won't you hang a picture?

picture, picture, on the wall

this fic was inspired by adam's line at the end of "paranoia," s6 e6: "how much does anyone really know about the person sharing his bedroom?"

~*~

2:54 AM.

Claire was a deep sleeper. Such a fact could have been a hindrance, in theory, if it meant she slept so deeply as to not hear her work alarm each morning, but Claire's body was more or less programmed to wake during the early hours of the dawn at this point in her career. The alarm was little more than secondary reinforcement.

Being a deep sleeper, though, did mean Claire rarely woke in the middle of the night—but for extraneous circumstances, that was. Such circumstances typically included stress or nightmares. Reactions to others, though?

Not so often.

In other words, the digital clock that rested atop the nightstand to Claire's left informed her it was almost 3 AM, and Claire wasn't quite sure why she was awake. She was sure, however, that her restlessness had nothing to do with Jack's light snoring, amusing as it might have been to place the blame on his shoulders. It seemed even the great Jack McCoy was not immune to the consequences of forgetting his allergy medication too many days in a row.

Claire had to stifle a laugh at the thought. She'd told him, morning after morning, that he'd regret skipping the Claritin, especially considering he often slept flat on his stomach. His response had been to pun on hers and the medicine's similar names, to which she had merely rolled her eyes. Because hey, what did she know? At the end of the day, Claire and her ability to breathe through both nostrils would get the last laugh.

What are you allergic to, anyway?

Springtime.

2:57 AM.

Claire turned in their bed, slowly, cautiously, allowing herself to better study the figure of her sleeping lover on her right while his low, even snoring continued. Slivers of moonlight crept through cracks in the window blinds, illuminating just enough of Jack's face to let Claire determine his sleep was deep and content—unlikely to be awakened but by the crashing of pots and pans in the kitchen.

She would know. She'd tried to get coffee one morning and had accidentally shattered a mug against the tile floor, a glaring sound which had promptly woken Jack from his slumber. His bleary-eyed, mussed appearance as he joined her in the kitchen had been equal parts hilarious and endearing, Claire couldn't deny. Still, that incident had occurred during the early weeks of their relationship, and Claire remembered being...

Well, 'terrified' was a bit of an exaggeration.

'Intimidated,' yes, that was the word, she'd been intimidated by the prospect of a negative reaction. But Jack hadn't gotten angry. Instead, he'd grinned, telling her he'd been looking for an excuse to buy new mugs, then proceeded to hand her a broom, a dustpan, and a pair of slippers to clean up the mess.

I don't need my best ADA getting ceramic stuck in her feet.

You mean your only ADA.

Those aren't mutually exclusive facts, Claire.

It would take another incident of such volume to wake him now, Claire was almost certain. She watched in silence how his toned back, his firm shoulders rose and fell with each slow breath he took, the consequential snores causing her to bite her tongue to hold back a laugh. If only the court could see him now—the fearless, fiery Jack McCoy sleeping on his stomach with one hand under his pillow and snoring like a disgruntled cat.

Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was childish, but Claire reveled in the fact that this sight was one reserved solely for her.

3:01 AM.