"I appreciate the thought Jack but they'll just wilt, like everything else around here."
The double meaning of his wife's remark wasn't lost on Jack McCoy.
From the moment the notation on his office calendar had caught his eye, McCoy knew he was in serious trouble at home. Even as he bought his traditional 'forgive me' bouquet of green carnations, he knew the gesture was going to be too little too late.
Wordlessly he watched as his wife breathed in the sweet scent of the already drooping bundle of flowers, before carefully placing them on the shelf she'd rearranged in the refrigerator. After three trips down the aisle, McCoy knew forgetting an anniversary was one of the seven deadly sins of matrimony; he just wasn't quite sure how far behind it fell forgetting to help plan one's anniversary celebration.
Even though the air conditioning was out and it was the middle of July, McCoy knew the last thing his wife was talking about when she spoke of things wilting was the flowers.
After a weekend of putting out fires at the office, the last thing McCoy wanted to deal with was conflict on the home front. The eneveitable disharmony that went hand in hand with the 'domestic bliss' of marriage, was one of the reasons he'd so skillfully avoided another trip to the alter as long as he had.
As he waited for the other verbal shoe to drop, he found himself ever so fleetingly missing the solitude of the single life. The moment he looked up and found Brooke observing him as if she'd read his mind, he felt the guilty flush of heat on his cheeks .
"If you'd rather just avoid the whole party thing," she pensively declared. "Maybe it's just not worth the trouble of celebrating at all-"
"Of course it's worth celebrating. We agreed when we went up to Canada without any fan fare that we'd make up for it with a big anniversary party. I'm sure whatever you and Jake put together-"
"I married you, not Jake. Do you really think I'd plan a party to celebrate our marriage without your input," she demanded before reaching for the glass of tea beside her and running over her forehead. "Look Jack, we both know big parties were never your idea of a good time. It's not like the invitations have gone out…I was going to email everyone tonight…so that's not a problem. We can do something here just the two of us; that is if you're even around next Sunday. Should I assume Liz was able to prove me wrong about the Criswell case?"
"Liz is convinced the charge is appropriate and of course I'll be here for our wedding anniversary," he growled as a combination of the oven like heat in the room and the frustration he'd been fighting to conceal got the best of him. "If I hadn't promised you I'd talk to Liz about the case today, I wouldn't have forgotten about our plans and you'd know how much I-"
"Fine. It's my fault. Forgive me for giving a damn about you and your career. Tell you what Jack, the next time I'm worried about you I'll keep my mouth shut and just bake you a cake like a good little wife," Brooke interjected in a tone that was a kin to waving red in front of a charging bull.
It wasn't so much McCoy's forgetfulness about planning the party that made Brooke so blatantly try to provoke her husband, it wasn't even the dangers of the Criswell case. As Brooke watched McCoy's jaw tighten and his gaze harden in stubborn defiance, she knew the real reason for her frustration centered the waffling her husband had been doing for months regarding the upcoming election for District Attorney.
"If I wanted a cake I'd have married a baker," McCoy snapped as he dropped his satchel and helmet on the counter between them. "If I'd wanted to fight with you, I wouldn't have ran around Manhattan looking for a bouquet in triple digit weather," he continued before starting towards the bar on the opposite wall.
"And if I'd wanted to sit on the sidelines while my husband took the blows, I'd have married a boxer," Brooke countered while she watched her husband reach for an unopened bottle of scotch, only to find the inside of his hands so slick with sweat that opening the container quickly became a nearly impossible task. "It's too hot for this. Hell, it's too hot for anything other than ice creme."
As she reached for the shoulder bag that rested on the coat rack, Brooke gave her husband an inquiring gaze before moving to the doorway and motioning for him to follow her.
"Truce?"
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As the couple walked from the loft to the ice creme vendor posted at the entrance to Central Park, the silence between them quickly became too burdensome for either of them to tolerate. Finally, McCoy cautiously inquired about one of the more controversial cases on his wife's caseload.
As he listened to his wife's equally guarded response, McCoy's could free his own frustration slowly dissolve as Brooke's impatience gave way to professional respect and she began to query McCoy regarding his views on the more difficult aspects of the case.
"You really think the Molineau exception applies here," Brooke asked as they inched forward while still keeping a prudent distance to ensure none of the other Manhattanites standing in line in front of the tiny stand would hear the taboo conversation.
"It applies as much as marital privilege does to this conversation," McCoy remarked, as if he'd read her thoughts. "Don't look so worried, counselor. Not only will citing Molineau get you a win in that motion hearing Monday, but trust me when I tell you your secrets will always be save with me, love."
Brooke looked up at him, both startled as well as relived, by his words. She knew the term of endearment was McCoy's way of signaling to her that as far as he was concerned, their emotional storm cloud had passed.
