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Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Highwire - Part 16

Jack woke first. His head felt thick from the alcohol he'd consumed. He looked over at Claire, who slept peacefully, and hoped she wouldn't feel too hung-over. She had rolled so that she was facing him. One hand was tucked under her cheek.

He reached over and smoothed some hair out of her face. She stirred, but did not wake. He continued gazing at her, again awe-struck by her loveliness. He moved closer to her, dropping his hand down to rest on her side, just above her hip. He encountered skin rather than cotton, and knew her tank top had ridden up in sleep.

She woke to find him staring at her intently, a small smile playing at his lips.

When her eyes fluttered open, he asked, "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine, now," she replied huskily.

"Now?"

"Didn't you hear me get up earlier?" she asked him. "I thought you were a light sleeper?"

"I am... usually... but not when I go to bed drunk," he told her "So you got up? Were you sick?"

She shook her head, "I felt like I was going to be, though. I got up and laid on the sofa for a little while."

"Headache?"

"Yes, when I was up earlier. But I found your supply of ibuprofen, and it's gone now." she explained. "What about you?"

"I've been better... but I've certainly been a helluva lot worse, so..."

"How much did you let me drink last night?" she queried.

"Oh, I don't know.... six, seven shots... maybe more. Plus the scotch you had when you got here."

"Really? That much, eh?" she seemed to have impressed herself to some degree. "Do me a favour, will you?" she said, pushing him onto his back and moving so that she sat astride his thighs, "Stop me at four or five from now on, okay?"

"But you're so much fun when you've had too much to drink," he said, bringing his hands up to rest on her waist.

"Yeah, but I passed out on you, right?"

He nodded, his hands beginning to inch their way upward.

She took hold of his wrists, drew his hands up over his head, threaded her fingers through his, and pinned his arms to the bed. "Think how much more fun I would have been if I hadn't gone unconscious on you."

"Trust me," he said, a look of mischief crossing his face, "I had my fun."

"With me lying limp beneath you?" she asked, lowering her lips to kiss his neck.

"You'd be surprised at the advantages that situation presents. For one thing, I only have to worry about my own satisfaction."

She bit into the flesh of his shoulder.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "What was that for?"

"Insolence."

"Me? Insolent? Never!"

"That innocent, puppy dog expression isn't going to work on me, Buster."

"It's not? Damn!" he teased. "You're made of tougher stuff than I thought."

"That's right! And don't you forget it!"

She leaned down to kiss him, releasing his hands, which he quickly moved to rest on her hips.

"You're conscious now," he reminded her, as though she would forget. "We could have that fun right now."

"I thought you already had your fun?" she said seriously.

He chuckled. "Your memory is too damn good, woman!"

She sat, staring down at him, and he slipped his hands beneath her tank top, sliding hem up higher. Just before he reached her breasts, she stopped him, and pushed his hands away, dropping hers to stroke his shoulders and chest. She ran her fingers along, feeling the muscles beneath his skin as they contracted and released beneath her light touch.

Her hands glided lower, fingers tracing the outline of his pecs. They continued on down, over his abdomen, pass his belly button, and slid beneath the waistband of the boxers he wore. He closed his eyes in anticipation. Seeing this, Claire smiled slyly to herself, and massaged her was back up over his stomach, chest, and shoulders. She repeated this taunting, tantalising massage, several times, until she knew, from his ragged breathing, and the look in his eyes that he had just about enough of her torment. Still, she did not cease right away, only continued to stroke his chest, arms, shoulders, and further down, each movement of her hand on his skin driving him further and further along the road of arousal.

When he thought he was going to go out of his mind if she didn't stop, he reached up, and pulled her face down to his, devouring her lips with his own, a need more powerful than any he'd ever known coursing through his body. It was more than the need to be physically intimate with her, though that, too, was part of it. He needed to connect with her, with this beautiful, wonderful woman with him. He needed to connect with Claire on every level he could.

He released her lips, but held her face very close to his.

"I really do love you, Claire...you know that?"

