i feel like i wrote this 7+1 just to write the +1, if that gives any indication of how excited i am to share this second part of the fic with y'all. i was really pleased with the stylistic approach i took for this section, and i hope you like it, too!
xXx
+1. Those Who Followed
(Wish it didn't have to be this way, but—
You will always mean the world to me, love.)
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when a drunk driver slams into the left side of her car.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she is hospitalized with a bruised body, broken bones, and a barely beating heart.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she enters a coma.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when the doctors declare her brain dead.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when her parents, shoulders shuddering with sobs, end her life support.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when death takes her last breath.
Claire Kincaid would have been 29 years old when the same drunk driver finishes his prison sentence of 12 months, released on parole after ten for good behavior.
Claire Kincaid would have been 30 years old when Jack McCoy tries to sacrifice another drunk driver for the justice, the vengeance, the retribution he could not achieve before.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows she will never see another day.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows she should still be alive.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows he has to—
xXx
"—tell me about her."
Jack sighs. He keeps his back to her. "And if I don't want to?"
"We're way past that point, Jack. You don't risk getting disbarred for every pretty little dark-haired, doe-eyed girl you shared a bed with."
Jack's jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists in his pockets. He doesn't dignify her comment with a response.
He does, however, turn around.
Jamie Ross stands at the threshold of his office, short hair shorter than hers brown hair lighter than hers back held upright with greater firmness than she ever cared to present around him.
"Have you been drinking?" Jamie asks, eyes flitting down to the bottle of scotch and empty glass on his desk, and Jack laughs. The sound is bitter.
"I tried." He shakes his head. "Couldn't swallow a drop."
Jamie nods, and for a moment, he pretends she understands.
"Don't just stand there," Jack says after a pause. He gestures toward the wooden chair in front of his desk. "If you're here to interrogate me, we might as well get comfortable."
Jamie sighs, but she enters his office all the same. "Jack," she says, black heels clicking against the floor, "all I want is for you to—"
xxx
"—put your shoes on, chop chop!"
Jack snorted at Claire's eagerness, pulling at the laces of his left shoe. "I had no idea you were so invested in bowling."
"If I told you I was the captain of my high school bowling team, would you believe me?"
Jack searched Claire's face for any hint of a lie, and it was the slight upturn of her pink-stained lips that gave her away.
"No," he said, fighting back a grin as he twisted the laces of his left shoe into a bow. "No, I would not believe you."
Claire snickered. "Good. I was president of the chess club—"
"That's the nerdiest thing you've ever said."
"—vice president of mock trial, and secretary of Thespian club—"
Jack squinted at Claire. "Thespian? Isn't that theatre?" He shook his head. "I can't picture you on the stage."
Claire paused in her listing to raise an eyebrow at Jack. "I'll have you know I was an amazing Lady Macbeth." She snorted. "Though more to your interest might be that I was Mona in my high school production of Chicago. One of the six merry murderesses."
Jack's mind drifted to an alluring image of Claire adorned in a short, glittery silver flapper dress. "Now that I'd like to see."
Claire grinned. "I'm sure you would."
Jack finished tying his bowling shoes. "Anyways, so you have no academic history of bowling. What's got you so gung-ho about today?"
Claire shrugged, mischief glittering in her eyes. "Well, it's more the time after bowling I'm interested in."
"Aha." A grin crept onto Jack's lips. "I take it you haven't forgotten our little bet, then."
"Not a chance." Claire leaned down, her nose mere centimeters from Jack's when he lifted his chin to look up at her. "I intend to beat you into the dirt, McCoy."
"Should I feel threatened or aroused?" Jack said, half taunting and only half joking. Claire flicked his nose before pulling away.
"Don't push your luck. I expect you to—"
xxx
"—be honest with me. I'm not here to judge you."
Jamie sits down before Jack, and he slowly takes his own seat behind his wooden desk, feeling about a dozen years older than he should.
"You want honesty?" he says, maybe harsher than he intends. "Fine. Claire Kincaid and I were lovers. Everybody knew it and nobody knew it. Happy?"
Jamie gives him a sad smile. "It's okay to miss her."
Jack snorts. He stares at the full bottle of scotch still resting atop his desk, the amber liquid mocking him. "I shouldn't. Not like I do." Risking disbarment for a ghost… Claire would be appalled.
More than that, she'd be disappointed.
Jamie crosses her ankles, leaning forward just enough to indicate she isn't letting this conversation go but not broaching so far into Jack's space as to overwhelm him, either. It's a bit like being treated with kid gloves, he thinks.
He never needed those before.
"What do you mean?" Jamie asks. "You say you shouldn't miss her like you do—how do you miss her?"
"Like someone who loved her." The words spill from Jack's tongue before he can stop them, and he can't meet Jamie's eyes. "Like someone she loved."
Realization dawns across Jamie's face, her expression carefully neutral until this point. "I see. You didn't deserve to love her then, and you don't deserve to mourn her now."
Jack's jaw tightens at her words, but he's all but said them himself. He nods stiffly. "We never should have—"
xxx
"—tried to do this trivia, we're bruising our egos with our own ignorance."
Claire rolled her eyes at Jack's comment, though a smile tugged at her lips. She didn't put the newspaper down, either, still folded neatly in half so they could look at the weekly trivia together without seeing the answers on the back page. "We can't give up yet, we've only tried the first half."
"And the fact that we're struggling now tells me the second half will only get worse," Jack protested, but he kept his arm around Claire's shoulders. Every now and then he ducked down to press kisses along her neck and collarbone. They were currently sitting up in his bed, minimally clothed with their backs resting against propped-up pillows and the wooden headboard—the quintessential lie-in on a Sunday morning.
Well, Jack still insisted the trivia was a nonessential element, but how was he supposed to say no to Claire?
"Okay, number nine," Claire said, tracing her finger down the list of questions to find where they'd left off. "What song by British rock band Queen was recorded in 1989 but not included on an album until 1995?"
Only last year, Jack absentmindedly processed, then he stilled.
Wait.
He knew the answer.
"'Too Much Love Will Kill You.'"
