They don't want to let her go.
In all honesty, he can't blame them.
Answer the phone, damn it, McCoy, if you have any sense left in you at all….
All he can hear in the back of his mind is Lennie Briscoe's voice, loud and angry, on the answering machine.
First once, and then again, and a third time.
Third time is always the charm, Jack thinks, and nearly laughs.
If looks could kill, Claire's mother would already be a murderer. But as it is, they can't, and Jack can't for the life of him make himself look her in the eye.
And it kills him, inside, because he knows that the one reason Mrs. Gellar is looking at him that way is because of this.
Three times, on the payphone in the bar, trying to get a hold of her, the burst of anger when she didn't answer.
To hell with her.
To hell with her.
And now they're here in this place, this sterile, colorless place that she would hate if she were awake, and she is in between life and death and there aren't any definite answers anymore.
Who would have thought that one needle in one arm could cause so much trouble?
He sits bent downwards, head between his knees, because he can't breathe, and it's all he can do just to survive in this place.
Hey. I love you, all right? Don't worry about it, I'll be fine.
Reassuring words in that way she had of somehow always knowing what to say and when to say it and how to put it, cool, collected confidence that matched his own, but it didn't look that way, because she'd never been the cocky sort.
And now she's in a coma, and they don't know if she's going to come out of it, and it feel as if he's this close to shattering into a million pieces.
Helpless. That's what it is, Jack realizes, suddenly, it's helplessness, and the hopeless, worthless feeling that comes along with it.
Come back to us, Claire, he thinks, desperately. Come back to me.
What he wants is to drown himself in a bottle. Maybe even a few bottles. The sound of his father's voice echoing suddenly in the back of his head hurts like hell and he doesn't want to hear it any more.
You can't protect her, you good-for-nothing little bastard.
Harsh voices are something he's used to, something he's even come to expect over the years, because those instances where someone isn't pissed off at him are few and far between.
He barely hears Mac Gellar talking to him, barely hears anything besides the sound of his father, the one person in the world he swore up and down he'd never be like, and then Claire's voice breaks through it.
Jack, if you ever hit me, I'd kick your ass and then I would leave.
This time, he laughs out loud.
Even so, they give him a few moments alone with her, to say goodbye.
There's no good in goodbye, Jack, don't you know that, or are you so used to pushing people away that you never have the chance to find out?
He stares at her and in the back of his mind can see their time together. The first time she told him off, and the time that he told her he loved her, and the first time she spent the night.
The first time he heard the rumors in the DA's office and couldn't look at her all the rest of the day for the fear of laughing.
I wouldn't hurt you, Claire. Never. If nothing else, at least believe that.
He can feel the tears sliding down his face before he actually hears it, that slow, shuddering breathing that always seems to come when he gets like this, and it almost scares him, because he isn't used to it.
Catch a falling star, and put it in your pocket…save it for a rainy day…
Outside it is raining. He knows this because he can hear it and he reaches for her hand, in one last attempt to feel close to her.
One of these days, Jack, you're going to tell me all of your secrets.
Claire's hand is still warm. He traces his thumb over the lines in her palm, stares at her face, watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, aided by the ventilator, committing all the details to memory.
When you get to where you're going, you'll know them all, he thinks, not bothering to wipe any of the tears away. You'll see everything, and hear everything, and maybe then, you'll know just how much I love you.
Footsteps catch his attention, but he doesn't turn around. Her mother's voice sounds, close to his ear, telling him that he doesn't need to be present for this, but he won't leave.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket…never let it fade away…
Yeah, keep laughing, Jack. Let's hear you take a shot at it.
He never did take the shot at it. But now he does, so quietly that he can barely hear himself, and he knows her parents can't hear him, and as he does, he squeezes her hand.
For love may come and tap you on the shoulder, some starless night…
In case you want to hold her, you'll have a pocket of starlight…
The tears come harder, then, and it's all he can do to let go of her hand when it's over, when the beep telling them all that she's gone comes, and when it's time for him to get up and go and try to make sense of what his life has suddenly become.
When he goes home, there is nothing but darkness. He left the coffee pot on, and she won't be there to turn it off in the morning.
No wonder the coffee in this place always tastes burned, Jack, for heaven's sake…
He sits. There is nothing else he can do. The desire to drink straight from the bottle until he passes out has gone away.
The answering machine light is blinking. He listened to all the messages earlier, when he first got home. He skips the ones from Lennie, because he heard them, but ignored them.
And finally, there is only one left. He hesitates, for a moment, before pressing play.
"Hey, Jack, it's me. You're still a jerk, but I still love you. I'll see you tomorrow, when things aren't so weird anymore."
The message ends.
Jack looks at the clock.
It is three in the morning on a summer's day in 1996. He doesn't know the date, and doesn't want to.
One new message, the machine said.
You're still a jerk, but I still love you.
To hell with her.