"I know you do, Jack," she said quietly. "Did you really think I didn't?"

He leaned up and kissed her again, softly.

"I love you, too, Jack."

He let go of her neck, and brought his hands around to her face, holding her hair out of her eyes, searching them with his own.

"You mean it." he said.

"Yes, Jack, I do. Of course I do."

Pushing his torso off the bed with his hands, he sat up, wrapping his arms around Claire's waist.

"I don't know what brought last night about, Claire, but I'm grateful for it. I haven't gotten drunk for fun in a long time."

She understood what he meant. When he drank, it was usually to dull the ache, the loneliness, the contempt for others, and himself.

"It WAS fun, Jack," she agreed. "You need to have more fun."

"I was beginning to think that I'd forgotten how," he confessed. "That is, until you walked into my office one July afternoon. I started looking forward to work again. I'd always enjoyed the work, the arguing cases and hard-assing defendants and their attorneys. But coming into the office....dealing with co-workers on a daily basis... I'd begun to hate it.

"I wanted you from the moment you walked into my office. Wanted to make you mine, at first because you said you wouldn't be, but that quickly changed. You were... are... this amazing, intelligent, beautiful creature, who gives me hell when I act like a bastard, and who won't always play the game by my rules.

"I'm sorry for the circumstances leading up to Ben Stone's resignation, but if he hadn't resigned, I wouldn't have you in my life. You've made me happy again, and for that I'll never be sorry."

Claire cupped his face in her hands and gazed lovingly at him. His vulnerability was showing through again. Every now and then, he would say or do something, or look at her a certain way that brought home the power she held over him, and she was at once thrilled that he trusted her enough to place his heart in her hands, and scared by the responsibility that entailed.

"For God's sake, don't blow this, Claire," she told herself whenever he looked at the way he was now; face a mask of masculine vulnerability tinged with the sorrows of the past. "Look at him... he loves you. It's so obvious. Don't hurt him the way everyone else has."

"Jack... I know you've been hurt by love in the past, over and over... though I don't know the details. And you let yourself fall in love with me anyway. Thank you for that. Thanks for trusting me enough."

"I didn't have any choice, Claire," he said, voice low and full of emotion. "God! How could I not fall in love with you?"

"I know you don't think so, know you think you don't deserve it, but I feel the same way about you."

"I believe you Claire ... but you still might have to remind me of it every now and then."

"That shouldn't be a problem," she told him. "I love you, Jack, and I'm going to keep telling you so until you quit looking at me as though you doubt it. And when you do, I'll keep telling you, lest you forget."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart," she said, making the sign of the cross over her head with a finger. "I'll pinkie-swear if it will make you feel better."

He craned his neck up and bruised his lips against hers softly, quickly, and retreated.

"There," he said quietly. "Sealed with a kiss ... If you should break it now..."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him close, his temple pressed against her cheek. After a time, he gripped her sides and held her slightly away from him. The heat of his gaze bore into her across the distance of mere inches.

"I'm ready for that fun, now," she leaned down and whispered seductively into his ear.

He raised his eyebrows at her when she sat back again.

He was, of course, more than glad to oblige her.

He reached for the bottom of her tank top and pulled it slowly up. She raised her hands over her head and he pulled it off of her. He crushed his lips to hers in a fierce kiss, to which she could not help but respond.

His hands passed over her breasts, the merest hint of palms grazing her nipples, and it sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. They passed over them again, his touch more firm this time. His hands produced the desired effect --a low moan-- when he gently squeezed her breasts. He lowered his head to encircle the peak of one with his tongue while his fingers nimbly toyed with the other.

He wrapped his left arm around her, and holding her close, turned to his left and lay her gently down. He knelt next to her for a moment, heart leaping at the smile she gave him, and at the look in her eyes, which had misted over with passion. He moved so that he sat astride her knees, and reached down to smooth his hands along the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, and down, then slid them back up again. At her hips, he paused, then began to work her underwear off of her. He moved backward and pulled first one, and then the other leg free of the thin satin garment. He traced her calf as he lowered her leg, then positioned himself between her parted thighs.