Claire looked at him, surprised. "Really? How do you know that?"
Because the 1995 version was playing over the radio minutes after the first time they exchanged I love you's, Jack could say, because the song reminded him that he was in way over his head with a woman like her, but as Jack looked at Claire leaning against his bare chest with her hair flying astray from its typically coiffed appearance and his copy of the local newspaper still clasped gently in her hands while she stared up at him with those dark, inquisitive eyes—
"Just a hunch," he said, and Claire raised a suspicious brow.
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
Claire leaned up to kiss him, a motion Jack hummed into as he reciprocated.
"You know," she murmured against his lips, "I think we could've—"
xxx
"—lasted as long as we did." Jack shakes his head. His nails dig into his palms, and it takes all of his willpower to unclench his fists before they start to bleed. "She deserved more. Better."
A lump rises in his throat. He tries to swallow it, but the pressure behind his eyes remains.
"She was so young," he says. Whispers, really. "Bright. Hopeful. Believed everybody had good in them." Jack is a cynical old man, and he knows it, but—
"She could've changed the world, Jamie. She really could've."
He closes his eyes, forcing the painful tears to remain unshed. "But she never got the chance."
And it was—it was wrong. 'A tragedy,' people would say. 'An injustice.' And it was, it was tragic, it was an injustice, but it was also so fucking wrong Jack could hardly stand to think about every opportunity for change Claire had been denied all because he got wasted at a goddamn bar and couldn't be bothered to hang around for another two minutes when the truth was that he'd just wanted—
To hell with her, he'd said.
To hell with you, the night had whispered in return. She'll meet you there.
"Jack," Jamie says, and Jack's eyes fly open as she snaps him out of his downward spiral. "Claire didn't waste her life by spending three years of it with you."
A tear slips down Jack's face.
"It's okay that you loved her. That you loved each other. It's even okay that maybe neither of you realized how much." Jamie meets his eyes, her gaze equal parts empathetic and firm. "One day, you're going to wake up and realize Claire should be remembered for the good she did, not what she didn't have the chance to do. I promise."
Jack swallows hard, and he closes his eyes a second time. "Thanks, Jamie," he whispers. "Thank you."
A chair creaks, and soon Jack feels a hand on his shoulder, a touch so gentle he can almost pretend it's hers.
"You're welcome." A pause. "If you need anything, you can always call me. Even if I can't—"
xXx
"—believe you dated a girl that gorgeous. No way, Jack. No fucking way!"
Jack laughs as Abbie looks at him, at the photo of himself and Claire, then back at him again, shaking her head in amused shock.
"Tell me about it," he says, grinning. "Every day I asked myself how I got so lucky."
"It wasn't your good looks, that's for sure," Abbie says, but she's grinning, too, as she hands the photo back to him. She sits on the edge of Jack's desk, unbunching the fabric of her pencil skirt from beneath her knees. "So how long were you together?"
Until the end, Jack almost says, but that thought still makes his heart twinge like someone tracing the tip of a dagger down his aorta.
"Nearly three years," he says instead, and Abbie whistles, impressed.
"Damn. Long term, huh?"
"Something like that." A smile tugs at Jack's lips despite himself. "Claire was never picky about labels. Partners, lovers, boyfriend and girlfriend—all interchangeable. 'As long as we know we mean something to each other,' she would say."
A not-quite melancholic sigh escapes Jack at the memory, and he leans back in his seat. "That was all that really mattered to her, you know? What we had was for us. To hell with the rest of the world."
Abbie smiles, the expression soft. "She sounds wonderful, Jack." She winks at him. "And she sounds like a romantic. I bet all it took was a single flutter of her pretty little eyelashes for you to fall head over heels."
Jack rolls his eyes. "Please."
"You can't tell me I'm wrong, because I know I'm not!" Abbie crows. "Come on, how did it happen? Did she lean over your desk and you melted like butter beneath her warm gaze?"
Jack raises an eyebrow at his ADA. "Contrary to your apparent belief, Abbie, my life wasn't a romance novel."
Abbie waves her hand dismissively. "Fine, maybe it wasn't that cliché. But I just do not think—"
xxx
"—we'll be able to keep this a secret."
"Don't knock it until you try it," Jack said, but he responded with an appropriately guilty look as Claire shot him an unamused glare.
"I'm serious, Jack." She turned her attention back toward his bathroom mirror, working his spare hairbrush through her messy bedhead. "The last thing I need is to be written off as another notch on your bedpost."
"You're too talented of an attorney for that," Jack said, and Claire rolled her eyes, though he didn't miss the smile that flickered across her lips for the briefest of seconds.
"Maybe, but you'd be amazed how many people can't see past the skirt and pearls."
Jack hesitated, then placed down his razor and shaving cream as he turned to face Claire. "You're right. Your career comes first."
Claire paused in brushing her hair, and she, too, turned to face him directly. "So we're…?"
"Say the word, and this ends here," Jack said. He reached up and tucked her dark waves behind her ear, only half-conscious of the action's quiet intimacy. "Hand to God."
Claire softened at his touch, and she sighed. She placed down the brush to catch Jack's hand as he started to pull it away. "I don't want this to end," she admitted, a soft blush rising in her cheeks, "I just…"
She shook her head, lacing their fingers together. "How about we lay down some ground rules?"
Jack chuckled. "Rules, huh?"
"Yes." A smirk twitched at her lips. "If you come within six inches of my personal space in the office, I have permission to taze you."
Jack burst out laughing. "You drive a hard bargain," he teased, "but…" Jack leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow kiss.
"But what?" she murmured, her breath warm against his mouth, and Jack chuckled again.
"But for you, I'd accept just about any terms."
Claire grinned. "You're not going to negotiate?"
Jack shrugged. "How am I supposed to say no to you?" He kissed her again, her hairbrush and his shaving equipment all but forgotten. "I mean, maybe if—"
xxx
"—there was a complete absence of classic romantic tropes between you two. Did you have your first kiss under the stars, by any chance?"
Jack can't help but laugh at Abbie's unusual enthusiasm. "I didn't know you were so familiar with romance as a genre."
"Nicholas Sparks is a damn good author!"
