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perpetual_motionTitle: You Could Live a Hundred Years if I Could Show You How
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Law & Order
Pairing: Jack/Mike C
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "The obituary runs the next day: Former District Attorney of New York County, John James (Jack) McCoy, died at home Wednesday morning."
Disclaimer: Lies and bullshit.
Author's Notes: This is a death!fic people. Because I spent entirely too much time listening to the soundtrack to "Les Miserables". Title comes from the song "Little Fall of Rain".
You Could Live a Hundred Years if I Could Show You How
By Perpetual Motion
Mike wakes up one Wednesday, sighs against the day’s schedule as he runs it through his head, and rolls over to push Jack awake. “Come on; up with you.” He puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder, curls his fingers over the familiar curve and bump of it, but before he can jostle Jack as usual, the unusual coolness of his skin makes Mike stop.
“Jack?” He asks, and his fingers slide from Jack’s shoulder to his neck.
Jack’s outlived nearly everyone who’s ever said a bad word about him. Mike has a brief, cold wish that Jack could have outlived him as well.
*
The obituary runs the next day:
Former District Attorney of New York County, John James (Jack) McCoy, died at home Wednesday morning. Mr. McCoy was 101 and had only retired from his position as District Attorney at the age of 92. He is survived by one daughter and his partner, Michael Cutter…
*
“We expect a large crowd,” the funeral director tells Mike on Friday. “Are you certain you want to have the funeral at the graveside?”
“Yes,” Mike says quietly, though all he really wants is Jack to walk in the door and ask why he looks so shell-shocked.
“But a church service would provide—”
“No churches.”
“If I might finish, Mr. Cutter,” the funeral director says smoothly. Mike wonders how many hours a week he spends talking down widowers. “Mr. McCoy had many friends who are of a certain age. It would be more comfortable—”
“No church service. No funeral parlor service. People don’t want to respect Jack’s wishes, they don’t have to show the hell up.” Mike says savagely. The funeral director doesn’t look taken aback. He doesn’t even look mildly surprised. It makes Mike want to punch him in the face. “Graveside service, as little religion as possible; your job is to follow my instructions, so follow my damned instructions.”
The funeral director blinks. “Of course, Mr. Cutter. I apologize.” He shuffles his papers. “A graveside service will be very nice. Now, about your transportation—”
“It’s covered,” Mike interrupts.
“We provide a very nice limo ser—”
“It’s still covered,” Mike snaps. He breathes out hard through his nose. “Are we done?”
The funeral director opens his mouth, and then snaps it closed. “Yes, Mr. Cutter. I’ll get out of your way, then.” He stands up and lets himself out the front door.
Mike unclenches his fists and tries to work out the ache. Jack had teased him when he’d first been diagnosed with arthritis. Told him the years had to show up somewhere, even if they weren’t showing up on his ass.
There are so many years left, Mike thinks. There’s a very good bottle of scotch in the cupboard under the sink. There’s a bottle of muscle relaxants in the bathroom cupboard. He could sit in Jack’s chair, pour himself a few tumblers, take the relaxants over a few hours.
He shakes his head hard. “You knew this was coming,” he says to the empty room, but he directs it at Jack’s chair. “You knew it the day you started fucking him. Twenty years your senior means twenty years without him.” He looks away from Jack’s chair. The counter’s already half-covered in casseroles and cakes. Mike stands up from the chair and orders Chinese food. He eats it in the bedroom, under the blanket, Jack’s pillow still dented next to his head.
*
The funeral director looks positively horrified when Mike rumbles into the cemetery on Jack’s vintage BMW. The assembled mourners—and it’s a crowd Mike wasn’t actually expecting—split half and half on their reactions. The one’s who knew Jack chuckle and smile. The half who were merely professional acquaintances look almost as horrified as the funeral director.
Mike sits in his designated chair in the front row. Connie sits next to him, hand tight on his shoulder. The rest of the first row is all the rest of Jack’s old ADAs—Serena, Abbie, and Jaime—and for just a moment Mike remembers Alexandra, and Jack’s stories of Claire Kincaid, and he wonders if he’d even been sitting in the first seat if Claire hadn’t died.
“Mr. Cutter.”
Mike looks up, and it’s Anita Van Buren. She holds out her hand and squeezes tight when he shakes. “Do you need anything?” She asks, and Mike could hug her for not asking how he’s doing.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.
“Here,” Anita hands him a slip of paper. “My home number.”
“Thank you,” Mike manages to get out around the knot in his throat. “Thanks for coming.”
She smiles, and it’s so sad for a moment that Mike nearly cries. “I really did think he’d outlive us all.”
Me too, Mike thinks. He squeezes her hand once and lets go. “Thanks,” he says again because he has nothing else.
“Of course,” Anita responds and walks to her chair.
Connie plucks the paper from his hand, folds it neatly into a square, and tucks it into the pocket of his suit jacket. “You’ll make it,” she says in an undertone. “This is one of the worst parts, but you’ll make it.”
