The standard disclaimer applies: All characters are property of Dick Wolf and NBC Universal. Not mine, not making money.
Ben Stone didn't make deals with the devil.
Not even when he was down for the count. He'd just argued with Adam over the civil deposition; it wasn't bad enough that Phillip Swann was a free man, and now wished to feast upon the remains of Ben's career. Adam – the man to whom Ben was closest – was losing faith in him. You'll ruin me and this office, he had said.
Then Claire stopped by to tell Ben of Buckley v. Fitzsimmons and the possibility that his prosecutorial immunity may not be guaranteed. Another blow.
Meanwhile, the devil stood by, watching and waiting, resembling a crow about to swoop in and claim its prey. The devil, wearing blue jeans and carrying a motorcycle helmet.
And he had an offer. There was, after all, the matter of the civil deposition.
Adam's right, you know. You're a damn fool if you think you can go it alone.
Ben did know the Swann case better than anyone, but it stood to reason that he needed representation. And the devil was offering his services. He happened to be a swift litigator – among the very best that One Hogan Place had to offer.
In exchange for what? Ben had asked. The devil merely grinned.
As if Ben didn't already know.
Sixteen years of screwing around, off and on. Sixteen years of the devil coming by, only to take his leave when some attractive female ADA passed by. Sixteen years of heartaches, sleepless nights, and Ben's repeated vow to himself – only to be broken – that it would never happen again.
Have you no shame? Ben had asked. He already knew the answer to that one as well; it was just like the devil to exploit his vulnerability. But there was also the promise, of physical bliss that would carry him to places far from civil court and Phillip Swann. And he had to admit that it was very tempting.
But the emotional cost was far too high. It always had been. The devil destroyed everything he touched, and there was never any telling who or what would be next.
No, thank you, Ben had said. He'd take his chances with Phillip Swann and possibly lose his car, condo, and closet full of blue suits. Those losses paled compared to the potential loss of his heart, once again, to the devil's clutches.
Suit yourself, the devil had replied. And he walked away.
Ben Stone didn't make deals with the devil.
But Jack McCoy wasn't really the devil. He was just a slick bastard of a man, who happened to attract lovers like moths to a flame. Ben was no different; the nights he had spent in McCoy's bed – and the emotional wreckage that always followed – proved it.
And if Ben was so certain that he didn't make deals with the devil, why then were his unsteady fingers poised over the phone, all but ready to dial the number that he somehow knew from memory?
Son of a bitch.
finis