Post by Dreamfire on Dec 17, 2006 3:30:57 GMT -5
Epilogue
He opened the back door to let the panting dog out and sent a smile to the front seat, “Thanks for the ride, Karen.”
Hank jumped from the back of the car and took up position next to Jim, who hesitated to pick up the harness. His left wrist was in a sling and the doctor had explained that any tug could turn the fracture into a break. Hank was a strong dog and responded to a strong hand; Jim just needed to get to the apartment; there was no need to push things. He settled the bunch of flowers into the crook of the sling, took Hank’s lead in his right hand, and squared off with the car.
Still he hesitated, as tired as he was, he dreaded going home and spending an evening arguing with Christie. Karen distracted him from his thoughts.
“Hey, Jim,” Karen’s door slammed and she got out of the car. She was quiet as she came around and leaned against the car next to him. Jim wondered what it was that she was having trouble spitting out. He waited for her to speak, suppressing a groan; she wasn't going to ask about Christie again was she?
“This case…with Dimmey?” She watched him nod, his face clearing from the earlier cloud she had seen there. “I know it pushed some things in your face that you didn’t like; having to play it up in the courtroom and all.”
He stilled; this was not an area he felt comfortable talking about either.
“But I want you to know, with Dimmey, when he attacked us and all, I don’t think anyone could have had my back better.”
He nodded; his eyes serious, his mouth pulled down at the edges as he controlled his urge to deny her words. “Thanks, Karen.”
She saw his resistance, pushed on, determined to make the point, “Look, what I mean is… I feel safe with you.”
He shook his head dismissively.
She tightened her jaw; put her hand on his right arm, avoiding the injured one, hoping he could feel her sincerity through her touch. “I’m serious. There is no one I would trust more than you to have my back.”
He blinked, nodded; accepting that she believed what she was saying. It didn’t mean he believed it though; there was still the doubt in his mind. Maybe he could have handled it better if he could see; she shouldn’t have had the bruises, the black eye. Somehow he felt that if he had been able to see, she wouldn’t have been hurt.
“I feel the same about you, Karen.”
“And with this whole case… you went the extra mile – or ten.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to lighten her tone. Standing so close to him, she could see unnamed sorrows in his eyes. Her emotions welled and she was glad he couldn’t see her tears. “Well, I guess I’m proud to be your partner.”
There, she’d said it. She blushed and he smiled. “I better shut up now; before I get soppy.”
“Too late,” he teased and she watched as the creases beside his eyes deepened with his smile.
She didn’t answer, biting her lip to keep the emotions back. She kept the contact on his arm, for her sake more than his.
“It took both of us.” Jim was very aware that he couldn’t have done half of it alone, or even with another partner. Karen anticipated and accommodated him in a way that made his work as close to seamless as it could get. He reached up awkwardly and patted the hand she had left on his arm, “Don’t underestimate your contribution, Karen, you’re a very good detective.”
“Thanks,” she managed to whisper, her eyes averted.
Feeling the strain on his ribs, Jim struggled to keep the discomfort from his face as he bent to shorten Hank’s lead. “I gotta go, Karen.”
“See you tomorrow.” Her hand slid off his arm and she stepped away.
Squared off with the car, Jim pulled Hank in close with the lead.
Hank knew the drill and he pressed up against Jim’s leg; he accommodated his boss’s quirks too.
“Hank, forward.”
~
Christie moved from the window, sighing. Jimmy had seemed reluctant to leave Karen, hesitating several times as he was about to come up to the apartment. Or was it Karen keeping him there, with her hand on his shoulder? Jim’s partner seemed emotional, even from this distance Christie could see that. Was this work, a case gone wrong, or something more? But Jimmy had only put his hand on Karen’s. Maybe Karen was having troubles, maybe it was nothing. Despite the past, Christie was pretty sure than being unable to see the women around him would put a dent in chasing skirt, and surely his partner was off limits; Jimmy loved his job too much to do that.
Christie, counseled herself to wait, to see if this developed any further, before jumping to conclusions. Her therapist, Barbara, would tell her to wait, watch, and keep in touch with the possibility that all was well, not to let her imagination drag her into lies. She tightened control, she would wait and see, not say anything yet. Christie drained her wineglass again and set it on the sill.
She heard Jim's key in the door and tiptoed quickly through to the bathroom.
Hank trotted through the doorway, behind him, Jim put the keys in the bowl, the harness on the chest, and retrieved the flowers from their niche in his arm. “Christie?”
Her perfume hung in the air as if she had just walked past; Christie was in the apartment. At least he wouldn’t have to put this off any longer, they could clear the air now and sleep peacefully tonight.
