Her throat was lined with lead as the heavy library doors swung back behind her. Nervously, she let her fingers trace the lining of her green winter coat; this October was proving a bitter one. She glanced around; the library was quiet and barren, peppered with a few men in white button down shirts, who poured over casebooks and furiously took down notes on their worn yellow legal pads. They had briefcases and glasses, wrinkles and bags under the eyes, a warning, an omen of a thanklessly tiring career to come. Silence carried over the wide space and heavy wooden shelves. A pair of cold blue eyes glanced up at her and stayed there; she soon recognized the man as another law professor and offered a bleak smile. He reciprocated, after a long pause, still keeping his icy gaze on her. She started to walk, slipping away, and he went back to his work; his endless stare left her breathing ragged.

Jack was at a back table, a few unopened books stacked next to him and a legal pad, already somewhat scribbled with notes, lying in front of him. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of her and he smiled. Moving slowly, hesitantly, she put her bag down on one of the chairs and pulled off her coat, draping it over the chair. She sat across from him gingerly and watched him, as he observed her, his expression unreadable. It was perturbing. Her fingers shook continuously as she pulled off her gloves — and they had been, since their encounter Friday night — and not with cold, but with some deep unspoken shame and embarrassment, that made looking into his face nearly impossible. Claire could not raise her eyes above his neck and the loose collar of his own white button down and the red patterned tie that rested there. In the distance, she heard herself clear her throat as his hand dragged one book off of the stack and slid it over to her.

"Claire?" Her eyes shot up, unintentionally, and she instantly regretted it. Jack's face was lined with genuine concern and it twisted her lungs, squeezing the air from her body. Her throat grew drier and her hands shook with a greater, more noticeable ferocity. She snatched the book and flipped it open haphazardly.

"Fine," she squeaked, looking away. She could feel him frown and her eyes closed, pained. He hadn't asked her a question.

"Are you?" The question was gentle; it startled her. His voice carried a softness, a tenderness, an emotion she had never heard or seen him express. It was terrifying, his kindness; immediately she was gagged with a desire for his anger or his arrogance, not sweetness that made her skin crawl with affection. Her lips tingled with the idea of his, how they would taste as she took the compassion off of them. Lost in his sympathy, Claire neglected to notice that his hand was resting on her arm, and he was leaning towards her, saying her name in a low tone. She spun around, recklessly, and their heads nearly collided. She inhaled sharply.

"I—" Her words were tied to her tongue, inescapable. "I— I'm sorry."

Jack stared at her, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. "Claire." She flinched. His words were still rolling in magnanimity, an understanding that should have soothed her, but tortured her with thoughts she repressed, habitually and unwillingly. It wasn't just that the emotion was oozing from Jack — though that did have some bearing on her fear — but that men as lovers had traditionally been so unkind, so empty and rough to her. Only her male friends had ever been charitable or courteous, but them she would never have dreamed of keeping a bed with. She had heroically pined to Margot about the indecency of men today, and now, the one man that had ridden her so high with anger was unlaying the bricks of her carefully constructed walls. It was ironic, but inspiring; she softened herself towards him, hoping his gentleness was a recurring trait. "Are you okay?" What a beautifully honest inquiry. She nodded. "Can we get to work?" He had become slightly more forceful, and the gentleness was strained, but it was still there, resilient to his impatience. Again, she nodded.

He had pulled another book from his stack and was reading it by the time she turned her eyes away. Left awkwardly without a task, she glanced down at the book, open to an irrelevant, arbitrary page. Something about extortion. She stifled a groan and took a deep breath, hoping that confidence would empower her as she took in the musty library air. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Check the index. Look up People of New York County vs. Haas." Claire browsed the index briefly and turned to the appropriate page, skimming the paragraphs. They gave an in-depth account of the nature of the case and her stomach twisted at the details.

"Jack, what is this," she breathed, her voice a stunned whisper. She flipped forward a few pages. "It ended in a plea bargain. Why am I—"

"What do you see?"

"What?"

"What is on the page, Claire," he stated emphatically, looking up at her from his huddled position over his book. "What do you read?"

"Are you testing me?"