Mike can only nod as the funeral director looks at him expectantly. He stands on shaky legs and takes the four steps to Jack’s casket. He reaches out, meaning to touch it, but his hand stops in midair, and he curls his fingers and lets his arm drop.
“I…” He looks at the crowd and pauses for a moment at the sea of dark blue made up by all the officers who have shown up in their dress uniforms. He recognizes a few faces—Lupo, Bernard, Mike Logan, Fontana, Falco, Cassidy, Benson, Stabler, Tutola, and Munch—and Ed Green is sitting in the last row in a dark suit, right next to Dr. Skoda and Dr. Olivet. But the rest of the faces are just faces, and Mike nearly drowns trying to pick out people whose names he might know.
“He’ll be missed,” he manages to get out. “And thank you for being here.” He swallows hard and looks at Connie. She’s giving him the bravest face she has, but she’s going to break down; Mike can see it in the way her hands clench.
“I’m supposed to have a eulogy,” Mike continues. “Jack’s been—was—telling me to write it for years. But…” He catches Anita’s eyes, and she’s completely stoic. It makes Mike stand up a little straighter. “But I couldn’t. Because…Jack.” There are tears in his eyes, and Mike works desperately to blink them away. “The best years I’ll have in my life are behind me now,” he says to Jack’s casket. “No matter how many I have left, the greatest ones are over.”
He sits down hard and takes the tissue Connie hands him. The funeral director invites other people to talk, and Mike spends the rest of the service silently crying, staring at the sharp crease in his slacks.
*
Everyone wants to pay condolences or tell a story. Mike wants everyone to fuck off so he can go home and sit across from Jack’s empty chair and eat a reheated casserole that won’t taste like anything, no matter how he tells himself it should.
Mike Logan shakes his hand hard, and they share only a look. It’s the understanding of what a man like Jack gives to people, and what he takes when he leaves. There’s no pity in Logan’s eyes, but there is relief, and Mike hates him with a white-hot flash for walking away from Jack all those years ago. If Logan hadn’t walked away, Mike wouldn’t be standing in a black suit, shaking hands and shredding to nothing on the inside.
More handshakes, a few hugs, some people offering the name of a good grief counselor, and then Olivet is grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him hard. “He was an absolute son of a bitch,” she says flatly. “And I mean that with the greatest compliments.”
Mike tries to laugh but ends up crying harder for a few seconds. Jack and Olivet were never the same after Mike outed her affair with Logan on the stand. “He was…”
“A son of a bitch,” Olivet fills in. “And that’s just fine. It’s okay to remember him that way.”
“Okay,” Mike says, because thanking her doesn’t seem right. “Okay.”
Another slew of people, the ones who’d stood in the back and could only give general platitudes, and then the very last person.
“Jamie,” Mike tries to keep a calm façade, but Jamie’s been over for dinner and drinks as much as Connie. Jamie got to hear them bicker long before anyone else in their inner circle.
Jamie hugs him tight, brushes his hair back from his face, and stares at Mike with damp eyes. “You need a beer,” she says after a moment.
“I want—”
“You can’t,” Jamie tells him. “What you want, you can’t have it anymore.”
Mike looks away and watches people get into their cars for a moment. Connie’s waiting next to Jack’s bike, shaking hands and having brief conversations that look like more condolences. “I want to go home,” he says quietly.
“He’s not there, Mike,” Jamie says just as quietly. “He’s not going to be there. Come have a beer. We’ll go to that bar he liked with the thirty-dollar steaks and have one of those, too.”
Mike’s gut twists hard. He takes Jamie’s hands and squeezes them. “I can’t. It’s…there’s too much.”
She looks ready to argue, but then her face relaxes back into sadness. She nods. “Okay. But call me in a day or two, okay? Just so I know you’re still breathing.”
He wonders if she knows the thoughts that have been pushing through his mind. Wonders if she knows he considered letting the bike slide out from under him on the way to the funeral. “Sure,” he tells her. He lets her hug him one more time, and then he walks over to Jack’s bike.
“Burger?” Connie offers when he’s close enough. “ Thai food? Greek food?”
The way she smiles at him—just slightly hopeful—makes Mike remember when they first met. Jack had been pushed up to fill the office after Branch stepped down, and Mike had been promoted to Executive District Attorney. And then Connie had walked in, all legs and dark, glossy hair, and Mike had spent a few weeks hopelessly in love. She was smart. She was funny. And just when he’d been willing to chance it, reach over and touch her knee softly, Jack had walked in, all righteous anger and flashing eyes, and all Mike could see was the line of Jack’s bared forearm, the slightly-sloppy roll of his cuff, and his hand changed direction, curled around Jack’s forearm, and Connie was merely the smart and funny woman he worked with.
If only, he thinks, as Connie waits for him to answer. He could have chosen Connie, touched her knee and brushed back her hair, and he wouldn’t be here today, looking at the best friend he’s ever had and wishing, just a little, that he could have fallen in love with her instead.
