Disclaimer: Wolf Films owns them.
Here I sit.
It's late, and it was almost later. I mean, Barry was doing a pretty good job of convincing me to stay the night. But one thing I'm not, at least I hope I'm not, is a heel. I've been called lots of things, but never a heel. All the while Barry was doing his damndest to get me into bed, one sensation kept interfering. One memory. The blood-deep rush of desire I'd felt in Jack's office. A rush which was just plain different than the rush on Barry's couch. At one time, I thought I loved Barry. I still think I do. Life can suck, can't it? I should know -- it sure as hell can.
I return to the living room and, once more, stand in front of my answering machine. Don't know why I'm so hesitant. I know it's Jack. I just do. Here I thought I was into risk-taking behaviors. That's what my friends tell me. What I think of myself. There's only one risk blinking at me. Jack saying, "Sorry, no hard feelings, hope we can continue working together, blah, blah." Why does that feel so fucking huge?
I almost go for another beer, no matter how late it is, or how early I have to get up. Instead, I hit the button, quickly. My heart is pounding. This is ridiculous. I listen. My heart pounds harder; I listen again. Almost the same things that Barry said in his message. But these words don't make my head ache -- these words nearly make me pick up the phone. At eleven o'clock at night. I wonder if he's still awake, if he's been waiting for me to return the call, if he's given up.
Jack McCoy give up? I can't see it. But do I want to wait until tomorrow, when he might make the assumption that I didn't spend the night in my own bed? Or that I had to think about what he's offered? Which would be worse? Should I care?
I listen a third time. He's nervous, I can hear it. I reach for my cell. His number is there, for work emergencies. I try not to think anymore, just hit "send" and wait. It rings three times.
"Hello," he answers, his voice deep, maybe with sleep. I can't tell.
"Hey, Jack, it's Ed." My brain flails momentarily. "I just got your message." Good, Ed.
Silence. "So is my apology accepted?"
"Yes, of course," I answer with haste.
"Good."
I can hear the smile. I smile, too.
He continues, "How about dinner tomorrow night?"
"How about lunch?"
He laughs. I do, too. Good, Ed.
On to Part XII, Jack's POV, by TC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Green
Copyright June, 2003, Cassatt
How can the blinking light on one answering machine be so omnipresent? Good word, huh? Means being present everywhere. I had a beer in the kitchen and saw it. Took a leak and saw it. Now, I'm sitting on the bed and the damned thing is shining here, too. I guess it won't stop until I play the message.