She reached for him, and he let her draw him in. She kissed him, and he kissed back, her lips soft and pliant beneath his. He loved the way her soft, pale skin felt like warm silk against his. He moved lower, and kissed the base of her throat, the vein there leaping under his lips. He kissed his way ever downward, tongue flicking into her navel as he continued lower. He nipped gently at the soft, tender flesh of her inner thighs, before lowering his head to pleasure her with his mouth.

He did this for many long, achingly sweet minutes, though she could not have said for how long, driving her to the brink of release and back again more times than she could have accounted for. After a time, to gauge her reactions, he paused and looked at her. She lay gasping for air, skin flushed, lush body writhing, hands balled into fists that clutched his sheets so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

He smiled, and rose to cover her body with his, gingerly lowering himself on top of her, feeling her hardened nipples pressing against his chest. Her body was slick with perspiration from his earlier tender assault. She clung tightly to his shoulders as he closed his mouth over hers and swallowed her moans and mewling cries of pleasure with a heated kiss.

Claire slid her hands down to cup the firm globes of his behind, then began to tug his boxers down. He moved away from her and removed them, took care of the protection, and lay back down beside her, on his side.

One of his hands slid down her torso, between her thighs, to gently stroke the place his mouth to which his mouth had so recently paid such loving attention.

"Jack...please....stop..." she begged.

His hand left her, and his lips stopped kissing her neck.

"Stop? What's wrong?" he asked, obviously concerned.

She breathed hard for several moments, until her speech wasn't so marred by breathlessness. "I don't mean stop altogether....just stop teasing. God, I want you too much to take much more."

She was still laying on her back, and he drew the leg closest to him up over his hip, positioning his bent leg so that his thigh rested between hers. He entered her in this position, both gasping at the new and slightly different sensations brought on by this new position.

As he began to move in and out of her, he reached with the hand that was beneath him to stroke her dark hair. The friction caused by his thigh rubbing against her swollen womanly jewel was so great, and so aroused was she already, that her first release rocked through her body in not time at all. As the climax shook through her, he held her tightly and ceased his movement.

He stayed within her as she recovered, and was delighted when she began to move against him. After a few moments, she pulled away and rolled to face him. Jack drew her thigh over his hip and entered her again, thrusting deep as she brought her lips to his. They moved together, the only sounds their heavy breathing, and moans of pleasure. Claire leaned back to look into Jack's eyes.

Her fingers played across his face, running over his lips. She closed her eyes as a feeling of great love welled within her. She opened them again, to see him looking back at her. "Oh God, Jack, I love you" she whispered breathlessly, "I love making love to you."

"Claire," he groaned. "Claire...I love you."

She rolled to her back, pulling Jack with her.

He braced himself on his hands and looked down at her.

"You're an incredible woman, Claire Kincaid, you know that?" he asked, heart filled to near capacity with his love for her. "You came into my life and filled a void I thought would never be filled."

"Jack..." she breathed, arching up against him.

"Claire... I look at you sometimes... and it hurts...it hurts I love you so much."

"Jack...Jack, I love you too," she whispered.

"Before you came along, I was floundering...I was..."

"Shhhhhh, love," she said, resting a finger against his lips for a second, then beginning to caress his shoulders and back. She pulled him down to her, pulled him in for a kiss, and murmured, "make love to me, Jack," against his lips.

They began to move once more, neither of them saying anything intelligible for a good deal of time.

*****

They decided to spend the day together. Neither of them had been very hungry for breakfast, so Jack had made coffee and some toast.

While Jack showered, Claire dressed and headed for home, where Jack would meet her when he was ready, so that she could shower and change clothes.

She was in her robe, brushing out her hair after having used the blow dryer, when Jack knocked. She hurried to the door, and let him in.

"I'm almost ready," she told him, then headed back down the hall to her bedroom. "I'll just be a couple of more minutes."