“I need to go home,” he says. “I need…”
“Okay,” Connie says lightly, but her voice wavers on the ‘y’. She hugs Mike close, and he feels a few tears against his cheek. “I’ll drop in sometime this week, okay?”
Mike nods and pulls away. He tries to smile. “Thanks, Connie.”
“You’re welcome.” She walks away slowly, backwards around the headstones, eyes on Mike until she has to turn and unlock her car.
He’s alone now. Just him, Jack’s bike, and the slight rustling of the wind in the trees. Mike has a quick, ridiculous thought that the rustling is actually the last parts of him fluttering away.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he says to Jack’s bike. He straddles the bike, slips on the helmet, and makes the engine roar as he flies out of the cemetery.
*
There’s a woman talking to the doorman when Mike gets back to his building. She looks at him, something like fear on her face, and it takes Mike a few seconds to recognize her.
“Rebecca,” he says, and wonders what to say next.
“I didn’t—” She looks down at the ground, and when she looks back up, it’s definitely fear in her eyes. “I couldn’t go to the funeral. I’m sorry.”
Mike blinks. “That’s…” He can’t say “okay”, because it’s not right. She’s Jack’s daughter. She should have been there. But she and Jack were badly cracked at best. “Come on in,” he says instead of choosing a platitude.
“Thank you,” she says quietly and precedes him into the building.
Mike’s two steps behind, and he watches Rebecca walk towards the elevator, hands twisting the strap of her purse. He pushes the “up” button on the elevator while Rebecca stares at the decorative trim around the elevator doors. “Have you eaten?” Mike asks to break the silence.
“No,” Rebecca nearly whispers. She turns her head, and Mike pretends like he doesn’t see her wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says as they step on the elevator. “I wish…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and Mike wonders at the many ways it could have ended.
They take the trip to the fifteenth floor in silence. Mike leads the way down the hall and opens the door. He waves Rebecca in and watches as she pauses in the foyer and looks around. They’d lived here two years before Rebecca came for a visit. Five years later, she’d come by again. Thirty-odd years in a relationship, Mike thinks, and Rebecca’s visited less than ten times.
“There were always books,” she says, eyes on the stack of paperbacks leaning against one of the overflowing bookshelves. “When I visited him, when I was kid, I used to pretend to own a bookstore, and all of Dad’s books were my inventory. I’d rearrange them all by title.”
Mike’s heard this story. Jack had told him once when they were combing the aisles at a used bookstore they’d found next to the bodega where they bought their fresh fruit. “He remembered that,” he tells her.
“Huh,” Rebecca says and turns around finally. She’s still twisting the strap of her purse. “When you called, I didn’t recognize your voice. When you said it was Mike, I had to think about who I knew named Mike, and then you said that Dad…” she looks around the living room and sits on the couch with such force Mike isn’t sure it was a voluntary movement. “I could have been a better daughter,” she says to the carpet.
“He could have been a better father,” Mike tells her and sits next to her. She looks shocked that he’d say it. “He knew it, too,” Mike continues. “But he didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I didn’t know how to tell him, either,” Rebecca sniffles and opens her purse. She pulls out a tissue and wipes her eyes. “We never did line up like we were supposed to.”
Mike tries to imagine the father Rebecca spent her life wanting. Someone more involved, maybe. Someone who didn’t sleep at his office, definitely. A pretty good lawyer and a personable guy who kept pictures of his daughter on his desk. Who told stories of his daughter playing bookstore owner and flushed with pride at her smallest accomplishment. A man who wouldn’t tear out someone’s throat for sullying the law. A man who would have needed to borrow Mike’s law books to double-check precedent. A man Mike wouldn’t have loved. If Jack had been a better father, Mike wouldn’t be on the couch trying to find common ground with his daughter. He’d have been one of those people at the funeral who stood in the back and shook hands with Rebecca as she mourned her loving, doting father.
Rebecca’s watching him, eyes wary, and Mike realizes his thoughts have floated away, picturing the Jack McCoy who would have gone to softball games and PTA meetings. “He was proud of you,” he says because it’s true. “He loved you.”
“I know.” Rebecca wipes her eyes again. “I was on the plane this morning, and all I could think about was how I wasn’t sure I would recognize you. The longest relationship my dad ever had, and I couldn’t put together your face.”
Mike reaches out and touches her hand. She lets go of the strap of her purse and grips his fingers carefully. He doesn’t have anything to say. Telling her he didn’t recognize her either won’t be useful, and it only makes him ache more.
“My dad is dead,” Rebecca says quietly. Tears roll down her face and land on Mike’s hand. “He’s dead, and I don’t…I’m not sure I shouldn’t be sadder.”