"Claire."

She sighed. "Haas was accused of murder for perpetuating the sale of an organic cancer treatment that Haas claimed was a cure for the disease. Medical examiners and doctors found victim would have lived years longer had Haas not discouraged a mastectomy and/or chemotherapy." Claire paused and read on silently. "The victim died of cancer, Jack. How was this even a viable case?"

"The legal approach to an issue or crime makes a difference."

"You're trying to teach me, aren't you," she uttered, quickly and bitterly. "I thought I was supposed to be helping you."

Jack shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with being mentored every once in a while, Claire. Plus, you'll need this information and knowledge to help me with the next seminar." His idea of their permanence, the concept that they'd be working together for the next two and a half years, resonated within her in strange tones. She shifted uncomfortably.

"I didn't give up a Sunday to be trained, Jack. I thought you wanted — I thought you need my help."

"There's no law that says you can't learn, Claire. You are just a student." It was a slap, those last words, he knew that. He had brought her to him, ascended her to his level, and was shooting her down. Bile was building behind her teeth.

"I wouldn't be so sure," she spat back quietly. "The legal approach makes a difference."

He paused, and then a slow smile spread across his face, a proud, arrogant smile. "What are you suggesting, larceny by extortion? I got you here under false pretenses?"

"Yes. You coerced me here under the guise of needing help, when in fact you wanted to hand down life lessons."

"What a crime," he muttered jokingly, shaking his head. Suddenly serious, he looked at her, then at the book spread open in front of her. "May we continue?" She gave a defeated sigh and nodded. Still, Claire frowned inwardly, annoyed by his show-off attitude. "In People v. Haas, the prosecutor charged the defendant with murder, correct?"

"Right, after it was determined that the patient—"

"The victim, Claire. She stopped being a patient when Dr. Haas failed to help her."

"Jack, that's a bit morbid."

"The doctors agreed that Ann Bennett would have lived for at least six more years if she'd never met the doctor!" Jack's voice was rising slowly, and angry eyes began to focus on them. "Dr. Haas showed a reckless disregard for human decency and life. She let her patients die believing she was curing them."

"And you're saying that those women should have been forced to undergo surgery instead?"

"If it would save their lives, yes."

"Jack, millions of people believe in homeopathic and holistic medicine. Are they all wrong?" Claire paused, watching him carefully. He was tense, provoked, and she sighed. "Are they all stupid?"

"Those who die needlessly, yes."

"And you're qualified to make that assessment?" He shrugged, twisting his face into an expression that displayed how clearly he was sure of himself. Claire shivered a bit, her blood rising with defensive anger. "Well, I happen to find it a little bit intrusive," she declared, crossing her arms and staring at Jack sternly. "The government telling a woman she has to have surgery."

Jack's face twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. "This," he said, laying his index finger on the book in front of her, "is not a privacy issue."

"Of course it's not," Claire replied, feigning agreement, her tone laced with light sarcasm. "Constitutional issues are defined by men."

He opened his mouth to speak and stopped, appalled. A short, breathy laugh escaped him and he pulled off his tie from around his neck, throwing it onto the chair next to him. His words came out quietly, calmly, but his manner was condescending; he leaned towards her and Claire was somewhat repulsed. "I don't think this is the time or the place for a full-blown debate about your latent feminism."

Her brain surged forward with words, with arguments and angry statements to fling in his face. "Number one," she said, equally cool but maintaining a subtle viciousness to her tone, "it's not latent." She hesitated, observing him. "Number two, since when did privacy become a feminist issue?" Jack sighed and pulled back, looking away fleetingly. "Go to the movies, read a book, open a magazine! Maybe you'll see why these women — women like the victim — don't want to get a breast lobbed off."

His next words came out, but hardly. They were empty, devoid of emotion, and hit her in the face with full forced. At their low volume, they drifted across the small table to her and into her ears, prodding her brain with fury. "I think you're overreacting."

"Really?" Her sarcasm and rage were growing clearer. "Is that why the Bombshell bra is the number one selling product on the market?" Jack shook his head. "Society forces women to seek out people like that, who offer alternatives to becoming a metaphorical leper, Jack."