"I'm sure he is, but I just can't picture you, Abbie Carmichael, curled up in a lounge chair reading a well-loved copy of The Notebook."
"First of all, The Notebook is great, and I cried my eyes out. Second of all, everyone needs a hobby," Abbie says pointedly, and Jack snickers.
"Touché." He leans back in his chair, glancing down at the photo still in his hands.
Claire looked so beautiful that day, wearing an orange and yellow sundress with her hair down in waves during a weekend trip they'd taken to Maine to explore the beaches and other picturesque natural scenery.
Maine is the perfect place to go unrecognized, Claire said when they were debating possible getaway locations, and Jack had been inclined to agree.
To be a normal couple, even?
Claire laughed. Us? Not a chance.
"For the record," Jack says, tucking the photo of himself and Claire walking hand in hand back into his wallet, "our first kiss was not under the stars." He throws Abbie a smug grin. "Manhattan has too much light pollution for that."
Abbie bursts out laughing. "But it was at night! I knew it!"
Jack shrugs, still unable to wipe the grin off his face. "And that is all you will ever know."
"Really? Nothing more?"
Jack hums, contemplating her request. "Well, I can say that you and Claire would either love each other or hate each other." He snorts. "Maybe a bit of both."
Abbie raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? Why do you say that?"
"Because for just about every political position you hold, Claire held the opposite."
An amused smile twitches at Abbie's lips, eyes glittering with mischief. "Oh, I see. So she had no shame about her bleeding heart. You know, the same one you like to pretend you don't have."
Jack chuckles. "Come on. I—"
xxx
"—don't think we should try to force murder two here." Claire sat down on the edge of Jack's desk, and he leaned back in his seat to better face her. "Diamond is willing to take man one, sentencing recommendation as harsh or lenient as we feel appropriate. I think we should take it."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Her client shot her boyfriend in cold blood."
"I get that. But I legitimately think she saw it as the only option."
"Even after you tore apart that defense yesterday on cross?" Jack shook his head. "We'll win on murder two, Claire, and I have you to thank for that."
Claire sighed, dropping her gaze to the papers littering Jack's desk. "Just because we can convict her of murder two doesn't mean we should."
Jack stared at Claire for an extended beat. "You really think man one fits the crime?"
Claire's eyes snapped back up to meet his, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"Yeah," she said. "I do. Janet Simon's boyfriend was manipulative as hell. That doesn't negate her culpability, but I think we'd be putting forth a terrifying precedent for victims of any type of domestic abuse if we didn't recognize how that psychological pressure influenced her."
Jack nodded. "Okay. Then we'll take man one." He tilted his head toward the phone on his desk. "Give Diamond a call. Tell her I'll send the paperwork tomorrow morning."
A smile crept onto Claire's lips, an expression tinged with relief and pride. "You got it."
"If she wants," Jack added after a pause, "we can even meet with her and her client today to discuss a sentencing recommendation. But I—"
xxx
"—only look like I have a liberal stripe compared to you, Abbie."
Abbie shakes her head, amused. "Okay, I'll give you that one." She sighs, sliding off Jack's desk to sit in the chair across from him. "Who knows? You and I might be more similar than not."
"Really?" Jack says, raising a brow as he crosses his arms over his chest. "You think so?"
"We're both cynics."
Jack scoffs. "That's a little harsh. I think 'realists' is more appropriate."
"Cynics, realists, same difference," Abbie says with another wave of her hand. A thoughtful expression floats across her face, one that also sings with an unspoken sadness. "We both attracted idealists, though, from the sounds of it."
Jack thinks of Claire's stubborn belief in the inherent cruelty of the death penalty, thinks of her lingering weariness at how slowly the cogs of progressive change turned, thinks of her extensive rumination on the action she could take as an ADA to challenge bigoted law.
Jack looks at Abbie, and he knows she's thinking of someone similar.
"Maybe the old adage that opposites attract is true after all," he comments, a tad wryly, and Abbie chuckles.
"Maybe so."
Jack meets Abbie's eyes, and they both smile despite the mournful weight of two ghosts that now hangs over the room.
"We're better people, aren't we?" Abbie murmurs. "For having known people like Claire. Toni."
Abbie's voice doesn't quite catch in her throat as she speaks, but Jack hears her stumble all the same. He heard it in his own voice for years, after all.
Sometimes he still does.
"Yeah," Jack agrees. "Yeah, we are." He offers Abbie a comforting smile. "Maybe we should get—"
xXx
"—rid of this stupid, commercialized holiday," Serena complains, and Jack can't help but raise an eyebrow at the ferocity of her words.
"I didn't know you felt so strongly about Valentine's Day."
"It's a scam," Serena says, certain and matter of fact, "that treats love like a cheap commodity that can be packaged and sold. The world would be better off without this so-called 'holiday.'"
"Uh huh," Jack says, and he bites his tongue to hold back a grin. He sits down in the chair beside Serena's desk. "Do you have an alternative, Ms. Southerlyn?"
Serena gives him a wry smile. "I don't think there should be an alternative. Love is something intimate. It should be celebrated between the people who share it, not blasted on billboards in the shape of red cookie-cutter hearts just meant to sell shitty perfume."
"So love is private?" Jack asks, and Serena grimaces, making a so-so gesture with her hand.
"It's not that people shouldn't be public about their love," she says, and Jack notes an even stronger undercurrent of passion to Serena's words as she dismantles concerns of publicity. "But love is—love is—"
Serena sighs, taking off her glasses and shaking her head. "I don't even know how to put words to it. But love is powerful. People die—people are killed for love every day. What right does anybody have to try and put a price tag on that?"
Jack nods. "I see where you're coming from." A reminiscent smile pulls at his lips, and he chuckles despite himself. "You almost sound like Claire."
Serena tilts her head. "Claire?"
Jack stands, gesturing for Serena to follow him into his office. He heads to his desk, pulling out a portrait of himself and Claire. It's from their trip to Tuscany, where Claire somehow convinced him to slow dance with her on the evening streets by a bubbling fountain. Abbie got the picture blown up and framed for him as a surprise birthday gift, though Jack still doesn't know how she got ahold of the photo in the first place.