Reassure her, Mike thinks. Tell her being sad is enough. Tell her she should be okay with not feeling like her guts are slowly ripping out. Tell her you’re sad enough for every single person who smirked in triumph at the news of Jack McCoy’s death. You’re sad enough that whatever sadness she has is plenty.
“I should go,” Rebecca says after a few minutes. She lets go of Mike’s hand. She stands up. She carefully dabs at her eyes. “I need to find a hotel.”
Mike can’t offer the spare room. It’s filled with Jack’s favorite books and awards. He sat in the chair by the window and read for hours. It makes Mike’s hands shake to think about Rebecca sleeping there, surrounded completely by what’s left of Jack’s brilliance.
“His lawyer is reading the will tomorrow,” Rebecca continues and flinches. “Are you…”
“No,” Mike tells her. “Estate law isn’t my specialty.”
“I suppose I’ll see you there.”
“Yes,” Mike says, and he waits until she’s on the elevator before he closes the door.
There are sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. Jack had teased Mike about slowing down with his age when the doctor had had to prescribe them. Mike holds the bottle in his hand and stands in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes before placing the bottle on the shelf and closing the cabinet.
“Day one,” he says to his reflection. The lines around his mouth pull tight when he presses his lips together. His hands ache when he brushes his teeth, and his knees feel creaky as he walks down the hall to the bedroom.
There’s still the indention in Jack’s pillow. Mike stares at it for a very long time before falling asleep.
*
Rebecca gets a sizable piece of Jack’s investment portfolio. Mike doesn’t make eye contact when she looks at him briefly. It’s all he can do to stare at Jack’s lawyer and make sense of the words the woman is saying.
“And to Michael Cutter,” she reads in a careful, measured tone, “I leave all my other wordly goods. Take care of my bike. I love you.”
There’s more, but Mike can’t hear it over the roar of blood in his ears. All Jack’s wordly goods. The books. The bike. The apartment. The awards. He’ll set fire to them all and watch them burn, he thinks. He’ll throw them out the bedroom window. He’ll go away somewhere and leave it all to gather dust and spiders.
When the lawyer finishes, Mike stands up and walks to the elevator. He takes it alone to the lobby. He gets on the subway and goes to the office. His assistant, Kyle, blinks in surprise when he walks in the door.
“Mr. Cutter—”
“No calls, Kyle,” Mike snaps and closes the door hard behind himself. He looks around the room at the big desk and the old leather couch. He stares at the decanter and cut glass tumblers Jack had presented him with after his first successful campaign. Throw them against the wall, he thinks. But he shrugs off his suit jacket and sits down on the couch instead. It creaks comfortably, and Mike thinks of the couches he knew before it, all dark brown and creaky. He thinks of Jack’s smile with the lights mostly out, and he thinks if only…
If only he hadn’t loved the law. If only they hadn’t both had such a passion for making the world right, Jack would have retired so much sooner, and Mike would have had more than nine years where he didn’t have to pretend like he wasn’t wildly, crazily in love with his boss.
And then he hates Jack, for a bare second, for not stepping down sooner, for not letting Mike be the District Attorney sooner. If he had, if only he had, maybe Mike wouldn’t feel cheated. Maybe Mike wouldn’t want to throw open the door, tell Kyle he’s leaving, and never walk in these doors again.
“Mr. Cutter?” Kyle’s standing in the doorway, so much concern on his face it makes Mike sit up a little straighter. “I’m sure you’re just picking up something, Sir, but do you…” He trails off, and Mike watches him try to hide the files under his arm.
“What do you need?” Mike asks, and he clears his throat.
“Three very quick signatures for the budget review board, sir. I know the timing’s bad, but I wasn’t…”
“Sure,” Mike stands and rolls his shoulders. He walks over to his desk, let’s Kyle flip open the files and point. He signs hard. “Messages?”
“They’re at my desk.” Kyle backs out of the office.
Mike presses his hands hard against his desktop and thinks about watching Jack work at this desk. His gut twists, and he presses his hands harder.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cutter,” Kyle says, one foot back in the door. “We’re all,” Kyle looks at the messages in his hand, shakes his head, and finishes walking into the room. “Most of the office is in today, sir,” he says. “If you have any questions about the current cases.”
Mike’s stomach settles itself suddenly. He breathes in deep and sits heavily into his chair. “As long as I’m here,” he says quietly. Kyle has his pen and paper ready when Mike looks up. “Get me the latest on the Fraser double, and tell Klarner to send me his notes on the Winston warrant.”
“The warrant went through last night,” Kyle says and crumples up a message paper.
“Get me a copy, then, and find the list of what was taken. Klarner’s lost two searches in pre-trial.”
Kyle scribbles a note. “I’ll bring in the latest list of assignments.” He walks out when Mike nods his agreement.
Mike looks around his office again. “There’s always work,” he says to the picture of he and Jack at a Yankees’ game that he keeps on his desk. “There’s justice.”
It’s not what he wants. It’s nowhere close. But it’s something to try for, Mike thinks. And it’s an easier task than trying to be happy.
