I don't own these characters, and am only writing these stories for my own enjoyment.

Author's Notes: The script for the Law & Order pilot episode ("Everybody's Favorite Bagman") states that Ben dates a pediatrician named Sarah Nicksey. This is my version of how they met, inspired by a prompt at Apocrypha. (This story should be published there instead of here, but oh well.) This was also mildly inspired by a Schoolhouse Rock episode, "The Tale of Mr. Morton." And then, of course, there's the fact that Michael Moriarty is an accomplished jazz pianist in real life. : )

The piano was his pride and joy.

It sat in an otherwise bare corner of the living room, framed by windows that offered a spectacular view of the Hudson River. Ben was often tempted to use the smooth wooden surface as a repository for the mountains of legal papers he inevitably brought home with him, but always resisted. He felt that doing so would be an insult to the instrument, which had traveled from England by ship over a century ago.

But he did place his glass of red wine on top of the piano as he played, always careful to use a coaster. The music – and the wine – was his relaxation, his much-deserved reward after a long day of legal battle. Sometimes he came home too exhausted to play, but always managed to get in several hours of practice each week. There were times when his music was the only thing that kept him from breaking under the pressure of ensuring that people paid for their crimes.

It was also a distraction from the loneliness of coming home to an empty apartment, his wife and daughter no longer there to greet him.

She stepped out of the shower, dripping water onto the floor. Toweling herself dry, she turned to view herself in the partially fogged full-length mirror. She frowned at the sight of her reflection.

Too damn heavy. That had to be why she was alone.

Her job also had something to do with it. She worked long hours at her office on the East Side, sometimes not getting home until well after nine. Although she loved her work, four years as a pediatrician had pretty much quashed her desire to have children; dealing with other people's progeny was exhausting enough.

She tossed the towel into the laundry hamper, deciding that she was too tired to blow-dry her hair. Stumbling naked into the bedroom, she stared at her bed; she would be its sole occupant for the umpteenth night in a row. It could be worse, she supposed. At least she had her cat, a worn copy of In Cold Blood, and the piano man upstairs.

Of the three, she most looked forward to the latter. When she first viewed the apartment six months ago, the building manager hadn't mentioned music as a selling point – but it was certainly an improvement over her last neighbors, who fought constantly. Their screaming matches had caused her many a sleepless night.

She didn't know whether her upstairs neighbor was in fact a piano man, but preferred to believe as much, because the thought of a man at the keys was simply more romantic. He had wonderful taste in music, playing classical with a slight touch of jazz. It was uncanny how he seemed to know her moods, whether she needed to hear something slow or a more upbeat melody.

In her imagination, the piano man was a handsome stranger in a tuxedo, his long fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys. Sitting atop his instrument was a goblet stuffed with bills from admiring listeners, but he paid it no regard – his music was for her ears only.

She knew that it was extremely silly, as well as a reminder of how lonely she was; while her married friends gabbed about their husbands, and her single ones their latest dates, this was all she had in terms of romance.

But she was beginning to wonder about the piano man's true identity. She assumed that he – or she – was also alone, because no one with a spouse or children would devote so many hours each night to music. Although there were evenings when no sound came from the floor above, they were few and far between.

She removed a fresh nightgown from the dresser. As she wiggled into the soft flannel, she heard the first few notes of a piece by Mozart. Her routine dictated that she now climb into bed with her novel, grateful as always for the lullaby.

But she couldn't quite bring herself to do so.

Ben yawned, perusing the sheet music. He glanced at the grandfather clock on the adjacent wall; it was getting late, and he would soon have to retire if he expected to be in court at nine tomorrow morning. But his glass of wine was still half-full, and he had time for at least one more piece.

He closed his eyes and began to play a Rachmaninoff piece from memory. When he was at the piano, his brain worked on another level; the music transported him to a place where scams and homicides and habeas corpus motions didn't exist. He was so focused on his task that he almost didn't hear the doorbell.

Funny – he wasn't expecting anyone. He headed for the door, hoping that it wasn't a process server with some eleventh-hour motion from defense counsel.

She stood impatiently at the door, dressed and combed and wearing light makeup. No way was she ringing the bell twice; if whoever lived in that apartment didn't answer within the next minute, she was going to split.

New York City was a long way from eastern Oregon; as far as she knew, people here simply didn't drop in on their neighbors. Much less ones they didn't even know. Still, there was nothing wrong with saying hello.

Except that this wasn't just a friendly call. She was drawn to the upstairs apartment by itching curiosity, despite knowing that one glimpse of the person behind that door would cause the piano man of her imagination to no longer exist. But he would be unmasked sooner or later, and maybe she'd gain a new acquaintance through this.

The door opened. She flashed her best smile.

Good Lord, he was tall; she had to crane her neck upward to avoid conversing with his fourth shirt button. His hair was thinning, and he wore suspenders instead of a tuxedo. He peered at her over crooked tortoiseshell reading glasses, the same kind her father wore in the sixties.

In her imagination, the piano man resembled Richard Gere. In reality, he was far from movie-star handsome, but he was not bad-looking at all.

The woman was pretty, with strawberry-blonde hair and a kind smile. Ben knew that she lived in the building – he'd seen her in the foyer once or twice as she rushed towards a morning taxi – but he didn't know her name.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked.

"I'm Sarah Nicksey, your downstairs neighbor. About your piano…"

No one had ever complained about his music before; it never occurred to him that he was disturbing anyone.

"I am so sorry," he said. "I had no idea that I was bothering you."

She looked surprised at first; then she laughed. "You're not, actually. I came up to tell you how much I enjoy your music."

"Really?" Ben smiled.

"Yes," she replied. "You're quite good."

"Thank you," he said humbly. He paused, regarding her for a moment. "Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?"

She nodded.

finis