he'd met Christie. That had shown him how much more there was to love than just existing side by side. Gorgeous, smart, he couldn't spend enough time with her.

Then the fighting.

His mom had always said she'd loved his dad, that's why she never left. Maybe it was the same with him and Christie—earth shattering love and hate, both waiting to destroy them with their power.

Pleasant had started to look better, and now he'd had it. A quiet night with this wife, talking about work. Christie told him about having lunch with an old friend. Jim avoided talking about spending the day with Russo because he didn't want to know what she thought about people forgetting he couldn't see. She probably would have said, 'oh, Jimmy, I wish they could,' then played her fingers through his hair to try to comfort him for spoiling his delusions.

By early Sunday evening Jim had had enough of hanging around the apartment. Christie had her computer out and was working on some article or other. Not sure if he was just a glutton for punishment, he headed to Morrissey's. A couple hours drinking beer and thinking never hurt anyone.

Someone leaned up against the bar next to Jim. "Another round, Gray, and make it snappy this time, huh?"

Jim looked over. "Cal?"

"Yeah." There was a pause. "Jim? Sht! Jimmy! I didn't recognize you there."

"How's it going?" Jim asked awkwardly. If Cal was there, that probably meant the other guys were, too. Maybe no one had noticed him—though he thought the guide dog sort of attracted attention.

"Good, good. You?"

"Yeah, good."

"The guys are here, come on over, I'll buy you a beer."

Jim took a swig of the beer he had. "Who's all there?"

"Just Steve and Foster. Bobby might come up later, but you know how it is."

Jim nodded, though he'd never known what was up with Bobby, just that he often couldn't make it. "Yeah, I'll join you, that'd be great." He finished the beer and stood up while Gray plunked a few bottles on the counter. He picked up Hank's harness, hoping there would be enough room for Hank wherever the guys were sitting.

"I'll get the beers—" Call stopped and cleared his throat. "Uh, you get the dog…"

Jim tried to smile. "I got the dog." Jim realized he wasn't wearing his sunglasses and felt the need to pull them out. But he didn't; they were just old friends.

"Jimmy, you—"

Jim raised his eyebrows.

"Uh…"

He sighed. "Yeah, I can't see. Problem?"

"Just checking. How are you gonna, you know? Can you make it to our table okay?"

"Hank will follow you. It's not that crowded. Just let me know where a chair is once we get there."

"Right."

Jim couldn't read silence. Silence could mean so many different things that he couldn't usually speculate the origins. Were people uncomfortable? Were they so comfortable they didn't feel the need to make small talk? Was there a problem? Were they preoccupied?

If the silence happened after he'd been there a while, he usually knew what it was for. But walking into a silence was like walking into an ambush.

Foster, Steve, and Cal. They were bar friends, people Jim hung out with at the bar, but didn't make plans with outside just a beer or two after work. Foster sold insurance, Steve was a mechanic, Cal an accountant. They lived separate lives, had disparate desires, the only thing they'd ever had in common was enjoying each other's company as drinking buddies.

Fos came from an upper-class family—his ambition had always been to be the prodigal son, but he'd found that once he fell low enough, he had no desire to return home to a huge parade, so he made his own way in life. Cal and Steve were both middle-class, hardworking guys, didn't talk about their parents other than to rib Fos about how easy he'd had it and they didn't. All three had been married and divorced, Cal was the only one who had remarried, Jim was the only one still on his first wife and they used to give him heck about chucking her and joining them because divorce was the happiest time in a man's life, right up there with getting his driver's license the first time.

Steve was the quiet one, Fos the one with the most irreverent sense of humor, Cal the laid-back one. Jim had been the loud and outgoing one, the one with the most adventuresome stories, the one who could entice girls over so the other guys could practice flirting.

"Here's a chair," Cal said, pulling it out so it scraped on the floor. "I'll go get another."

Jim suddenly felt like he was putting them out, forcing himself on them. No one had said anything besides Cal, and even he sounded tense. "Hey, guys," Jim said and slid into the chair Cal had vacated.

It took a moment.

"Hey, Jim," Fos said.