"That's Claire. She and I were… together," he says, offering Serena the picture. "Maybe in love. I don't think we were sure."
A soft smile flits onto Serena's face as she takes the photo from Jack, gently running a hand along the wooden frame. "She's beautiful, Jack." She hands the picture back to him, tilting her head inquisitively. "You said 'maybe'?"
Jack sighs, placing the portrait down on a stack of folders. "We didn't have a chance to—"
xxx
"—be together this entire week because of that case," Jack said, pulling Claire close the second the door to her apartment swung shut with a low click behind them. "I missed you."
Claire laughed against his lips when he tried to kiss her. "Wow. That bad, huh?"
"Mm. Can't live without you," Jack murmured, faltering the second the words left his mouth because—
Because maybe there was more truth to them than he was ready to admit.
"Jack?" Claire leaned back, frowning at his pensive expression. "You okay?"
Jack snapped himself out of his distracted stupor. There was no time for an existential crisis now, not when a beautiful woman stood before him with cherry-red lipstick and her arms wrapped comfortably around his neck.
"Of course I am," he said, giving Claire a classic, charm-laden McCoy grin. "I'm with you, aren't I?"
Claire pursed her lips, unable to disguise her amusement. "Clever, clever." Her gaze dropped down to his mouth, and Jack's pulse quickened when her tongue darted out to brush over her bottom lip. "Guess I should show you my thanks."
A smirk quirked at the corners of Jack's lips. "Uh huh. And when will I—"
xxx
"—find out." Jack sits down behind his desk, Serena taking the seat across from him. "She was killed in a car crash seven years ago. Drunk driver."
Serena's brow furrows. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
Jack tilts his head, acknowledging her condolences. "But what I was saying," he continues, "is that Claire wasn't the biggest fan of Valentine's Day, either. She appreciated the sentiment, I think, but the commercialization really bothered her."
Serena nods. "Exactly. I don't have a problem with the idea of a holiday dedicated to love, but the fact that it's only ever advertised as love between a skinny white woman and her tall, muscular white boyfriend—"
Serena cuts herself off, embarrassment tinting her cheeks. "Sorry. This is kind of a soapbox of mine."
Jack holds his hands up. "Soapbox away. Remz won't be here for"—he glances at his watch—"another 15 minutes."
A grin starts to creep onto Serena's lips, but she shakes it off as she sits back in her seat to cross her legs at the knee. "I mean, it's what I said earlier. People get killed because of love every day. And I don't mean husbands killing their wives, or vice versa."
A frustrated huff escapes Serena's lips, and she tucks her loose hair behind her ear. "Gay kids getting beat up at school for daring to hold hands in the hallway. A Black man can't flirt with—can't even talk to a white woman without somebody calling the cops on him." She shakes her head. "My friend told me last week her wedding is delayed because her pastor backed out on officiating the ceremony after learning her husband-to-be isn't technically a practicing Catholic anymore."
Bitterness creeps into Serena's tone. "Chocolate brands and greeting card companies don't exactly give a damn about those types of love, do they?"
"No," Jack admits. "No, they don't."
"It's so frustrating. People—"
xxx
"—act like everything will be completely fine if they close their eyes and hold on tight like it's some kind of movie. But it's not a movie. It's real life, and your real life is dependent on someone else's driving."
Jack couldn't stop an amused grin from dancing onto his lips. "You finished?"
"No!" Claire said, throwing her hands up before pointing at him accusingly. "Will you stop looking at me like I'm being ridiculous?"
Jack chuckled. "That would be impossible, because you are being ridiculous."
Claire rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. The pale pink of her shirt seemed almost electric in contrast to the black of her leather jacket. "Forgive me if I'm reluctant to get on the back of a motorcycle knowing I won't be the one behind the metaphorical wheel."
Honestly, Jack could sympathize with that. He, too, preferred to be the one in control. That said—
"You're gonna be fine," he reassured her. "We both have helmets, we're both wearing jeans, and you've got your jacket and boots for additional protection. It really is just like the movies." He paused, tilting his head. "Except for the closing your eyes part. That's optional."
Though Claire still appeared hesitant, Jack didn't miss the way some of the tension fell from her shoulders—a little more convincing and he'd have her.
"Hey," he said gently. "Do you trust me?"
Claire stared at him, biting her bottom lip. Her arms fell to her sides.
"Yeah," she said, softly, not quite a whisper. "Yeah, I do."
"Then trust that I will safely get us home, where my Valentine's surprise for you awaits," Jack said. He handed her his extra helmet, and after a moment's hesitation, Claire accepted it with a smile.
"You'd better. And that surprise had better be worth the trip, too."
"Don't you know me by now?" Jack teased. "I'm not with those guys who—"
xxx
"—like to pretend the world is a loving place, but they're only willing to extend that love to a fraction of the population." Serena rolls her eyes. "Not to mention their idea of 'love' practically revolves around romance. My little cousin got made fun of mercilessly for buying a Valentine's card for one of her guy friends, because God forbid a girl and a boy not fall in love at age eight."
Jack winces. "I see your point."
"Love should be about trust between any people, romantic or not," Serena says definitively, "and the fact that it isn't drives me batty."
A grin twitches at Jack's lips. "I can tell."
Serena chuckles. "Okay, I'm finished. Thanks for letting me rant."
"Always a pleasure." Jack leans back in his seat, raising a propositioning eyebrow to his ADA. "What do you say I take you to dinner tonight, Ms. Southerlyn? A little act of proof for the world that a man and a woman are perfectly capable of enjoying each other's company without any extracurricular benefits."
Serena laughs loud and true at his choice of phrase, which only makes Jack's grin widen further. "I would love to, Mr. McCoy. Extra emphasis on 'love.'"
Jack tells her to start thinking of some places she'd like to go tonight, his treat, before he begins tucking the photo of himself and Claire from Tuscany back into his desk. Serena throws out a hand to stop him.
"What are you doing?"
Jack pauses. "Putting up the picture?"
"Why don't you keep it on your desk? It's a beautiful photo." Serena gives him a teasing smirk. "You actually look happy in it."
