match point

an unspoken game

i've been obsessed with law & order the past several weeks, claire and jack literally own me

~*~

"For God's sake," Claire muttered, resisting the urge to drop her head onto the steering wheel and let it hang. Because really, her car not starting was the last thing Claire needed as the clock neared midnight and there was nothing more she wanted than to be at home, in bed, fast asleep.

With a sigh, Claire turned her car off—which was little more than a formality at this point, she'd be lucky if the battery was merely dead and not the entire vehicle kaput beyond repair—and stepped out of the driver's seat to pop the hood. At least she'd had the forethought to back in this morning, granting her the small blessing of not having to squeeze between the front of her car and the concrete wall of the DA's parking garage.

No steam or smoke emerged when Claire surveyed the inner workings of her car, not that she'd expected there to be any. Claire was no mechanic, and she wouldn't pretend she was, but she wasn't utterly incompetent around a vehicle, either. She didn't spot any leaks, and she knew she had a near full tank of gas, which meant the problem was almost certainly a dead battery.

"Terrific," she found herself grumbling as she shook her head, frustrated. "Utterly terrific."

Well, Claire could always hail a cab home, though the idea of leaving her car out in a semi-public space overnight didn't sit particularly well with her. She could also call a tow truck—there had to be a 24-hour service somewhere nearby—but the idea of waiting for and interacting with some stranger for at minimum another hour made her want to tear her hair out, too. So much for sleeping if she went with that option, right? And God, the odds of there being someone still in the office she was at least vaguely familiar with who could hotwire her car—slim to none.

Of course this would happen to her after a shitty day at work, too. Jack McCoy was a damn good lawyer, it was true, Claire would never deny that, although he was also an incorrigible flirt. Not so much toward herself, she'd noticed, at least not overtly, a fact which she wasn't sure should be categorized as a result of her asking as much or because Adam had undoubtedly lectured Jack that the third time should've been the charm for his wanton behavior.

Claire counted her blessings either way.

Still, a lack of overt flirting didn't equal a lack of attention, didn't equal an end to the unspoken game they'd played since his appointment as EADA, and today McCoy's massive ego must have been working on overdrive. Maybe, maybe Claire was reading into it too much, but it was like he'd call her into his office just to begin a heated debate about whatever case was on his desk. Each "discussion" inevitably ended with him smirking and her fuming, much to Claire's dismay, and it was precisely because of those constant interruptions that she had been forced to stay at the office until almost midnight. She'd even changed from her pencil skirt into pants at half past 9 to provide herself a glimmer of home comfort.

Claire just couldn't win.

Not against Jack McCoy, at least. Smug bastard.

Sexy bastard, her brain unhelpfully supplied, along with an image of Jack McCoy sitting at his desk like he had all of today with his white sleeves rolled up to reveal his toned forearms, and Claire's eye twitched.

Goddammit.

Claire sighed, shaking her head to rid herself of thoughts of McCoy and snap her attention back to the issue at hand. Her car was lifeless as a corpse, and every second she wasted thinking about Jack was another second without sleep. Hail a cab or call a tow truck, she reprimanded herself, it was time to decide.