"Jim…" Steve said slowly, like he wasn't sure what Jim was doing there.

"How's it going?" Keep them talking, that had become Jim's motto. The best way to deal with perps, maybe even the best way to deal with old friends.

"Eh," a noncommittal reply from Foster.

"You know," Steve said.

It's been over a year, Jim wanted to say. Of course he didn't know.

But it had been over a year—maybe he had no place here anymore.

"We were talking about the World Series. Astros or White Sox, what's your bet, Jim?"

"Astros, I guess. I've been a little too busy to pay much attention this season."

Cal grunted. "Right. Gotta be hard to get used to, I guess."

"Not that. Work. We've been kinda busy."

Silence.

"Right," Cal finally said. "You went back. You were famous there for a while. People kept asking us how you were doing."

Jim just nodded. He didn't want to talk about the bank, or after the bank.

Steve coughed.

"Leave it," Cal said in a low voice.

Jim cocked his head toward Steve, waiting. When Steve did have something to say, he usually didn't hold back.

"Well if he thinks I'm going to jump on the Jim-bandwagon and praise him, he's wrong," Steve told Cal.

Jim's head snapped back, trying to follow. It was obviously something they'd talked about a lot over the past year.

"Is that why you went back to work, Jim? You wanna be a hero again? You pretty proud of yourself?"

"Come on, this is Jim," Cal said, playing mediator.

"Yeah, and he always liked honesty. Right, Jim? You always thought you were pretty tough shit. You were always pretty full of yourself, all those criminals you got to beat up and put away."

"Steve," Fos said.

"You killed a man, Jim, you proud of that? Looking for another medal of honor? 'Cause you aren't gonna get one from me."

Jim realized his mouth was hanging open and he shut it.

"I just wanted to make sure you didn't think it was 'cause you're blind," Steve said. "I've seen you in here a couple times, but it wasn't 'cause you're blind I didn't say hi."

"Why didn't you tell us you saw—" Cal started.

"'Cause."

Jim nodded slowly. "I get it." He stood, tried to smile. "Thanks for the beer."

"Jim." Cal grabbed his arm.

He heard Fos stand up, but Steve just sat there. "I'm not proud of it. But I did kill a man."

"Come on, Steve, he's always said no comment, won't interview about it, right, Jim?" Cal's grip tightened.

"If I hadn't done it, I wouldn't be here right now. Maybe there was a way around it, but…"

"So you got what you deserve, right?" Foster asked. "You can't shoot anyone anymore, right?"

Jim furrowed his brow.

"I'm joking, but… right?"

Jim pulled back his coat. "No gun." He gestured at his eyes. "Can't see." He tried to smile. "As for whether or not I deserved this… maybe I did, but the world doesn't work that way." The good didn't get rewarded, the bad didn't get smote. For a while, when it first happened, he'd played around with that idea, that he'd been punished, but he couldn't make it stick. He'd seen enough bad guys get off free and clear.

"Sit," Cal ordered, tugging on Jim's arm.

"Sit," Fos echoed.

Jim turned toward Steve. There was a pause.

"He can't see you shrug," Cal said.

"Sit," Steve said finally.

"Hey, you okay?" Gray asked.

"Yeah." Jim frowned. "No problems here."

"I've just never seen you here 'til close."

Jim had stayed behind when the other three guys had taken off two hours before. He hadn't even gotten up to get another beer, just sat there, staring into space and thinking.

It was all just so wrong. He'd earned his place with these guys years ago. And now he could barely talk to them?

"Some things change, Gray." He listened as the bartender overturned the chairs and set them on the tables as he cleaned them. It had been a familiar ritual when he'd been in the military, staying until the chair he was sitting on needed to be turned. With the advent of Christie his party days had pretty much been passé. Maybe he should have been grateful—it would have been a greater shock to lose that with his sight.

"Everything changes," Gray countered.

Jim laughed. "You sound like my shrink."

"That's what a bartender is, right?"

Jim stood up, still grinning. "Absolutely. Have a good night."