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Law & Order
Pairing: Jack/Mike C
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "The obituary runs the next day: Former District Attorney of New York County, John James (Jack) McCoy, died at home Wednesday morning."
Disclaimer: Lies and bullshit.
Author's Notes: This is a death!fic people. Because I spent entirely too much time listening to the soundtrack to "Les Miserables". Title comes from the song "Little Fall of Rain".
You Could Live a Hundred Years if I Could Show You How
By Perpetual Motion
Mike wakes up one Wednesday, sighs against the day’s schedule as he runs it through his head, and rolls over to push Jack awake. “Come on; up with you.” He puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder, curls his fingers over the familiar curve and bump of it, but before he can jostle Jack as usual, the unusual coolness of his skin makes Mike stop.
“Jack?” He asks, and his fingers slide from Jack’s shoulder to his neck.
Jack’s outlived nearly everyone who’s ever said a bad word about him. Mike has a brief, cold wish that Jack could have outlived him as well.
*
The obituary runs the next day:
Former District Attorney of New York County, John James (Jack) McCoy, died at home Wednesday morning. Mr. McCoy was 101 and had only retired from his position as District Attorney at the age of 92. He is survived by one daughter and his partner, Michael Cutter…
*
“We expect a large crowd,” the funeral director tells Mike on Friday. “Are you certain you want to have the funeral at the graveside?”
“Yes,” Mike says quietly, though all he really wants is Jack to walk in the door and ask why he looks so shell-shocked.
“But a church service would provide—”
“No churches.”
“If I might finish, Mr. Cutter,” the funeral director says smoothly. Mike wonders how many hours a week he spends talking down widowers. “Mr. McCoy had many friends who are of a certain age. It would be more comfortable—”
“No church service. No funeral parlor service. People don’t want to respect Jack’s wishes, they don’t have to show the hell up.” Mike says savagely. The funeral director doesn’t look taken aback. He doesn’t even look mildly surprised. It makes Mike want to punch him in the face. “Graveside service, as little religion as possible; your job is to follow my instructions, so follow my damned instructions.”
The funeral director blinks. “Of course, Mr. Cutter. I apologize.” He shuffles his papers. “A graveside service will be very nice. Now, about your transportation—”
“It’s covered,” Mike interrupts.
“We provide a very nice limo ser—”
“It’s still covered,” Mike snaps. He breathes out hard through his nose. “Are we done?”
The funeral director opens his mouth, and then snaps it closed. “Yes, Mr. Cutter. I’ll get out of your way, then.” He stands up and lets himself out the front door.
Mike unclenches his fists and tries to work out the ache. Jack had teased him when he’d first been diagnosed with arthritis. Told him the years had to show up somewhere, even if they weren’t showing up on his ass.
There are so many years left, Mike thinks. There’s a very good bottle of scotch in the cupboard under the sink. There’s a bottle of muscle relaxants in the bathroom cupboard. He could sit in Jack’s chair, pour himself a few tumblers, take the relaxants over a few hours.
He shakes his head hard. “You knew this was coming,” he says to the empty room, but he directs it at Jack’s chair. “You knew it the day you started fucking him. Twenty years your senior means twenty years without him.” He looks away from Jack’s chair. The counter’s already half-covered in casseroles and cakes. Mike stands up from the chair and orders Chinese food. He eats it in the bedroom, under the blanket, Jack’s pillow still dented next to his head.
*
The funeral director looks positively horrified when Mike rumbles into the cemetery on Jack’s vintage BMW. The assembled mourners—and it’s a crowd Mike wasn’t actually expecting—split half and half on their reactions. The one’s who knew Jack chuckle and smile. The half who were merely professional acquaintances look almost as horrified as the funeral director.
Mike sits in his designated chair in the front row. Connie sits next to him, hand tight on his shoulder. The rest of the first row is all the rest of Jack’s old ADAs—Serena, Abbie, and Jaime—and for just a moment Mike remembers Alexandra, and Jack’s stories of Claire Kincaid, and he wonders if he’d even been sitting in the first seat if Claire hadn’t died.
“Mr. Cutter.”
Mike looks up, and it’s Anita Van Buren. She holds out her hand and squeezes tight when he shakes. “Do you need anything?” She asks, and Mike could hug her for not asking how he’s doing.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.
“Here,” Anita hands him a slip of paper. “My home number.”
“Thank you,” Mike manages to get out around the knot in his throat. “Thanks for coming.”
She smiles, and it’s so sad for a moment that Mike nearly cries. “I really did think he’d outlive us all.”
Me too, Mike thinks. He squeezes her hand once and lets go. “Thanks,” he says again because he has nothing else.
“Of course,” Anita responds and walks to her chair.
Connie plucks the paper from his hand, folds it neatly into a square, and tucks it into the pocket of his suit jacket. “You’ll make it,” she says in an undertone. “This is one of the worst parts, but you’ll make it.”