Jack went in and sat on the sofa. He had been there for just over a minute when Lucy came and jumped up on the couch. She insinuated herself onto Jack's lap, and laid down. She purred loudly as he began to stroke her fur. Jack smiled... he'd never been much of a cat person.... much of a pet person full stop.

When he was 8 or 9 years old, a stray dog had followed him home one day. He had thought to keep it. His father hadn't been home at the time, and between his pleas, and those of his big-hearted kid sister, his mother had been persuaded to talk the old man into allowing the children to keep their new pet.

If Jack had known what this request would cost his mother, a sweet, docile, long-suffering woman who endured much for the sake of her children, he never would have asked.

His mother ended up in the emergency room that night, with a couple of cracked ribs, some bruises, and a bloody nose. The official cause, of course, considering the investigating cops called in by the attending ER physician worked for the same precinct as his father, was a bad fall in the kitchen.

The next day, his father had taken the dog to a veterinary hospital to be destroyed. Not to the pound to give it a chance at adoption by some other family, but taken and deliberately, with malice, put to sleep. It was then that Jack had begun to hate his father. He had always hated the beatings regularly doled out to his mother, and often enough to himself, but to a poor, hapless stray..... he didn't understand how his old man could be so cruel.

He looked down at Lucy, purring so contentedly on his lap, and cringed at the memory.

"It would be impossible not to like this cat," he thought to himself. She had the sweetest looking face, she was soft and affectionate, though independent as all cats are. And, she belonged to Claire, who loved her cat very much, he knew.

He flashed for a moment on the anger and hatred he had felt for his father that day, the day he had taken that poor, happy, unsuspecting mutt to be put down. The utter frustration and helplessness of being a child who could not stop the actions of a cruel parent washed over him again, and he recalled that he had not gone to school that day, instead staying home to sit with his mother, to cry the tears of a small boy who had already endured a lifetime of pain and anguish. His father never knew about that.

He could remember telling his mother that he wished his father dead that day. He prayed silently as he wept over his mother while she slept that his father would get shot or killed at work, or in a bar brawl (he'd been in many), or drink himself to death...anything that would mean he'd leave his wife and children in peace. He wished for this many times after that day, but as much of a bastard as John J. McCoy, Sr. was and had always been, he seemed to live a charmed life, dying many years later, after having buried his wife several years earlier.

Claire came into the living room and found him petting her cat, a sad, far-off expression on his face.

"Thinking about Koppel again?" she asked him.

He shook his head, clearing the memory. "No... I ....I um.... I was just thinking about something that happened when I was a kid... and it wasn't a pleasant memory."

"No unhappy thoughts today," she said softly, sitting down next to him, reaching down to pat her cat. "I won't allow it.... Unless, of course, you'd like to talk about it?"

He shook his head again.

"I didn't think so," she said as she stood and held out her hand to him. "C'mon... let's get out of here."

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I thought we could go for a walk in Central Park... or along the Hudson," she said. "Sound okay?"

"More than okay," he replied.

*****

They entered Central Park on the lower east end, near the Plaza Hotel, and began to walk, heading no where in particular, gloved hands clasped tightly together.

They came across a pretzel vendor (not an uncommon commodity in Manhattan, and Jack remarked, "God, I haven't had a pretzel in ages."

"Do you like salt? Mustard?" she asked.

When he nodded, she let go of his hand and walked over to the cart, steam rising around it in the cold December air. She ordered one with salt for Jack, one without for her, both with a side of mustard, with a Coke for Jack and a diet one for herself. Jack smiled as he watched her order, watched her pull off a glove and fish the money out of her purse. She walked back toward him, and he hurried forward, to help her carry the snacks. He followed her to an empty bench, and they sat down to eat.

"I didn't mean that as a hint that you should buy me a pretzel," he told her, breaking off a piece and dipping it.

"I know," she said, "But Christ Jack... I don't even want to begin to speculate about what you spent on me this weekend. The least I can do is buy you a stupid pretzel."

"I'm not keeping score," he said, seriously, "Besides... you give me something worth far more than a million nights at the Waldorf."

He grinned at her and she reached over to stroke his face lightly for a moment.