Jack snorts. "Gee, thanks." He glances down at the picture but soon shakes his head. "I can't keep it out." Before Serena can ask why—a question he knows is on the tip of her tongue—he offers an explanation. "Claire was my assistant. Before you, Abbie, and Jamie Ross."
Jack's fingers absentmindedly trace the bottom of the wooden frame, and he barely restrains himself from getting lost in the memory of swaying side to side with Claire in the golden-lit streets of Florence. "We weren't supposed to be in a relationship. Even now there's a lot of people who wouldn't take too kindly to confirmation of… of what Claire and I were to each other."
Serena frowns, dissatisfied with his reasoning. "That's unfair."
Jack shrugs. "Maybe. But that's life."
He tucks the photo back into his desk, ignoring the twinge in his chest as he slides the drawer shut.
"No one should be ashamed of who they love, Jack," Serena says, and within the intensity that burns in her tone Jack swears he can discern a touch of… longing. "I hope—I hope one day you're able to display that picture."
And Jack smiles. "Thank you, Serena." He chuckles, shaking his head. "You know, I never—"
xXx
"—thought I'd see the day you left the office on time, Jack," Alex says, equal parts joking and surprised as Jack walks past her desk at precisely 5 PM.
Jack pauses at her words, but he laughs after their implication sinks in. "What can I say? I'm a man of habit, and that habit includes about a hundred hours of overtime a week." He's exaggerating, maybe, but not by much.
Alex knows it, and she grins. "So what makes today different?"
Jack hesitates.
It's been ten years.
And it's not that her absence hurts the way it used to—though he'd had his doubts, time did gradually make the glaring ache fade from a knife deep in his chest to merely extra weight in his heart—but all the same, the anniversary sometimes makes the wound feel a little fresher, a little more gaping than he knows it really is.
Alex must pick up on his slight discomposure, because she immediately reassures him that it's okay, he doesn't have to tell her if he's not comfortable, she didn't mean to pry—
"It's alright, Alex," Jack interrupts, and he offers her a small smile. "You're not prying." He shifts his briefcase to be held in both hands. "I'm honoring an anniversary. Ten years ago, my…"
Jack trails off, because 'lover' doesn't feel right after all this time and 'girlfriend' feels too shallow for the depth of feelings he has learned to accept they could have, did have, might have had for each other.
"My partner," Jack finally says. "Ten years ago, my partner—a woman I cared for very much—was killed in a car accident."
Alex covers her mouth with hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Jack nods his thanks. A reminiscent smile tugs at his lips. "It's almost funny. Today used to be the only day of the year I would allot my vacation time in advance."
Maybe that was a coping mechanism, he can't be sure. He once considered asking Olivet about the habit, but in recent years Jack hasn't felt compelled to isolate himself the entire anniversary. That's growth, he likes to think.
Healing, even.
Alex nods in understanding. "Are you—"
xxx
"—going to keep flipping through the scrapbook like it'll disappear at the stroke of midnight, or are you gonna tell me if you like it or not?"
"I can't believe this," Claire murmured, which didn't really answer Jack's question. She shook her head. "How did you get all these?"
Jack watched Claire stop on a page full of pictures of herself as a little girl. Her fingers brushed over the edge of a smaller polaroid, one that captured her sitting in a red rocking chair and holding a tiny calico kitten close to her chest.
"I had help," Jack admitted, and he couldn't stop himself from smiling at Claire's unhidden awe over the assorted photos. "Your friend Margot Bell made a few calls to your parents that I, as your boss, would not have been able to without sending up some red flags."
Claire smiled, too. "That's very Margot. I'll have to thank her later." She continued flipping through the scrapbook, laughing at different portraits throughout, but fell quiet when she came to the final section.
Aware he might have been overstating his importance in her life, Jack nonetheless hadn't been able to stop himself from filling a few pages just of photos of himself and Claire. His personal favorite was from the DA's most recent holiday party. They'd unwittingly wandered under some mistletoe, and as to follow tradition without disclosing the intimate nature of their relationship, Claire had stood on her toes to press a chaste kiss to Jack's cheek, no more than a second long.
Jack had a special favor for the photos that had been taken after—namely the one of Claire laughing at the deep red lipstick which newly stained the side of his face.
"Happy anniversary, Claire," Jack said, and he pressed a kiss to her temple as she surveyed the final pages of the scrapbook. "I hope it's not too much."
Claire shook her head, smiling as she flipped to a blank page with a sticky note attached. Jack's messy scrawl read: Go make more memories and scrapbook them, too.
"No, not too much," she said after a pause, closing the scrapbook and setting it aside. "Not too much at all."
Claire shifted so she was sitting in Jack's lap, a closeness that Jack was certainly not going to complain about as she tilted her head down to capture his lips in a slow kiss.
"So," she murmured, "shall I give you your anniversary gift now?"
Jack swallowed hard. "That depends," he managed to say. "Are we—"
xxx
"—doing something in particular, or just going home for self-reflection?"
Ah, 'self-reflection.' Alex really is one of a kind, Jack can't help but think, and he bites his tongue to hold back a chuckle.
"I'm visiting her grave," he says. "Picking up some roses along the way." Red—Claire's favorite color, not by coincidence.
Alex hesitates, shifting in her chair so she's facing Jack directly. "Do you mind if I join you?" she asks. "Please tell me if I'm intruding, but… if you don't mind, I'd like to come."
At first, Jack can only stare. No one has ever asked to join him before. Adam came with him, once, on the first anniversary, partially out of justified fear that Jack would drink himself into oblivion and fail to be dragged back home until hours after dawn, but never before can Jack say he has had requested company at Claire's tomb.
Maybe it's time he changed that.
"I would be honored, Alex," he says, and Alex smiles.
"Thank you."
They take a cab to the cemetery, stopping along the way for Jack to buy a few roses. Alex insists on paying for them, and her insistence succeeds despite Jack's best attempts to prevent it.
During the drive, Alex asks a few questions about Claire, the first being What was her name? She is characteristically gentle as she collects information, no doubt putting together a picture of Claire in her mind, and Jack helps the image along by showing Alex the photo of himself and Claire he's never been able to stop carrying in his wallet.