He walked through the apartment, calling for her. Eventually, he found her in the bathroom; she was at the sink, the water running, perhaps she hadn’t heard him calling. He stood in the doorway, holding out the expensive bouquet. “Christie, I brought these for you.”
She tried to brush past him, not speaking. He planted his feet and refused her any further passage, other than into his arms. “No, Christie, we have to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” She struggled against him, but he dropped the flowers into the sink and pulled her to his chest; immobilizing her easily. His right arm snaked around her back, pinning her like a butterfly on a board. His left hand stroked her hair gently behind her. Something stirred deep inside her; she looked up at him, his strength battering at her resolve to stay unemotional, to keep her distance. But he didn’t, couldn’t, meet her defiant gaze and the flutter in her belly was quelled, the fire sputtering before it could build.
She remembered the times their wills had met like this, in opposition, his strength of body, her strength of mind clashing and igniting their desires. But that wasn't going to happen now; he couldn’t see the change from anger to desire that was signaled in her eyes, she couldn’t accept the soft gaze in place of the icy glare that would have brought chills and excitement.
It used to be that she’d continue to throw fighting words while inviting him with her eyes, her smile, her body. And he would know she didn’t mean them, ignore them, and walk straight into her fire. But he couldn’t do that dance anymore; instead he listened to her words, her scorn, her silence. And she couldn’t change couldn’t open up that which he used to rip like tissue paper, couldn’t speak soft words of love and follow it with passion like perhaps he needed now.
“Is that why you haven’t answered my calls?” he asked in a tight voice. “My calls from the hospital?”
“I knew you were okay. After all, if you weren’t you couldn’t leave so many messages, could you?” she demanded, hoping to provoke him further. Disappointed again, she watched the indecision in his face, he relaxed his grip a little, she stopped struggling, he released her and she sighed, stepped back from him.
“You called from a hospital?” she asked, turning to look at the flowers melting in the heat of the steamy bathroom, nice, soft pinks, white, some green fern leaves, apology flowers.
“Yes, wondering why my wife wouldn’t take my call.” He was still hurt, hoping for a better explanation than indifference.
She looked at him again, took in the arm in a sling, the deep creases under his eyes. She felt anger rising again, anger that he constantly put himself in danger, uncaring that it caused her to worry. Her words were icicles, sharp and cold, accusing, “I thought you were in court this week?”
“I was.” He didn’t explain further.
“So, what’d you do? Trip over?” She sounded petty and nasty. She could hear it herself and it made her angry at him, he could always turn a situation around and make her look like the bad guy. She poked her finger into his wrist, hard, and, as he gasped and moved to protect it, she slipped past him and out the door. He wasn't as invulnerable as he thought.
“Christie, that hurt.” His voice held an almost menacing tone, mixed with disbelief.
“What?” she asked, her eyes feasting on his bewilderment. She shook her head, as she watched him accept her innocence. These days he always underestimated her; before the shooting, she would never have gotten away with something like that. She turned on her heel.
He followed her into the bedroom. “Christie, we’re adults, let’s sit down and talk this through.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“A plane?” Jim followed her toward the bed until something bumped his knee - he ran his hand over it - her suitcase.
“There’s a case there somewhere, can you lift it to the bed for me?” she spoke from the closet.
He hefted the case, took careful steps around other objects on the floor and settled it on the bed. “A plane?” he repeated.
“Yes, Jim, a plane, you know one of those things people get into when they’re going on holiday.”
His hands failed to find an empty spot amongst the clothes she had laid out on the bed, so he retreated to the window, leaned back, listened to the sounds of her packing. “You’re going on a holiday?”
“No, Jim, Clay’s sending me to LA for two weeks to make sure Naomi’s shoot goes well,” she huffed as if this should be completely clear to him.
“Did you tell me about the trip before?” He scanned his memory but came up empty.
“No, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
Jim was silent. This was obviously a big deal for her. How had he missed it? “Christie, I am sorry if I haven’t been supportive this last couple of weeks. It’s just this case, it really took everything-”
Christie jumped in, “Name one that hasn’t, Jimmy.” The sounds of packing ended, her finger poked into his chest and he flinched. His face heated. “Since you got shot, name one case that hasn’t taken everything?” Then she was gone, clinking in the bathroom, packing her beauty case.
He had no answer, but was it all his fault? “Is there anything I can do... to make up for it?”
“You can carry my case to the door,” she called over her shoulder.
He lifted the case from her side of the bed; it was heavy with clothes, many weeks worth of clothes. It was hot in LA at the moment. He chewed at his lip, running his fingers over her name embossed next to the lock, Mrs. C. J. Dunbar. He followed her footfall from the bathroom and carried the case to the apartment door, then out to the elevator where she waited.