*****

When they had finished their pretzels and tossed their trash, they continued their walk through the park, commenting on passers-by, on the mild weather they were having for this time of year. Claire smiled at some children playing on a play-structure, all bundled up against the cold, there shrill laughter high, and happy. She looked over at Jack, who was smiling rather sadly, and wondered what he was thinking.

Eventually, they happened upon an ice-skating rink.

"Jack?" she queried, "Do you skate?"

"I played hockey when I was a boy," he said, "But I haven't skated in years, not since Maggie was a little girl. I think she was 11 or 12 the last time I took her to Rockefeller Center."

"Do you want to?"

"What? Skate? Now?" he asked.

"Yeah. Skate. Now," she replied.

"Why not?"

*****

They skated, holding hands at times, laughing. They skated for a good amount of time. Claire was graceful as ever. Jack was less so, tripping at one point, when Claire was skating in front of him, facing him, moving backwards, holding his hands. When he tripped, he loosed his grip on her hands, and fell forward, landing on the ice.

Claire laughed as she helped pull him up. "Guess it's not like riding a bike, eh?" she joked as he stood. Beet red with embarrassment was not a state in which she was accustomed to seeing Jack McCoy, and she found it more than a little endearing.

"Guess not," he said..

"You okay?" she asked, trying to contain her mirth.

"My pride is wounded, but I'll live."

Claire was still laughing. To her credit, Jack noted, she tried to stifle it, but there was something that bordered on hilarity in her mind about Jack McCoy picking himself so ingloriously off the ice, glancing around to see if he had been noticed, and dusting himself off.

"I'm glad you find this so funny," he said, trying to sound severe.

"I'm sorry," she choked, "I'm not laughing at you...well, I am, but...not really....not really you as much as the idea of... Ugh, forget it, I can't explain."

He reached for her, but she skated backward just out of his reach.

"C'mere," he said, "I want to show you something.

She shook her head, skeptical. "I can see just fine from here."

"If you want to see, you have to come here."

"What makes you think I want to see?"

"Because I know you....C'mere."

She slowed and let him reach her. He rested his hands on her waist when he did.

"Alright. What are you going to show me?" she asked.

"The penalty for mockery," he announced, a wild look in his eye.

He reached into her coat and began to tickle her ribs. She tried to pull away, but he quickly grabbed hold of her coat. She tugged backward, but he held tight, and while he lost his balance, he did not lose his grip. He began to fall again, this time pulling Claire with him, and they ended up, laughing, in a heap on the ice.

*****

After skating, while Jack returned the skates, Claire bought them both a hot cocoa --something both admitted loving, though not having had in quite some time-- and they headed out through the park.

As they headed back the way they'd come, Claire asked, "What do you want to do for dinner?"

"Eat," he said.

She snorted and elbowed him in the ribs.

"We can eat somewhere near my place," she said, "Or somewhere around here. Or I can cook. How hungry are you?"

"Starved."

"Me too. Let's eat around here. "I'm buying."

"Good!"
*****

Later, in the hallway outside Claire's apartment, Claire was having a wee bit of trouble getting the door open. This may have had something to do with the fact that Jack had come up behind her, brushed her hair aside, and had busied himself nibbling on the side of her neck as he wrapped his arms around her. When the last lock finally gave, she pushed the door open, and walked forward. Jack let her go, and followed her into her dwelling. She shrugged her coat off and opened the closet near the entrance to her condo, and hung it on the hook attached to the door. She hung Jack's over hers, shut the door, and quickly found herself pulled around and to him, and then pushed up against the closet door.

"Today was nice," he said, his hand holding her neck as he pressed his lips against her forehead.

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself... you seemed so sad earlier," she commented, "I'm glad I could take your mind off whatever it was."

His eyes darkened for a moment, with memory she supposed, and he said, "That.....what I was thinking about earlier... can never be very far from my mind."

"What, Jack? What is it? Tell me."

He looked away, and she turned his face back to her.

"I want to be there for you emotionally, Jack," she told him, focusing her gaze on him, "But you have to let me."