"You're right," he said, after sitting in silence for several moments. "All men are pigs." His mocking tone sent a shock through her, that fragmented her self-control, nibbled at her nervous system. She twitched and leaned towards him, her voice rising several decibels, beyond the acceptable library standard.

"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it."

"You'd have liked it a lot better if it'd been a male doctor, wouldn't you? You'd be the first one out there with the tar and feathers." He was laughing at her, provoking her. A shudder ran over her.

"Jack—" Caution seeped from her voice; he was drowning her in loathing.

"But a woman, actually taking advantage of other women... That one doesn't show up in the collective works of Betty Friedan." She slammed the book closed and stood up, her hard wooden chair scraping back in a noisy, disruptive manner. Eyes from all over, from tables, from the stacks, turned towards them. Jack remained smug, but also angry and tense; they had split each other's nerves, her by surprising him, him by insulting her. It was disgusting, they were disgusting. She sat down tersely, pushing the book away from her.

"Can we work now," she responded forcibly, squaring her jaw.

Jack nodded and handed her another book from the pile, instructing her to find some Rehnquist decisions that contradicted other case resolutions. She flipped open the cover and skimmed the index, ignoring him completely. They worked in silence for an hour, maybe two, exchanging only the words necessary, passing notes taken from books. Every so often he gave a research request that she would unenthusiastically pursue, refusing to soften her challenging demeanor. At long last, he shut his book and began to put away his notes; assuming it was safe to stop, Claire followed. She handed him her pages and he filed them in his bag with a muffled "thank you." She remained immobile in her seat, her pen still resting in her fingers, drifting above the table. He stood, pulling his bag with him, and grabbing his coat from the back of the adjacent chair. Staring at her, sitting there, internally writhing with anger and bearing a face of extreme displeasure and bitterness, Jack sighed. "Can we go get a drink now?"

Claire froze. "A drink?" She repeated dumbly.

"Yes. At a bar. You and me. Getting a drink."

"I—" Her lips twitched anxiously. "It's a Sunday, Jack."

"I'll pay," he offered. If she hadn't known that Jack was naturally full of himself, she might have assumed that he was using his arrogance as a mask of desperation. She also knew that he had a straight mind, one that could, in some cases, only conceive the answer "yes." This was one of those cases, like when he had asked her to accompany him to the library a few nights ago. He had been sure then, and he was sure now, that she would say yes; in the moment, he was watching her blankly, in expectation of her getting up and taking up her things to follow him out of the library. A small sect of her wanted to refuse him, and never give him what he wanted, but his certainty was not forceful, nor did it feel unwelcome. It felt like him; with him, there was expectation that you fulfilled, or you were not good enough to be held in his respect. And still brimming with shame from Friday, Claire started at the idea of being respected by Jack McCoy and snatched her coat, gloves, and bag and hurried up out of her chair.

"I know a bar a little ways across the city," he said nonchalantly, holding open the library door. "But it's a nice bar."

"Not just a dive?" He shook his head in response. Staring at him, and relaxing again, no longer reeling in anger at his bigoted mockery, she exhaled, her breath coming up in white puffs. The day was greying already, beginning to ache with the coming of the evening, though it was still the afternoon. Jack was wrapped in a coat that looked helplessly old and worn, and a hat that bore the same history. Claire bit her lip, thinking about other histories he had. She had spent the previous night on the internet, researching him, and the previous day at school, asking around. "By the way, I checked."

"On what?" As they stepped into the street, he turned his head to look at her, and she met his eyes, a small smile on her face.

"You've only had three female assistants." Three assistants who were lovers in the last twenty-four years at this school. Three out of three. In some way, he had sought to trick her, make her blind to the man he really was. But people and society were not immune to or ignorant of his exploits, and of course, most simply, all teaching assistants were recorded within the administration, for safety and logistic purposes. Claire's smile drifted off into a smirk.

Jack gazed at her admiringly and shrugged. "You were the one I wanted to know the truth," he said. Her gait slowed as they approached the subway entrance and she laughed lightly. Gently, he took her arm and lead her down into the station.