Mike can only nod as the funeral director looks at him expectantly. He stands on shaky legs and takes the four steps to Jack’s casket. He reaches out, meaning to touch it, but his hand stops in midair, and he curls his fingers and lets his arm drop.
“I…” He looks at the crowd and pauses for a moment at the sea of dark blue made up by all the officers who have shown up in their dress uniforms. He recognizes a few faces—Lupo, Bernard, Mike Logan, Fontana, Falco, Cassidy, Benson, Stabler, Tutola, and Munch—and Ed Green is sitting in the last row in a dark suit, right next to Dr. Skoda and Dr. Olivet. But the rest of the faces are just faces, and Mike nearly drowns trying to pick out people whose names he might know.
“He’ll be missed,” he manages to get out. “And thank you for being here.” He swallows hard and looks at Connie. She’s giving him the bravest face she has, but she’s going to break down; Mike can see it in the way her hands clench.
“I’m supposed to have a eulogy,” Mike continues. “Jack’s been—was—telling me to write it for years. But…” He catches Anita’s eyes, and she’s completely stoic. It makes Mike stand up a little straighter. “But I couldn’t. Because…Jack.” There are tears in his eyes, and Mike works desperately to blink them away. “The best years I’ll have in my life are behind me now,” he says to Jack’s casket. “No matter how many I have left, the greatest ones are over.”
He sits down hard and takes the tissue Connie hands him. The funeral director invites other people to talk, and Mike spends the rest of the service silently crying, staring at the sharp crease in his slacks.
*
Everyone wants to pay condolences or tell a story. Mike wants everyone to fuck off so he can go home and sit across from Jack’s empty chair and eat a reheated casserole that won’t taste like anything, no matter how he tells himself it should.
Mike Logan shakes his hand hard, and they share only a look. It’s the understanding of what a man like Jack gives to people, and what he takes when he leaves. There’s no pity in Logan’s eyes, but there is relief, and Mike hates him with a white-hot flash for walking away from Jack all those years ago. If Logan hadn’t walked away, Mike wouldn’t be standing in a black suit, shaking hands and shredding to nothing on the inside.
More handshakes, a few hugs, some people offering the name of a good grief counselor, and then Olivet is grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him hard. “He was an absolute son of a bitch,” she says flatly. “And I mean that with the greatest compliments.”
Mike tries to laugh but ends up crying harder for a few seconds. Jack and Olivet were never the same after Mike outed her affair with Logan on the stand. “He was…”
“A son of a bitch,” Olivet fills in. “And that’s just fine. It’s okay to remember him that way.”
“Okay,” Mike says, because thanking her doesn’t seem right. “Okay.”
Another slew of people, the ones who’d stood in the back and could only give general platitudes, and then the very last person.
“Jamie,” Mike tries to keep a calm façade, but Jamie’s been over for dinner and drinks as much as Connie. Jamie got to hear them bicker long before anyone else in their inner circle.
Jamie hugs him tight, brushes his hair back from his face, and stares at Mike with damp eyes. “You need a beer,” she says after a moment.
“I want—”
“You can’t,” Jamie tells him. “What you want, you can’t have it anymore.”
Mike looks away and watches people get into their cars for a moment. Connie’s waiting next to Jack’s bike, shaking hands and having brief conversations that look like more condolences. “I want to go home,” he says quietly.
“He’s not there, Mike,” Jamie says just as quietly. “He’s not going to be there. Come have a beer. We’ll go to that bar he liked with the thirty-dollar steaks and have one of those, too.”
Mike’s gut twists hard. He takes Jamie’s hands and squeezes them. “I can’t. It’s…there’s too much.”
She looks ready to argue, but then her face relaxes back into sadness. She nods. “Okay. But call me in a day or two, okay? Just so I know you’re still breathing.”
He wonders if she knows the thoughts that have been pushing through his mind. Wonders if she knows he considered letting the bike slide out from under him on the way to the funeral. “Sure,” he tells her. He lets her hug him one more time, and then he walks over to Jack’s bike.
“Burger?” Connie offers when he’s close enough. “ Thai food? Greek food?”
The way she smiles at him—just slightly hopeful—makes Mike remember when they first met. Jack had been pushed up to fill the office after Branch stepped down, and Mike had been promoted to Executive District Attorney. And then Connie had walked in, all legs and dark, glossy hair, and Mike had spent a few weeks hopelessly in love. She was smart. She was funny. And just when he’d been willing to chance it, reach over and touch her knee softly, Jack had walked in, all righteous anger and flashing eyes, and all Mike could see was the line of Jack’s bared forearm, the slightly-sloppy roll of his cuff, and his hand changed direction, curled around Jack’s forearm, and Connie was merely the smart and funny woman he worked with.
If only, he thinks, as Connie waits for him to answer. He could have chosen Connie, touched her knee and brushed back her hair, and he wouldn’t be here today, looking at the best friend he’s ever had and wishing, just a little, that he could have fallen in love with her instead.