"I've never talked about this with anyone... never, other than my sister...I'm not sure that I can."

He let her go, and walked into her living room.

She followed him.

"Can I start a fire?" he asked.

She nodded.

When he was done, he went and sat beside her on the sofa where she had seated herself.

"My family..." he said, "God this is hard to talk about, I've kept it in so long. My family was pretty fucked up, there's no other way to describe it. My old man... he was a helluva cop, but he wasn't a very good man. He was a bastard, as a husband and a father. He.... he abused my mother their entire marriage, or at least for as long as I could remember."

He paused for a moment, and looked down, taking a deep breath.

"I suspected that," she told him softly, "From some of the things you've said."

He nodded.

After a moment, she asked, "Did he abuse you and your sister, as well?"

Jack pushed his hands off his knees and stood. He crossed to the window and stared out into the night.

With his back to Claire, he said, "Me..... but not Becky..."

"What made you think about it today?" she asked

He shrugged, "Sometimes the littlest thing will bring back some memory. I was petting your cat, and was suddenly reminded of something that happened when I was a kid."

He didn't continue, and so she prompted him. "What did you remember?"

"Claire, I feel like I've already said more than I should."

"But why, Jack? What do you think is going to happen if you tell me? I'm not going to leave... I won't think less of you, how could I? You weren't responsible for what went on in your house."

"But this time I was, don't you see?" he asked wheeling to face her, his voice strangled.

She stood and went to him. He moved away from her, back to the couch. He was running, not from her, but from his memory, from the guilt he felt. She followed him, sat next to him, urged him to continue.

He recounted the story for her, and her heart ached for him. He must have been so small and frightened of his father.

"Jack...what happened that night...it wasn't your fault," she told him. "You can't take the responsibility for the cruelty of your father. If it hadn't been the dog that set him off that night, it would have been something else.... you have to realise that."

"Do I?" he asked. "When he started in on her that night.... it was because he was going to come after me, for bringing the dog home, you see, and she made the mistake of trying to protect me. I should have known.... I should have thought about how he was... but that poor dog... If I had just thought about it...."

His voice trailed off, and he looked down.

"If I had been thinking about her instead of myself, it wouldn't have happened... but I wanted to keep that little dog so much...we'd never had a pet. And then when he came for me...I was so frightened, I hollered for my mother, and she came, so he gave her what he wanted to give me, but worse," his voice was cracking. "Becky and I.... he didn't usually hit her in front of us, but he was so angry, he didn't seem to mind... we thought he was going to kill her. I should have stopped him... I should have at least tried."

"But how? You were just a little boy, Jack, what could you possibly have done?" she asked. He had obviously been carrying this quilt with him for a great deal of time. How could she make him see that he hadn't done anything wrong? That he wasn't responsible for the events of that night... or any other such night?

"You know..." he said after a minute, "Cerebrally, rationally, I know I wasn't to blame.... and God did it take me along time to come to that. And yet..."

"And yet part of you is still that same, scared little boy who brought a stray dog home, then watched in terror as his father beat his mother to the point of hospitalization for it."

He nodded, his eyes looking anywhere but at her.

"I hate him Claire. I hate my father, and I've always hated him... Even when he was old, and sick, and frail and dying of cirrhosis of the liver I hated him. He was a cruel, violent man, and God knows I'd wished him dead often enough over the years," he told her. "I'd go visit him in the hospital, just so I could look down at him and know he was suffering. Not as much as we had. And not enough for what he did to us.... but suffering. This big, brute of a man, laid low by a disease he'd brought on himself, eating through tubes, unable to get out of bed, to wash himself. Such an undignified way to die. I just wish he had gone before my mother... at least then she'd have had a few years of peace."

He stopped, and took a few deep breaths. Claire had reached down during this last speech to take his hand into hers. He looked down at where their hands lay clasped on his lap, and squeezed softly. He realised that the hand she held was the only place on his body that felt warm, despite the roaring fire he'd started.