When they arrive at the cemetery, Jack guides Alex to Claire's grave, and the familiar ache in his chest that always surfaces this day of the year intensifies in its throbbing.
Here lies Claire Marie Kincaid, the headstone reads, followed by her lifespan, a time still cut far too short. Beloved Daughter. Brightest of Souls.
In smaller cursive is a quote from one of Claire's favorite poems: Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.
All these years later, he still struggles to read the full poem. Some reminders…
Some reminders may forever be too great.
A lump rises in Jack's throat. He swallows it, clearing his throat with a cough.
"I brought a friend today, Claire," Jack says after a pause. He kneels beside Claire's grave to place down the small bouquet of roses, and Alex silently joins him. "Alexandra Borgia. She's our newest ADA."
He hums, offering Alex a small smile. "I think you'd like her, Claire."
They both shared a certain… passion for victims' advocacy, where their first attention was always directed to the innocents left behind after violent crimes.
Alex returns Jack's smile before her gaze flits over to Claire's headstone. "Would she mind if I said a short prayer?" she asks.
Jack tilts his head. "No," he finally says. "I don't think she'd mind."
Alex closes her eyes, clasping her hands gently against her chest. "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May—"
xxx
"—you always hear, even in your hour of sorrow, the gentle singing of the lark," Jack murmured, eyes closed and one hand flat atop the closed file on his desk. "When times are hard, may hardness—"
He cut himself off as the door to his office creaked open, and he opened his eyes to see Claire standing on the wooden threshold with a guilty look.
"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
Jack shook his head. "No worries." He gestured to the folder in her hand. "That the final file on the Harkers?"
"Yes," Claire said, crossing the room to give it to Jack. "All the medical records the judge let us subpoena."
Jack opened the file, grimacing as he flipped through the documents and was met with pictures of a child, barely six years old, covered with bruises and red marks the perfect shape and size of an adult man's hand. "Shit."
"It's not pretty," Claire murmured, and Jack nodded in weary agreement.
"Understatement of the century." He closed the file and placed it atop the other folders related to the case, rubbing his temple with his left hand.
Claire hesitated, but after a pause she asked, "What were you saying before I came in?"
Jack blinked, glancing up at her from his desk. "What was I saying?"
Clare shrugged. "I don't know. It sounded… like a prayer, almost."
Oh, right.
"It was," he admitted. "Kind of." He gave her a wry smile. "Turns out when you're raised by the Jesuits, you'll probably end up impertinent, but sometimes a little devoutness sticks, too."
Jack didn't want to mention the other part. How the sight of a little boy and his mother beaten and bruised to oblivion by a father with two big, too-big hands sometimes hit a little too close to home.
Claire nodded. "Of course." She slowly sank into the chair across from him. "You can… You can finish it, if you want."
Jack almost raised a skeptical eyebrow. Instead, he offered his left hand to Claire, palm upward. "Join me?"
Claire's only response was to place her hand on top of his.
Jack closed his eyes. "When times are hard, may hardness never turn your heart to stone. May—"
xxx
"—their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen." Alex concludes her prayer with a sign of the cross, and Jack joins her.
"Thank you," he says, and she smiles.
"My pleasure." Alex glances back at Claire's headstone, and her smile softens further. "I bet she's looking down on you right now. All of our departed loved ones are."
Of all his ADAs, Jack thinks, Alex has always had the most faith. Whether or not Jack agrees matters little, because the fact that Alex is attempting to extend this reassurance to him speaks not only to the level of her faith but to her efforts to make the world a little kinder and a little more hopeful than she found it.
It's hard not to appreciate that.
"I like to think there's a better place after this life," Jack admits after a pause.
It's a thought he rarely voices aloud, being a self-described lapsed Catholic, but Jack knows why people place trust in religion, and it's because of the need for hope—religion provides comfort and safety in an ever more desolate world.
Claire had never been one for religion. Too many times had she seen it used to justify hate, she'd once admitted to him during a very late night at the office, and Jack's response had been to take her hand and gently lace their fingers together, propriety be damned.
But even though Claire wasn't active in any faith, Jack knew she did believe in some kind of higher power. She'd told him that, too, on the 22nd anniversary of her father's death. How could she not, she'd said, how could she not believe that there was something bigger than all of them?
Look at the grace of a spider building its web, listen to the bittersweet song of a nightingale. She'd dropped her head onto Jack's shoulder, voice disappearing into a whisper. The world is too beautiful for there not to be forces more powerful than us at work.
After Claire died, Jack went back to the Church, for a while. It wasn't easy, but he went back. Often alone, but sometimes accompanied by Lennie Briscoe, and a few times even by Rey Curtis. They hadn't all been there for the same reasons, but they'd all been touched by Claire.
That was kinship enough.
Jack says a silent prayer for Briscoe, whatever Heaven he may be in, and sends good thoughts to Curtis, who last Jack heard is still tending to his beloved, ailing wife.
"I'm sure there is a better place," Alex agrees, and she says it with such confidence Jack can't help but believe her. "And I'm sure all of our loved ones are there, too." She smiles at Jack. "Do you think—"
xXx
"—I could have a little time before deciding, Arthur?" Jack says, reeling with the implication of his boss's—former boss's—words. "I don't…" He shakes his head. "This is a lot to take in."
Arthur nods with his typical stoicism. "Of course. The governor and I don't mean to rush you." He pulls on his coat, shrugging it forward over his shoulders. "We can revisit this topic tomorrow."
With that, Arthur leaves, and Jack exhales a breath laden with tension, a tension that is also tinged with quiet excitement.
Interim DA. Him.
Christ alive, Jack never thought this day would come, especially not following Arthur Branch, of all the DAs he'd worked under in the past. And hand-picked by Governor Shalvoy?
Jack's fairly certain he's going to wake up tomorrow and find this was all a dream.