As the doors closed in front of them, he set the bag on the floor and ran his hand down her arm, “This case is pretty heavy, Christie.” Jim skirted the subject for a moment, before plunging in; “You are planning on coming back aren’t you?”
The elevator opened, “My taxi’s here. Can you carry that out?”
Jim picked up the case, slipped his left hand from the sling, and reached for her arm. She had moved forward, out of the elevator already, and he followed her slowly, “Christie, wait up. I need…”
“Sorry, I forgot.” She let him catch up and take her arm.
They walked in silence, through the foyer, out the doors, and to the taxi at the curb. Thunder growled quietly, far away, and the air tasted faintly of the sea. The driver got out, took Christie’s case from Jim, and went to the back of the car.
Freed from its duty, Jim’s right hand slid down the roofline and found the handle to the back door. Christie stepped forward expecting him to open it for her and shepherd her in, but instead he sealed it and pulled her close to his body, giving her a goodbye kiss atop her head. She stiffened.
Nevertheless, he relinquished the door and her arm, encircled her waist and brought her in close to him in a familiar embrace. Cool waves of her hair escaped their complicated arrangement atop her head, poured down her back and pooled in his hands. Bent toward her, his head bumped hers lightly; she gritted her teeth. Soon his lips followed the smooth curve of her ear, “You didn’t answer my question. When are you planning on coming home?” His hot breath on her neck raised goose bumps on her flesh.
Trapped again, feeling the familiar tightening in her chest, the heat in her loins, she brought her hands up, palms to his chest, and felt his heart beating steadily. She looked up to his face, the moonlight shone in his hair, his eyes looked like pools of midnight and she cooled, the melting reversed and her will crystallized. As his kiss searched for hers, she turned her head away, moved so her lips sat over his heart and released shiny, sharp, cold words from her mouth. “Do you think I should?”
The question froze the thoughts in his head, and he could make no move to stop her when she broke the circle of his arms and left them empty. A moment later a car door slammed and the taxi drove off.
…
A car sped past, buffeting Jim at the curbside and he jerked in surprise, he needed to go inside.
Slowly, he made his way back to the building, to the apartment, and the couch.
The question hung in the air; a storm front, threatening to pelt down hailstones on the fragile landscape of their marriage. Outside, lightening flashed in the sky, but no thunder alerted him, no rain fell, the clouds grew heavier.
~
Rain tapped insistently on the window, Jim’s eyes opened and he stretched, reaching the nightstand and the clock. “Six twenty-two am.”
He padded through his morning routine, enjoying the quiet inside, the steady timpani beat of the rain outside the windows.
“We gotta get you a raincoat, Hank, I think Marty may actually have a point,” Hank wagged his tail in agreement.
Jim smiled at the tap tap tap on his leg, as he tested his wrist and decided to call a cab. He wouldn’t wear the sling in the squad but he’d limit his use of the harness. The faster he healed the faster he’d be 100% effective on the job. The cell phone beeped as he entered the elevator. It was Karen not Christie; that was okay, the silent treatment didn’t seem quiet so bad when his wife was in another state.
The rain had stopped and the sun shone hot on his back as Jim tipped the cabbie for dropping him exactly in front of the precinct doors and used his cane to negotiate the steps. In the elevator, he picked up the harness gingerly but dropped it as soon as they turned the corner into the squad, and he felt a twinge deep in his wrist.
“Hey, Tom, here comes the wresting dude, you want I should get his autograph for you?” Marty quipped.
“Morning, Jim.” Tom was probably glaring at Marty.
“Morning Tom, Marty.”
“Morning Jim, you in for some hand wresting this morning? I know I’m not as big as the guys you’re used to but…”
“No, thanks for the offer.” Jim managed a grin; it’d be almost funny, if he didn’t still hurt.
Marty tried again, “Hey, is Christie mad at you or something?”
Jim slowed, his grin melted off his face and a cold wave went through his stomach, he didn’t bring his home life to the squad, ever. What was Marty picking up on?
“I mean, that shirt has marks all over it …”
Jim’s hand involuntarily moved toward his chest, she hadn’t messed with his clothes before she left, had she?
“You look fine, Jim, he’s just clutching at straws.” Karen arrived behind him, “You think she’d ever let him out of the apartment looking less than a fashion model, Marty?”
“So, we got any cases or we all on holiday, like Russo here?” Jim changed the subject quickly, keen to get his mind on track and leave his troubles at home.
Lieutenant Fisk strode into the room; he had a sheaf of papers in his hand, indicating there had been enough crime occurring last night to keep them all busy. “I got one detective who wants to work, any other takers?”
Marty’s lips tightened, so that was how it was going to be today. Dunbar was having it too good lately; he’d have to find some extra ways to give the hero a hard time.
The End