Hank shook himself when Jim tried to take his harness. He could feel ground-up peanut shells stuck to the fur on his belly and a coat of ashes had settled on his fur. He shook again. Hank knew what this meant—bath time. He sighed. He'd need fewer baths if he could keep Jim out of places like these. Christie was going to be upset—he was sure he smelled like dog and stale smoke.

Jim quickly ran his hands through Hank's thick fur, dislodging a few peanut shells and a wad of gum. "Sorry about that, Hank." He flicked off another peanut shell from Hank's tail.

"Looks like I need to sweep under the tables a little better," Gray said.

Hank sneezed on Gray for good measure. Dutiful guide dog, yes, but he had his opinions.

"Night, Jim."

"Night, Gray."

"Night, Hank, and sorry about the peanuts."

Jim ordered Hank to take him to the door and followed the dog as they wove between tables.

The cold in the air was enough to snap Jim out of his reverie. If he'd been drunk, it would have been enough to make him realize he needed a cab. New York nights could be very sobering.

"Hey."

Jim stopped Hank and turned, expecting a bum asking for money or cigarettes.

"Uh… Jim…"

It was all Jim could do to keep his face impassive as he waited for Steve to say something of consequence.

"Look, I wanted to apologize. It wasn't your fault you had to shoot that guy. Someone had to do it, right? And like Fos said, you paid the price."

"I don't believe in divine retribution." Jim turned Hank back and signaled him to go.

"I know, I'm sorry."

"It's late," Jim said as he started walking.

Steve fell into step with them. "You didn't deserve what happened to you, and you didn't deserve me being such a jerk. It's just—"

Hank stopped at the end of the block and Jim felt for the curb with his foot, listened a moment for traffic, then stepped into the street.

"It's just…" Steve trailed off. "Seeing you in there the past couple days just pissed me off, you know. All I could think was if I said anything, you'd be off to the races. You'd be gloating and making it sound like some glamorous thrill ride."

"But you're apologizing because I didn't."

"Yeah. I was wrong about you. You've changed, I know that."

Jim pulled Hank up short and turned toward Steve. "No, you have no idea." He nudged Hank to go again. "And I know I was a different guy back then, and I wasn't the best guy, but if that's what you thought about me—" He cut himself off with a shake of the head.

"I didn't like you, Jimmy," Steve said from behind him, not having joined him again.

Jim stopped Hank, but didn't turn.

It's late, Hank thought bitterly and yawned. If you stop me one more time, I'll walk you in front of a bus.

So what'd changed? Was he supposed to just let Steve like hanging out with the new Jim? He really hadn't changed that much, same old guy. Was it just pity? Thinking he'd got what he deserved and now everything was okay? Jim thought it over, then laughed. He turned with a grin. "I didn't like the old me much, either."

A gust of wind showered him with dried leaves. Jim pulled his coat tighter as Steve caught up to them.

"So we'll try again? Next time you stop by?"

"Yeah."

"It's late."

Exactly, Hank thought.

"Night," Jim said with a nod. He let Hank lead him down the street.

"See you," Steve said, then walked away.

"Jimmy," Christie mumbled from the bed, "it's the middle of the night."

"Yeah, I was… out with the guys," he said quietly. It sounded strange and he could barely believe it had happened.

"How'd it go?"

"I don't know." Jim rubbed a hand over his face, exhausted.

Christie sat up.

Jim paused in unbuttoning his shirt. "It was strange, Christie." He shook his head and sat on the side of the bed with his back to her. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists, trying to explain. "It didn't go so well at first. It's hard being resented for who you were." He shuddered when the words escaped his mouth. He hadn't even been thinking of how Christie resented him.

"Were you really out with the guys?" She slid over and put a hand on his back.

"Smell me," he said and held an arm out to her. "And smell Hank." He turned to her with a smile. "The three of us could take a shower together tomorrow."

She pulled away, but he could tell she was smiling when she turned down his proposition. "Hank is all yours."

Hank gave an offended whine and changed position on his doggie bed.

"Goodnight," Jim said and leaned back for a goodnight kiss.

Jim stared at the ceiling for another hour after sliding into bed before he'd finally replayed the evening enough in his head to sleep.