Jack stands from his desk, unsure if that's his bones creaking or his old chair, and walks to the door of his office. He knocks on the glass, catching the attention of Connie across the hall, and motions for her to come in. She gives him an affirmative nod, scribbling one last thing on the notepad Jack can see lying in front of her before she stands. Jack holds the door open for her as she enters, and Connie thanks him with a smile.
"So, what's going on?" she asks, taking a seat in the chair across from his desk as Jack returns to his own chair. "What did Arthur want to talk to you about?"
"Well, I'm sure you've heard all the gossip about Arthur leaving the DA's office," Jack says, and Connie nods.
"I've tried not to put any stock into it, but yeah." She chuckles. "It's hard to miss."
A grin tugs at Jack's lips. "I don't doubt it." He sighs, grin fading. "The fact of the matter is that Arthur will be leaving, and once he's gone, there needs to be an interim DA." Jack doesn't look at Connie as he speaks his next words. "Governor Shalvoy has recommended me."
"What?!" Connie says, congratulatory awe ringing in her tone. "Jack, that's—"
xxx
"—bullshit. It's complete bullshit."
Jack didn't protest as Claire angrily shut off the TV, her finger jamming into the red power button of his remote with perhaps unneeded force. She sat next to him on his striped brown couch, and though Jack wondered if he was playing with fire, he carefully wrapped an arm around Claire's shoulders.
When Claire sighed, resting her head partially against his chest, Jack knew he'd made an acceptable decision.
"You wanna talk about it?" he asked, and Claire snorted.
"No. You'll think it's stupid."
"Hey, come on," Jack said, and he looked down to meet Claire's eyes with sincerity. "I may not agree with you on everything, Claire, but I've never thought any of your opinions were stupid."
On the contrary, it was often the subjects they typically clashed on that Jack found Claire's thoughts most insightful, however much he might disagree.
Claire sighed again, but Jack could feel some of the tension ease from her upper body as she relaxed against his chest.
"Don't tell Adam I said this," she muttered, and her voice was dry, "but sometimes I wonder if the world would be better off without elected district attorneys."
Jack nodded, processing her comment. "Why do you say that?"
"I mean—" A frustrated huff escaped Claire's lips. "On the one hand, I get it. I get why the public needs a voice in choosing the people who have some of the highest authority in prosecuting criminals. But at the same time"—she shook her head—"it's all the goddamn politics, Jack. We're supposed to be lawyers, and yet some DAs out there would rather make a 'statement' than actually help the people they were elected to protect."
"You're right," Jack said without missing a beat, and Claire looked up at him, surprised.
"Seriously? No debate from Jack 'I have to disagree with everybody all the time' McCoy?"
Jack snickered at her sarcasm. "Yes, I'm serious. I can't stand how politics interfere with the law." He shrugged. "The way I see it, someone innocent always ends up getting hurt. And you're right—that is bullshit."
A smile twitched at Claire's lips. "Wow. I like when you agree with me." She kissed his jaw. "You should do it more often."
This time Jack burst into full-on laughter. "Well," he said, grinning, "that might be—"
xxx
"—amazing!" Connie beams at him. "You'll be a fantastic DA. Assuming you keep me around, I'd be honored to work for you."
Jack raises an eyebrow, a smile inching onto his lips. "Trust me, Connie. If you had about five years more experience, I'd gladly make you my EADA."
A blush rises in her cheeks. "Thanks, Jack."
Jack leans back in his seat, dropping his hands to rest clasped in his lap. "I take it you think I should accept the position, then."
Connie stares at him. "Is that even a question?" she says. "Yes, obviously. You would be brilliant."
Jack shrugs. "I'm not a politician, Connie. I don't want to become one, either."
"Then don't."
Jack chuckles. "We both know the district attorney doesn't have much of a choice."
"Says who?" Connie challenges, and her adamance is one of the many reasons Jack wishes she had the experience required to be EADA. "Okay, so DAs of the past have tended to be politicians. That doesn't mean you can't be the first one who isn't."
Jack stares at her for a beat. "You know," he says, smiling as he shakes his head, "your attitude sure reminds me of someone."
"Yeah? Who?"
"An old friend of mine. Claire," Jack says, but before he can say more, Connie tilts her head.
"Oh, Claire Kincaid?"
Jack pauses. "You know her?"
Connie makes a so-so gesture with her hand. "Not quite." She gives him an awkward smile. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I checked you out before I accepted this position. Trust me, it's not personal." A grimace flickers across her features. "I've gotten hit with the one-two punch of racism and sexism by a few bosses in the past. Learned a hard lesson about unhesitatingly accepting job offers out of desperation."
Jack nods in understanding. "No offense taken." He raises an eyebrow. "So… How much do you know about Claire?"
"Not much," Connie admits. "Just what's in the record. She was an ADA of yours under Adam Schiff. Died in 1996. Car crash."
Jack nods again, and Connie throws him a questioning look.
"I'm guessing there was some stuff excluded from the record?"
"We were together," Jack says after a pause, and Connie's eyes widen.
"Oh. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," Jack says, and he means it. "That was 11 years ago."
Almost 12, he's fairly sure. Jack would be lying if he said he didn't miss Claire, because time has taught him no one truly stops missing those they love, but the past has gotten easier to remember, to talk about, to reminisce through every year.
This conversation is no exception.
"Were you married?" Connie asks, and Jack shakes his head.
"No. No, I don't—"
xxx
"—know if I could get married again," Jack admitted. "It's funny, marriage always seems to put an end to perfectly happy relationships."
Claire snorted, shaking her head with thinly veiled amusement. "Oh, yeah. I'm sure that's what happened for you, Jack."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, but he was grinning.
Claire rolled over in her bed so she was facing him directly, and it took all of Jack's willpower not to get distracted by her bare shoulders, by the softness of her dark hair that framed the delicate angles of her face. "Let's just say you're an eternal bachelor, Jack McCoy, and leave it at that."
"Mm. No, that can't be right." Jack moved closer so he could press a kiss across the arch of Claire's cheekbone. "My relationships have always lasted longer than a few months."
Claire hummed as his lips brushed her skin. "But they don't last longer than a few years, either."
"Who knows?" Jack moved his kisses down her jaw. "You could be the one to break me in."
