it was more than worth it

if seein' is believin' (then i already know)

i feel like i wrote this 7+1 just to write the +1, if that gives any indication of how excited i am to share this second part of the fic with y'all. i was really pleased with the stylistic approach i took for this section, and i hope you like it, too!!

~*~

+1. Those Who Followed

(Wish it didn't have to be this way, but—

You will always mean the world to me, love.)

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when a drunk driver slams into the left side of her car.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she is hospitalized with a bruised body, broken bones, and a barely beating heart.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she enters a coma.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when the doctors declare her brain dead.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when her parents, shoulders shuddering with sobs, end her life support.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when death takes her last breath.

Claire Kincaid would have been 29 years old when the same drunk driver finishes his prison sentence of 12 months, released on parole after ten for good behavior.

Claire Kincaid would have been 30 years old when Jack McCoy tries to sacrifice another drunk driver for the justice, the vengeance, the retribution he could not achieve before.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows she will never see another day.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows she should still be alive.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows he has to—

~*~

"—tell me about her."

Jack sighs. He keeps his back to her. "And if I don't want to?"

"We're way past that point, Jack. You don't risk getting disbarred for every pretty little dark-haired, doe-eyed girl you shared a bed with."

Jack's jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists in his pockets. He doesn't dignify her comment with a response.

He does, however, turn around.

Jamie Ross stands at the threshold of his office, short hair shorter than hers brown hair lighter than hers back held upright with greater firmness than she ever cared to present around him.

"Have you been drinking?" Jamie asks, eyes flitting down to the bottle of scotch and empty glass on his desk, and Jack laughs. The sound is bitter.

"I tried." He shakes his head. "Couldn't swallow a drop."

Jamie nods, and for a moment, he pretends she understands.

"Don't just stand there," Jack says after a pause. He gestures toward the wooden chair in front of his desk. "If you're here to interrogate me, we might as well get comfortable."

Jamie sighs, but she enters his office all the same. "Jack," she says, black heels clicking against the floor, "all I want is for you to—"

xxx

"—put your shoes on, chop chop!"

Jack snorted at Claire's eagerness, pulling at the laces of his left shoe. "I had no idea you were so invested in bowling."

"If I told you I was the captain of my high school bowling team, would you believe me?"

Jack searched Claire's face for any hint of a lie, and it was the slight upturn of her pink-stained lips that gave her away.