Something Stupid
By Bleu
…who understands she does not own Jack, Claire, or any other Law & Order characters/places, but she enjoys playing with them so she hopes Dick Wolf won't mind too much.
[Part 2 – The Wall]
"All in all, it was just another brick in the wall…"
Syd Barrett murmured the melancholy, nearly sorrowful lyrics once again in refrain as the sound faded from the speakers. It was time for the next song. Another snapshot of the writer's mind and soul on a certain day, put to instruments. That was how he'd always seen music. Not solely entertaining, as much as it was sometimes, but as a way to understand people outside his realm of familiarity.
As he closed the storage compartment of his well-kept, prized Harley, he looked East, against the blazing sun, to see if the source of the music was to be known. It was. A middle aged man, possibly early forties, sitting in mid-sized Ford at a nearby red light, apparently testing out his sound system's capabilities, sans a spouse or child, sure to sneer at the volume and choice of the tune.
He was just about that man's age, and he was sure the melody brought back similar memories of a time when he was in the limbo of post-childhood but pre-adulthood, trying to decide which was more preferable. Jack McCoy was often questioned, often lately, as to whether or not he had ever totally left that state of mind.
Your actions last night haven't exactly worked in your defense. His inner, critical voice, respectfully dubbed Adam, told him. Jack shook off the thought, and started towards his car. The Harley would not cut it today, with highs only expected to be 45, no sir. He sighed, as he realized that he must be getting old if he's turning down his Harley for other modes of transportation when the weather dipped below 60.
It was only a 45-minute trip, at best, once he cleared the congested streets of Manhattan. And yet, the suburbia that his brother had nestled himself in with his wife and children seemed like an entirely different universe.
Secure houses, with locks and doorbells that rang to the tune of a nursery rhyme. Open back yards, with pools and trampolines. A dog that was pedigreed and tame. A two-story colonial house, with a room for each child and one for the loving parents. Plenty of extra space for visiting relatives. An asphalt driveway never quite clean of children's play chalk.
Yes, it was the life Paul Patrick McCoy had chosen. This, in comparison to his older brother John James, who even while participating in the arena of married life had never owned a minivan or had a mortgage. He and his wife had shared a 5-room apartment way out of their means, with only room for them and their daughter, Laura. They had also no back yard, but Laura had been content playing in Central Park, much larger than any yard her cousins could compare. There pet had been a goldfish named Elvis, who was buried in a small grave on the West side of Central Park, the toothpick grave marker long gone.
As Jack settled into the driver's seat of his royal blue Chevrolet Monte Carlo, he took a breath, watched the vapor settle on the windshield. Despite the intensity of the sunlight and the fact it was the middle of spring, the weather was bitter.
He turned on the car and listened to the mechanics click into place, and the heater roar to life. He moved the car slowly from the parking garage below his apartment, and settled behind a black, gas-guzzling SUV, the middle aged man and his Ford and his Pink Floyd long gone.
"Another snapshot in a family album…" Even without the recorded version, Jack knew the tune well and sang it softly in the closed space of his car. Only a three people—his ex-wife, his daughter, and recently Claire—had ever heard him sing.
Kathy's opportunity had been a soft murmur in her ear, at their wedding, as they swayed to "Your Song" by Elton John. Laura's had been each night for the first 7 years of her life as she drifted to sleep. And Claire's…well, hers had begun as an accident.
He had been in the shower, one morning before work, taking an unusually slow time about it. It had been near the beginning of their relationship, one of the first nights they had ever spent together. It was his apartment, so his comfort level was steady, and he hadn't heard her come in and begin brushing her teeth, so he had begun singing a catchy pop song he'd heard on the radio, "Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something, whom at the time he had never heard of. He was not familiar with the song, as he only knew the chorus, but that didn't stop some soulful vocalizing.
He hadn't even known she was listening, that is until she giggled.
Frozen, mid-washing and singing, Jack raised an eyebrow.
"Claire?"
"Took a little creative license, I see." She replied, and he pushed the curtain around so he could see her, hair halfway to its normal coif, wearing one her button up shirts, smiling with a bit of toothpaste on her chin.
"I can't help it if you can't understand what the singer is saying." He rationalized, pushing some suds out of his face. She giggled again, not in an annoying childish way, but in a cute, adoring way. He took her arm and pulled her over to the shower, unbuttoning that prissy shirt she wore.
If he recalled correctly, they had both been late for work that day.
With a distracted tap on the gas, Jack's car glided forward and maneuvered through the light traffic. Chilly Saturdays inspired most native New Yorkers to snuggle up in their beds until at least noon. Jack envied them. As much as he loved weekend visits to Paul's house, being curled into a bed with Claire was at the moment a preferred situation.
But you've done a nice job of lousing that up, haven't you? "Adam" said again. Jack shook his head. He hadn't meant, by God, to hurt Claire. She had just…caught him off guard. Yes, off-guard, that's all. But when does that sort of thing ever occur when you're on-guard? Never. Life wasn't kind like that.
He tried to push through the muddle that was the events of last night.
There had been tension. Tension at dinner. It was the Mickey Scott case. Briscoe and Curtis were closing in on an arrest, and Adam (the literal one, not Jack's conscience) had made it clear that the public wanted to see an execution, and he wanted to get it by using Jack as his lead prosecutor.
They had been together for nearly 2 years. They talked about work outside of it, but they usually didn't let problems from work contaminate their personal lives. Only one case before, the Sandig trial, had succeeded in a few nighttime battles. But this Scott case was already causing rifts between them, and it wasn't on his docket. Yet.
So yes, there had been tension. Tension, pasta, and wine. Yes, wine. Wine for Claire, not him. The stuff was too sugary for Jack. He preferred the sharp, cough-syrupy taste of liquor. He hadn't done so in great excess at first, but a double shot of whiskey twice during dinner had begun the slow progression. She normally didn't mind if he drank. She'd been known to put away a few shots of Grey Goose at times. But that night, she seemed a little saddened.
But they had still gone back to her apartment. Probably because it was closest to the restaurant and he wouldn't let her drive, despite his state. Either way, he had a cloudy remembrance of leaning against the wall outside her apartment while she dug for her key.
Had they made love right away? He didn't think so. He remembered having coffee. Not the small, delicate cup from the restaurant, full of water. Strong, dark coffee from her pot, in a wide cup with flowers on it.
That's when they made love. After coffee. She hadn't had any, because he remembered the sugary whisper of the wine in her mouth when they kissed. Afterwards was the fight. It was a fight he knew, not just a debate, because he remembered her crying. Not the gasping, romance-movie, bosom-heaving sobs, but there had been tears in her eyes and on her face.
The very memory of it stung his chest as he finally reached the George Washington Bridge. What had the fight been about? For the life of him, he couldn't remember. It would not have mattered, in the end. He had been drunk. A fight over spoiled orange juice could become nasty.
He wished he wasn't handling this hangover so well. It felt like he deserved more of a headache, more dry-mouth, and more memory of the night before and his own behavior. His mind was foggy as to the many aspects of the night, but one thing was dead certain.
Claire had told him she loved him, and he had not said a word.
"…all in all, it's just another brick in the wall…"
A/N: Okay, I wrote the first part of this fic in August…nearly 8 months ago. I thank those of you who reviewed before for your encouragement and for not giving up on me, even though I took somewhat of a hiatus. I hope you enjoy this part, too. I just love working with Jack and Claire, particularly him because he has so many depths to work with…and you can tell its 1:38 am when I'm talking this way about a television character…Anyway, many thanks, and reviews are appreciated!