Claire turned her head to catch his next kiss with her own lips, smiling into the touch. "Now wouldn't that be something?"
"Hey, this is the longest relationship I've been in for… a while," Jack admitted after a pause, pulling away slightly to better take in Claire's reaction. They'd be coming up on three years soon, and three years was how long he'd been with Diana. "How does that make you feel?"
Claire arched a brow in response. "How does it make you feel?"
"I asked first."
"My apartment, my rules."
"Ah, touché." Jack reached out to gently push Claire's messy waves behind her ear. "I think… I think whatever happens, this—us—was more than worth it."
Claire chuckled. "But maybe not too sensible."
Jack shrugged. "Since when does love make sense?"
Claire stared at him, maybe because he'd used the L-word or maybe because of the honesty ringing clear as a bell in his tone or maybe just because he was looking at her like she was his entire world.
Hell, maybe all three, Jack thought, and a smile tugged at his lips.
"You're not wrong," Claire said, and Jack's smile widened. "I like to—"
xxx
"—think marriage was something we were ready for." Jack shrugs. "And maybe we never would be." He and Claire hadn't needed marriage to be committed to each other, really, at least not from Jack's perspective. Maybe Claire would have changed her mind later in life.
He couldn't be sure, now.
Some questions would always go unanswered.
Connie nods. "I understand."
And Jack isn't sure she does, but he appreciates the sentiment.
"But Claire was a firm believer in a better future, too," Jack continues after a pause, and he chuckles. "One with less politics in the law."
A grin tugs at Connie's lips. "She sounds like a smart woman."
"The smartest ADA I ever had the chance to work with." He winks at Connie, and she laughs.
"I don't doubt it." She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. "So why don't you prove her right?"
Jack raises a brow. "I'm sorry?"
"Accept the interim DA position. Prove Claire's faith wasn't misplaced, that the district attorney doesn't have to be a politician."
Jack hums, tilting his head. "You think I can?"
Connie shrugs. "You won't know until you try."
And that, Jack thinks, might be the best damn advice he's ever received. "Then it's settled," he says. "Tomorrow—"
Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep.
"—we'll have to go into the office like nothing has changed between us," Claire whispers into the darkness of Jack's bedroom. "Can we do that?"
Jack shrugs. "We won't know unless we give it a shot."
Claire chuckles. "You're a bad influence."
"As if that isn't half my appeal."
"Jesus," she mutters, and Jack snickers. "Listen, McCoy. Don't think—"
I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow.
"—I don't realize what you're trying to do here, Jack," Claire murmurs as Jack kisses up her neck, dropping his hands to her waist as he closes the distance between them from behind.
"And what's that?" Jack mumbles between kisses.
"You're trying to"—Claire inhales sharply when his lips graze behind her ear—"oh, fuck."
"What was that?" Jack says, biting back a shit-eating grin as Claire frees herself from his grasp and turns around to stare at him with narrowed eyes.
"You are so—"
I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain.
"—lucky Adam didn't fire you for that," Claire says, and it doesn't take a mind reader to detect the disapproval in her tone. Jack rolls his eyes.
"If Adam wanted to fire me, he could've done that about a dozen reasons ago."
"For Christ's sake, Jack," Claire says, uncrossing her arms and shaking her head in disbelief. "Can you take anything seriously? You concealed potentially exculpatory evidence. You're lucky you're not getting disbarred!"
"Don't jinx me," Jack says, only half joking, and it's Claire's turn to roll her eyes.
"For once, I wish you would—"
When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush
"—take me to Ireland, huh?" Claire teases, and Jack raises an eyebrow.
"Not trying to follow Diana's footsteps, are you?"
"Don't worry, I know how to learn from the past," she says, and Jack remembers a judge's robes shadow her youth the way broken hearts of three assistants do his.
"You really want to go to Ireland?" Jack asks after a pause, and now Claire has to do a double take.
"Jack. I was kidding."
"I'm not."
Claire stares at him a beat longer. "No," she finally says, "I'm not interested in Ireland. I'd rather—"
Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night.
"—see a smile, Jack, come on!"
Jack's childish response is to clamp a hand over his mouth, and Claire groans, exasperated.
"You're such a shit."
"Love you, too," Jack teases from behind his hand, and the silence that falls in the photo booth is heavier than clouds before a storm as Claire stares at him with wide eyes.
"Do you?" she whispers, uncertain, and Jack's hand slowly falls from his mouth.
"Yeah," he says, honestly. "Yeah, I do."
And a small, almost bashful smile tugs at Claire's lips. "Good." She reaches over to lace her fingers through his. "Because I think I might love you, too."
Jack grins, too, because they are—
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
—standing at his door with wet eyes and weary faces.
"There's been an accident, Jack," Anita Van Buren says, her voice cracking.
"It's Claire," Adam Schiff says, older than he's ever been.
Jack can't breathe, because he is—
I am not there.
—kissing Claire Kincaid for the first time, his heart pounding out of his chest.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Jack murmurs, pulling away.
"I want to do this," Claire counters, tugging him down into another kiss.
She wants to do this, because she is—
I did not die.
28 years old when a drunk driver smashes into the left side of her car.
28 years old when she goes to pick up Jack McCoy from a bar, finding Lennie Briscoe.
28 years old when she wonders if she can really be an ADA for the rest of her life.
28 years old when she confronts her stepdad about lethal injection and its moral quandary.
28 years old when Jack McCoy says she has the flu, promising to cover her cases.
28 years old when she watches a man die at the stroke of midnight.
28 years old when she and Jack McCoy prepare to celebrate three years.
27 years old when Jack McCoy first tells her he loves her.
26 years old when she first kisses Jack McCoy.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and she will never be 29.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and it's not enough.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and it's too much.
Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies because time has stretched strained severed her thread of life, and yet—
Forever, forever she is loved.
(Do you know, do you get?
It's just goodbye, it's not the end.)
xXx
There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.
―Shel Silverstein
thank you to everyone who gave this fic a shot; your readership, kudos, and comments mean the world to me xoxo
(if you'd like to scream about kincoy with me, im on tumblr at thinkingisadangerouspastime)