“I need to go home,” he says. “I need…”
“Okay,” Connie says lightly, but her voice wavers on the ‘y’. She hugs Mike close, and he feels a few tears against his cheek. “I’ll drop in sometime this week, okay?”
Mike nods and pulls away. He tries to smile. “Thanks, Connie.”
“You’re welcome.” She walks away slowly, backwards around the headstones, eyes on Mike until she has to turn and unlock her car.
He’s alone now. Just him, Jack’s bike, and the slight rustling of the wind in the trees. Mike has a quick, ridiculous thought that the rustling is actually the last parts of him fluttering away.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he says to Jack’s bike. He straddles the bike, slips on the helmet, and makes the engine roar as he flies out of the cemetery.
*
There’s a woman talking to the doorman when Mike gets back to his building. She looks at him, something like fear on her face, and it takes Mike a few seconds to recognize her.
“Rebecca,” he says, and wonders what to say next.
“I didn’t—” She looks down at the ground, and when she looks back up, it’s definitely fear in her eyes. “I couldn’t go to the funeral. I’m sorry.”
Mike blinks. “That’s…” He can’t say “okay”, because it’s not right. She’s Jack’s daughter. She should have been there. But she and Jack were badly cracked at best. “Come on in,” he says instead of choosing a platitude.
“Thank you,” she says quietly and precedes him into the building.
Mike’s two steps behind, and he watches Rebecca walk towards the elevator, hands twisting the strap of her purse. He pushes the “up” button on the elevator while Rebecca stares at the decorative trim around the elevator doors. “Have you eaten?” Mike asks to break the silence.
“No,” Rebecca nearly whispers. She turns her head, and Mike pretends like he doesn’t see her wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says as they step on the elevator. “I wish…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and Mike wonders at the many ways it could have ended.
They take the trip to the fifteenth floor in silence. Mike leads the way down the hall and opens the door. He waves Rebecca in and watches as she pauses in the foyer and looks around. They’d lived here two years before Rebecca came for a visit. Five years later, she’d come by again. Thirty-odd years in a relationship, Mike thinks, and Rebecca’s visited less than ten times.
“There were always books,” she says, eyes on the stack of paperbacks leaning against one of the overflowing bookshelves. “When I visited him, when I was kid, I used to pretend to own a bookstore, and all of Dad’s books were my inventory. I’d rearrange them all by title.”
Mike’s heard this story. Jack had told him once when they were combing the aisles at a used bookstore they’d found next to the bodega where they bought their fresh fruit. “He remembered that,” he tells her.
“Huh,” Rebecca says and turns around finally. She’s still twisting the strap of her purse. “When you called, I didn’t recognize your voice. When you said it was Mike, I had to think about who I knew named Mike, and then you said that Dad…” she looks around the living room and sits on the couch with such force Mike isn’t sure it was a voluntary movement. “I could have been a better daughter,” she says to the carpet.
“He could have been a better father,” Mike tells her and sits next to her. She looks shocked that he’d say it. “He knew it, too,” Mike continues. “But he didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I didn’t know how to tell him, either,” Rebecca sniffles and opens her purse. She pulls out a tissue and wipes her eyes. “We never did line up like we were supposed to.”
Mike tries to imagine the father Rebecca spent her life wanting. Someone more involved, maybe. Someone who didn’t sleep at his office, definitely. A pretty good lawyer and a personable guy who kept pictures of his daughter on his desk. Who told stories of his daughter playing bookstore owner and flushed with pride at her smallest accomplishment. A man who wouldn’t tear out someone’s throat for sullying the law. A man who would have needed to borrow Mike’s law books to double-check precedent. A man Mike wouldn’t have loved. If Jack had been a better father, Mike wouldn’t be on the couch trying to find common ground with his daughter. He’d have been one of those people at the funeral who stood in the back and shook hands with Rebecca as she mourned her loving, doting father.
Rebecca’s watching him, eyes wary, and Mike realizes his thoughts have floated away, picturing the Jack McCoy who would have gone to softball games and PTA meetings. “He was proud of you,” he says because it’s true. “He loved you.”
“I know.” Rebecca wipes her eyes again. “I was on the plane this morning, and all I could think about was how I wasn’t sure I would recognize you. The longest relationship my dad ever had, and I couldn’t put together your face.”
Mike reaches out and touches her hand. She lets go of the strap of her purse and grips his fingers carefully. He doesn’t have anything to say. Telling her he didn’t recognize her either won’t be useful, and it only makes him ache more.
“My dad is dead,” Rebecca says quietly. Tears roll down her face and land on Mike’s hand. “He’s dead, and I don’t…I’m not sure I shouldn’t be sadder.”
Reassure her, Mike thinks. Tell her being sad is enough. Tell her she should be okay with not feeling like her guts are slowly ripping out. Tell her you’re sad enough for every single person who smirked in triumph at the news of Jack McCoy’s death. You’re sad enough that whatever sadness she has is plenty.