"I hated him because I always tried so damn hard to make him happy... to make him proud of me, but nothing I ever did was good enough. I could give a hundred and ten percent of myself to something, and he'd have expected a hundred and twenty. The only time he was ever proud of me was the day I graduated from law school," he looked over at her for the first time in many minutes, a sad smile, very small, on his lips, "You should have seen him that day.... I though he was going to burst out of his coat he was so proud."

She listened to him, to the things he was saying, to the tone of his voice, to the body language he wasn't aware of, and knew that he hadn't hated his father at all, and that's what had him so torn. He loved his father, but had been terrified of him, of displeasing him. He loved his father, despite the abuse, the cruelty, the irrationality and the fear... and hated himself for it

The clock on the mantle chimed 9 pm. Jack looked up as the clock began it's racket, looked at it like it was a foreign object he'd never seen before...as if he had forgotten that such a thing as time had existed.

He sighed. "One more hour and I turn into a pumpkin."

Claire glanced over at the clock herself, as though she needed to confirm the time. "Jack...you don't have to leave at 10:00 if you don't want. If you don't want to be alone tonight, you can stay. Or I'll pack some things and we can go back to your place."

"Thank you," he told her. "But we agreed in the car that I'd leave at 10:00, remember? Neither of us got much sleep this weekend, and we've got a packed week coming up."

"I can't bear to think of you sitting alone in your apartment when..."

He interrupted her. "Claire....I appreciate what you're trying to do, honestly... and for listening without judgment, but there's practically not a day that goes by that I don't think about this in some way... I'm accustomed to it."

She nodded.

Jack, having had more than enough of this talk...of that particular memory... decided to change the subject, and the dark mood that had filled the room when he'd walked in and begun to bare his dark soul.

"We have an hour...a little less now," he remarked and squeezed Claire's hand, which he had not let go of since she'd taken his hand into hers. "Any ideas on how we can pass the time?"

She released his hand and reached over to switch off the lamp behind her, the only light in the room now coming from the crackling fire. She moved closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. They sat like that, staring at the fire, for several moments.

"Hey," she said softly, raising her head to look at him in the dim light. "Lay down, okay?"

She stood so he could lay down with ease, and he did. She sat down again, and adjusted herself so that she was laying with him, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

"Jack?" she said after some time had gone by, and they'd been just lying together, holding one another.

"Hmmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For sharing that story with me.... for trusting me enough to open yourself up like that," she said quietly.

"Jesus, Claire.... I should be thanking you. You're the first person I've ever known with whom I've felt comfortable enough to share the misery of my childhood. Thank you for not pressuring me into talking about Paul.... thank you for being what I need."

"Jack," she breathed, her palm coming up to lightly stroke his cheek. She looked into his eyes, the firelight dancing in them, and leaned over to touch her lips to his.

The soft, gentle kiss she'd laid on him quickly turned into something more fierce, more demanding, his desire to connect with her on every possible level surfacing again. He pulled her closer, then released her mouth, staring into her eyes intently. One of his hands came to rest on her side as they became engrossed in another kiss.

They remained like that for the rest of their time together that night, just quietly lying in one another's arms on the sofa, kissing often, hands roaming lightly, both content to leave it at that without going any further, just lying together, kissing and touching lovingly in a way that, while very intimate and affectionate, was not necessarily sexual.

Eventually, 10:00 did come, the mantle clock chiming the time.

"Time for me to go," he whispered.

She nodded.

They kissed again, then moved to get up from the sofa. Claire grabbed Jack's hand as they walked to the door. He retrieved his jacket from the closet, and slipped it on. When he had closed the closet door, he pulled Claire into his arms once more, saying her name softly as he gently stroked her hair.

He held the back of her neck with his hand and pressed his lips against her forehead, saying, "Thank you," and then kissing her with tender care before reaching behind him to open the front door of her condo.

"G'night," he said, kissing her again.

"Good bye, Jack," she whispered, kissing him. "I'll see you in the morning."

One more goodbye from each, and several kisses later, Jack walked through the door way, Claire closing the door behind him.

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