Something Stupid

by Bleu

who knows she does not own Jack, Claire, or any other Law and Order characters/places, but she enjoys playing with them so she hopes Dick Wolf won't mind!

[Part 1 - Afterglow]

"I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend the evening with me…" were the lyrics struggling over the bristles of static and rumbling of washing machines in the East End Laundromat.

The muffled thumping of a younger blue-haired girl's portable tape player also added to the din, as well as the clinking of her multiple bracelets, and the rustling of the newspaper as a thick, round man who was seated on a suffering folding chair paged through, his fingers slick with ink. An elderly couple stood towards the back, entirely silent, immersed in a weekly ritual of folding their wash. They did it with such precision and discipline that even the least perceptive of an outsider knew it was an act they had performed since before their hair had grayed, their children had grown, and their bones had weakened.

All this, however, was lost on the final occupant of the dingy, yellow establishment. She had dark hair, secured on the top of her head with a dark pink band, falling around her face. Her sweatpants were baggy around her thin frame, and her tank top form-fitting. Her gray hooded-sweatshirt was draped around her, with the word Harvard printed across the front. She attacked a chicken Caesar salad with a vengeance as she tapped her tennis shoe against the rumbling washer, which was churning her work clothes in its inner sudsy sea.

As she poked with her plastic fork at a particularly questionable chunk of chicken, she decided that like the chicken, she had seen better days. She was usually an early riser on the weekends, but after last night her enthusiasm had been dampened to say the least. She hadn't woken until 11 (to nothing except an indented pillow), and there was so much wash lying around her bedroom floor (and living room floor and bathroom floor and hallway floor) that it read like a who's-who of business suit designers. So she had thrown on some sweats and collected the array into three baskets, which meant three trips down four floors of her apartment building to her tiny Toyota Tercel and three more back up to retrieve the other baskets.

Now, as she sat on the lid of a dryer, Claire Kincaid tossed the black plastic plate into a nearby garbage can with a disgusted flick of her hand.

This cloud of misery she had hovering over her head was immature, childish nearly. She wasn't a young, naïve teenager. This mistake was something that needed to be moved past, not dwelled upon; after all, if she made a big deal about it, it would only magnify the original mistake.

That isn't what's bothering you, her inner voice told her as she paged through the latest edition of Cosmopolitan. It held nothing more than glossy pictures of perfect models and lists of erotic turn-ons, neither of which gave her much motivation to stick with it. She pushed it aside and stood restlessly, nearly stepping on Blue Hair's toes, but it didn't disturb the teen in the least.

With an unconscious move of her hand to push away a stray lock of hair, Claire dug into her pocket for 35 cents. It was then—as she plucked the nickel and quarter from the lint collection that came up with them—that she noted the song that fought bravely with the static. With a rather ungraceful snort, she moved towards the pay phone.

"…and afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two…" Sinatra sang.

With a frustrated clank, she put the pay phone back down and listened to her change rattle its way down the metallic shoot. What would you say to him, anyway, Kincaid? she thought sardonically. "I'm sorry I actually expressed feelings. I know it's against your rules of conduct…" yeah, that will really win him over. She bit her tongue.

It wasn't the fact that she had said what she had said that upset her, although her rashness made her stomach sting with disapproval. It was more his reaction, she realized, that had her pawing her way through a self-pitying blanket.

Sinatra finished his melodic ballad:

"…and then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like "I love you"…"

When the timer on her washing machine announced itself, she blinked back angry tears and busied herself with the transfer of her first load to the dryer and her second load to the washing machine.

What fool, she thought fleetingly as a rocky tune began to thump in the speakers, would actually assume that Jack McCoy would say "I love you" back to them?

A/N: Okay, I thought up this fic after watching the Law and Order episode "Homesick". It's just a little beginning, I actually hope to continue, so if it's too horrible to warrant a second part (featuring my favorite, Jack) let me know through reviews! If you like it (hopefully) and/or have some tips, let me know through reviews and/or e-mail. Either way, PLEASE review. This is my first Law and Order fic. Thanks!