"Well, we both know it's no secret that our latest blow out didn't have a whole lot to do with you not being at Jake's this morning or you helping out Liz out by giving her the Criswell case," Brooke admitted as they stepped towards the man that was impatiently motioning to them with his ice creme scooper in hand.
McCoy gave her a wry smile before turning his attention to the vendor. Even as he'd begun to fire off his annoyed responses at the loft, McCoy had been well aware of what was at the heart of the heated exchange. The lack of AC and his earlier forgetfulness may have been what lit the fuse, but he knew the real issue on his wife's mind was his lack of action regarding the upcoming election.
Not that he blamed her.
Had he been the one waiting for his spouse to make a decision that profoundly affect both their personal and professional lives, McCoy would have given into frustration weeks earlier. But yet, as much as he knew a decision had to be made, he found himself hesitating to officially announce his intention to run for DA in the fall.
After the Lathem mess, the decision had seemed like a no brainer. McCoy knew if he threw in the towel the position would more likely than not go to some political hack who would put self interest before the interests of the DA's office and its staff.
Yet, the bad taste that had been left in his mouth after being introduced to the world of political fundraising by Melanie Carver hadn't been forgotten by the interim DA.
"One scoop or two," the tough faced Italian demanded while the scooper still hovered over the carton marked 'chocolate'.
"Two for both of us," McCoy responded without hesitation.
"Now, if only you could be that decisive about something a little more important than frozen creme, maybe the rest of us could get started on the job of getting you elected."
The couple turned in unison; McCoy taken off guard by the unexpected sound of his friend's voice behind him, Brooke startled by what seemed to be Danielle Melnick's ability to read her mind.
"Hello to you too, Danielle," McCoy gruffly retorted before turning his attention from the couple behind them and back to the vendor who still held the cones. "Given the fact the last time we had lunch you wouldn't even give the dessert cart a second glance, this is the last place I'd have expected to find you."
Brooke exchanged amused glances with the man beside the fiery defense attorney, before taking the cone her husband held out to her.
"'Friad I have to take the blame for Danielle breakin' her diet today," Sam Prescott explained as he traded places with McCoy. "In weather like this, there's nothin' that tastes sweeter than a few scoops of strawberry ice creme."
"So how about it, McCoy," Melnick pressed as she walked with Brooke and McCoy towards the last remaining empty bench. "Are you finally ready to put up or shut up?"
"The latter," McCoy countered before defiantly taking a lengthy lick from the already melting scoop of ice creme.
"Honestly Brooke, you've been married to him long enough to know what a stubborn jack-ass he can be, can't you do something with him?"
"Running or not running for DA is Jack's decision. Nagging him won't make him decide any sooner,Danielle. Trust me, that I know from bitter experience," Brooke added as she gave the other woman a knowing glance. "So what brings you and Sam into the city so late on a Sunday? With you two living out in Long Island, I'd have thought you be lying on a beach somewhere instead of sweating with us city dwellers."
"Believe me, that's where I thought we'd be spending the day, but that new ADA Jack has down in Sex Crimes had other ideas," Melnick grumbled, before giving McCoy a look of grudging admiration. "You've really got a tiger on your hands this time, Jack. That Greyleck woman not only got me out here on a Sunday afternoon, she wouldn't back down until I got Allan Weyland to agree to her terms and to testify against his partner in the Castillo rape-"
"Greyleck got to Weyland," McCoy interjected, obviously impressed. "You told me yourself how solid your case was, why-"
"Seems your newbie wouldn't give Benson and Stabler a moment's peace until they went back to the scene with her for a second look. It was Greyleck herself that found a drop of blood the forensics team over looked…right below the towel rack in the john…it was all they needed to tie my guy to the rape," Melnick explained before pausing to take the cone her husband handed her. "I'm telling you Jack, if that girl can get a plea like that out of me, that old Criswell mess is going to be a no brainer for her."
"That doesn't come as any surprise to me. The lady not only came from Justice, Abbie Carmichael's been singing her praises since Ms. Greyleck accepted Jack's offer," Sam Prescott added while taking note of the clouded glances the McCoy's exchanged. "Well, you two look about as excited as a rabbit that's about to become dinner. What am I missin'?"
McCoy's uncomfortable gaze moved from his wife to the quickly browning grass that surrounded the bench. Even though it was common knowledge around the DA's office that Greyleck was off the Criswell case, explaining the reasons behind the sudden change in prosecutors to someone as contrary as Danielle Melnick, was the last thing the DA wanted to do. However, he knew from bitter experience trying to put off Danielle Melnick was like trying to break a blood hound of devouring raw meat, especially if she had her equally tenuous husband in her corner to back her up.
Knowing when he was beat, McCoy wearily started to speak, only to find himself cut off by his own spouse's unexpected reply.