“I should go,” Rebecca says after a few minutes. She lets go of Mike’s hand. She stands up. She carefully dabs at her eyes. “I need to find a hotel.”
Mike can’t offer the spare room. It’s filled with Jack’s favorite books and awards. He sat in the chair by the window and read for hours. It makes Mike’s hands shake to think about Rebecca sleeping there, surrounded completely by what’s left of Jack’s brilliance.
“His lawyer is reading the will tomorrow,” Rebecca continues and flinches. “Are you…”
“No,” Mike tells her. “Estate law isn’t my specialty.”
“I suppose I’ll see you there.”
“Yes,” Mike says, and he waits until she’s on the elevator before he closes the door.
There are sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. Jack had teased Mike about slowing down with his age when the doctor had had to prescribe them. Mike holds the bottle in his hand and stands in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes before placing the bottle on the shelf and closing the cabinet.
“Day one,” he says to his reflection. The lines around his mouth pull tight when he presses his lips together. His hands ache when he brushes his teeth, and his knees feel creaky as he walks down the hall to the bedroom.
There’s still the indention in Jack’s pillow. Mike stares at it for a very long time before falling asleep.
*
Rebecca gets a sizable piece of Jack’s investment portfolio. Mike doesn’t make eye contact when she looks at him briefly. It’s all he can do to stare at Jack’s lawyer and make sense of the words the woman is saying.
“And to Michael Cutter,” she reads in a careful, measured tone, “I leave all my other wordly goods. Take care of my bike. I love you.”
There’s more, but Mike can’t hear it over the roar of blood in his ears. All Jack’s wordly goods. The books. The bike. The apartment. The awards. He’ll set fire to them all and watch them burn, he thinks. He’ll throw them out the bedroom window. He’ll go away somewhere and leave it all to gather dust and spiders.
When the lawyer finishes, Mike stands up and walks to the elevator. He takes it alone to the lobby. He gets on the subway and goes to the office. His assistant, Kyle, blinks in surprise when he walks in the door.
“Mr. Cutter—”
“No calls, Kyle,” Mike snaps and closes the door hard behind himself. He looks around the room at the big desk and the old leather couch. He stares at the decanter and cut glass tumblers Jack had presented him with after his first successful campaign. Throw them against the wall, he thinks. But he shrugs off his suit jacket and sits down on the couch instead. It creaks comfortably, and Mike thinks of the couches he knew before it, all dark brown and creaky. He thinks of Jack’s smile with the lights mostly out, and he thinks if only…
If only he hadn’t loved the law. If only they hadn’t both had such a passion for making the world right, Jack would have retired so much sooner, and Mike would have had more than nine years where he didn’t have to pretend like he wasn’t wildly, crazily in love with his boss.
And then he hates Jack, for a bare second, for not stepping down sooner, for not letting Mike be the District Attorney sooner. If he had, if only he had, maybe Mike wouldn’t feel cheated. Maybe Mike wouldn’t want to throw open the door, tell Kyle he’s leaving, and never walk in these doors again.
“Mr. Cutter?” Kyle’s standing in the doorway, so much concern on his face it makes Mike sit up a little straighter. “I’m sure you’re just picking up something, Sir, but do you…” He trails off, and Mike watches him try to hide the files under his arm.
“What do you need?” Mike asks, and he clears his throat.
“Three very quick signatures for the budget review board, sir. I know the timing’s bad, but I wasn’t…”
“Sure,” Mike stands and rolls his shoulders. He walks over to his desk, let’s Kyle flip open the files and point. He signs hard. “Messages?”
“They’re at my desk.” Kyle backs out of the office.
Mike presses his hands hard against his desktop and thinks about watching Jack work at this desk. His gut twists, and he presses his hands harder.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cutter,” Kyle says, one foot back in the door. “We’re all,” Kyle looks at the messages in his hand, shakes his head, and finishes walking into the room. “Most of the office is in today, sir,” he says. “If you have any questions about the current cases.”
Mike’s stomach settles itself suddenly. He breathes in deep and sits heavily into his chair. “As long as I’m here,” he says quietly. Kyle has his pen and paper ready when Mike looks up. “Get me the latest on the Fraser double, and tell Klarner to send me his notes on the Winston warrant.”
“The warrant went through last night,” Kyle says and crumples up a message paper.
“Get me a copy, then, and find the list of what was taken. Klarner’s lost two searches in pre-trial.”
Kyle scribbles a note. “I’ll bring in the latest list of assignments.” He walks out when Mike nods his agreement.
Mike looks around his office again. “There’s always work,” he says to the picture of he and Jack at a Yankees’ game that he keeps on his desk. “There’s justice.”
It’s not what he wants. It’s nowhere close. But it’s something to try for, Mike thinks. And it’s an easier task than trying to be happy.
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no subject
on 2009-07-17 06:51 pm (UTC)