THE SEASON OF THE WITCH
A/N: A terrible act of brutality leaves Claire devastated, and Jack reaches out to an old friend of hers for help. An exploration of friendship and strength, with an OFC I created for another story. I'm going through a dark period, and it's the love and support of my friends who make it bearable. This is for them, especially the three known as the daughters of my heart: Megan, Sarah B, and Bia. Written by "Bacall".
It was nearly six o'clock. Winter darkness cloaked the city, and the muted lighting in Jack's office cast a warm, insulating glow. Claire sat with him, going over witness statements; their shoeless feet played under the table. Then the private entry door opened. They looked up, retracting their feet at the same time, and waited for Adam to speak.
He held a yellow Post-it. He cleared his throat as he leaned against Jack's desk, watching the covert lovers pretend they weren't playing footsie under the table. Certain he had their attention, he said "I have news."
Jack sat up straight and turned on his chair, facing Adam. "What."
"Marc Meadows's conviction was overturned on appeal. He's in the city, free as a bird."
"Shit." Jack tossed his pen on the table. "Grounds?"
Adam sighed. "Point at the two-seven. Again. The court held they entered his apartment without probable cause, you know the drill." He crumpled the Post-it, then focused on young Ms. Kincaid. "He's not happy with you. He made some noise in Rikers about catching up with you."
Claire shrugged. "He's blowing smoke." She remembered the diminutive man with the greasy blonde hair and sparse mustache. "The last thing he wants is a collar for intimidating an ADA."
Adam frowned. "I'm glad you're so confident." He looked at Jack. "You remember him?"
"I do. That little squirt wouldn't mess with Claire."
Adam's shrugged. "The confidence of youth. It makes me feel old."
"C'mon, Adam," she protested.
"You've been notified," he said, and he leveled a look at Jack that would have withered a lesser man. "My work here is done." He went back to his office.
Claire looked at Jack. "Should I be worried?"
"No. Marc Meadows is a coward."
"Still." She considered Adam's warning.
"He doesn't know where we live, Claire. Our phone numbers aren't listed. He's a gasbag."
"A rapist gasbag."
Jack tried to mollify her vague concern. He took her hand and lightly kissed it. "I'll stay with you until we retry the little bastard and send him back to Rikers. He's all talk and no balls. OK?"
Claire looked at her watch. "Sure. Can we bag it for the night?"
"Yeah." Jack closed the file. He stacked it with the other files and locked them away. Claire put on her shoes and walked to the window, looking into the darkness. Jack came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "What are you looking for?"
She turned her head and smiled. "I don't know."
She put on her coat while Jack slipped into his loafers and coat. They'd driven to work in her car. As she fished her keys out of her purse, she said "You really don't mind staying with me?"
"Nope." His hand touched the small of her back and he guided her into the hallway, flipping the light switch as they passed it. "Though it concedes home field advantage to you."
Claire absently stated the obvious. "I'm parked in the garage."
"I know." Jack's smile was patient.
They rode the elevator down, found the car, and as Claire pulled out of the garage exit, she glanced around. She drove home, found a parking spot, and walked with Jack into her building.
She locked the dead bolts, giving Jack a sheepish grin. "So I feel a little insecure at the moment."
He smiled, shedding his coat. "It's OK, this is New York City, security is mandatory. You'll get used to bad guys being freed and blowing smoke." He took her coat from her and hung it. "Order in?"
She shrugged. "I guess, I think all I have in the refrigerator is beer." She took off her suit jacket. "I'm going to change, you order. Surprise me," she said, anticipating his question. She walked into her bedroom, turning on the lamp by her bed. She pulled the blinds before she undressed. She hung her clothes, and pulled on cotton drawstring pants and an old tee shirt a friend gave her, emblazoned with "Captain, Smith Sleeping Team." She always thought of Annie when she wore it.
Jack kept clothes here, and he came in to change as she brushed her hair. He draped his suit over a chair and pulled on sweats. He unobtrusively watched her. The threat wasn't serious, as threats went, but it didn't take much to unnerve Claire. He hugged her. "I won't let anything happen to you," he said.
"I know." She pulled away and smiled. "What's for dinner?"
"It's a surprise."
She laughed. "You picked dinner, I get the movie."
"Fair enough." He left her in the bedroom, and she heard the sound of drinks being prepped. She joined him in the living room, on the couch, and took her scotch over ice. She dug the remote out from between the cushions and tuned the TV to Turner Classic Movies. They were quiet, Jack allowing her to process this part of the job, the oddball harmless threat. Dinner arrived, and they ate in front of the TV, watching Bogart in High Sierra. Jack washed the dishes. He'd seen Bogart die before, he hated the ending of this movie.
They went to bed when the movie was over, and Claire snuggled against him. He put his arm around her, waiting to see if she wanted more. She didn't. It was fine with him, he was tired. He checked the alarm clock, then settled down.