A Night At The Opera

Claire pushed open the door and strode in, her silk dress swishing around her knees and releasing a gust of perfume.

"Thanks for coming in," Jack McCoy said. "I know you had plans, and I appreciate you breaking them."

In Claire Kincaid's imagination.

In the actual real world, he didn't look up as she came into his office. "I thought you covered the fifth amendment issue on the Davis case," he barked, slinging a sheaf of papers in tell-tale court motion blue across his desk.

"I did," Claire said. She dropped her handbag on the nearest chair and picked up the papers.

"Her lawyer filed a motion to dismiss."

"Groundless," Claire said, flipping pages. "And so is this. And this. And four – five – six – Jesus, Jack, this is a laundry list. Nothing here's worth heartburn."

"Oh, you think? Maybe if you checked your messages every now and again you'd have a different opinion."

Don't take it out on me, Claire thought, but she pressed her lips together until she could trust herself to speak. "I had tickets to the opera. I was – " shaving my legs, doing my hair, pulling on my 30 a pair stockings. "Why don't you tell me what I missed?"

" Judge Laurence crashed his car last night. He won't be back at work for at least six weeks. His cases have been reassigned. People v Davis – we drew Holland."

"Crap," Claire said. "He's got a hard-on for the constitution that would put John Bobbit to shame."

Her metaphor got McCoy's attention away from his papers. "He thinks he might end up on the Supreme Court."

"And he wants to prove he'd be a safe pair of hands."

"Exactly." McCoy threw his pen down in disgust.

"We're solid on this, Jack," Claire said, dropping the court papers back on his desk. She started unbuttoning her coat. "This is a nuisance, not a catastrophe."

"I'm glad you're confident," McCoy snorted, but he leaned back in his chair, relaxing a little.

"I am." Claire finished unbuttoning her coat and slipped it off, tossing it on the coat rack. As she turned back she caught sight of herself reflected in the window – all dark hair and dark eyes, green silk dress skimming her figure in all the right places – and sighed. What a wasted effort.

The she caught sight of herself reflected in Jack McCoy's eyes – twinkling, appreciative – and felt herself flush a little, standing straighter.

"Tickets to the opera?" he said.

"Turandot."

"Alone?"

"Who goes to the opera alone?" Claire said. His gaze was making her – not exactly uncomfortable. She felt wrong-footed, flattered but also vulnerable. And he knows it, bastard. She held his gaze, raised an eyebrow. "Did I need your permission?"

"No." He wasn't crass enough to look her up and down, his eyes stayed steady on her face. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have paged you in if I'd know."

"I told you before I left."

"I didn't hear you."

"You didn't listen."

"I'd have paid more attention if you wear that dress to the office."

"You're skating very close to a sexual harassment complaint," Claire said.

"Really?" McCoy drawled. "Do you feel … harassed?" When she hesitated before answering, he smiled lazily.

"If I have to go home and change for you to concentrate on the case, Jack, we won't get this done before dawn," Claire warned.

"I'll be good," he said, and winked. "If you will."