Fic - The Privilege of Drunks
So this is something that just sorta...happened. It started as a character study of McCoy and his drinking, and then I started drinking, and then I figured he needed someone to play off of and I remembered Paxton, and this went in a completely different direction from it's original intent, but I kinda like what happened with it. I should be writing more of my Knight Rider fic. Hell, I've got more of my Knight Rider fic written, and I should be posting it...but, uh, this happened instead.
Title: The Privilege of Drunks
Fandom: Law and Order (Vanilla/SVU)
Pairing: Gen
Characters: Jack McCoy, Sonya Paxton
Words: 2717
Rating: PG-13 for language,
Warnings: It's about two damned drunks. But outside of a lot of whiskey, nothing bad happens.
Summary: She's somewhat lubricated, and can't help but wonder what the collective noun for attorneys is. He likes her idea of a conviction of lawyers. And even though they're part of the same conviction of lawyers that swore an oath to the bar to uphold the laws of this country, this state, this city, they are bound to another set of laws-the laws of drunks. And there's a certain privilege that comes with sharing a bottle with someone that is more sacred that Attorney/Client privilege-more sacred even than the bonds between a member of the clergy and a confessor.
Set sometime early season 17 of Vanilla.
He wakes up sometimes, sweating and shaking in the middle of the night, a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that makes him hurry to the bathroom only to spend five minutes, hands braced on white porcelain, bent double, dry heaving. He doesn't remember what causes his reactions, just the unnamed feeling of dread that settles on his chest and grips on to him, like an insiduous python, squeezing him tighter and tighter.
She doesn't know about this, despite working side by side, the office next to his for years. She's seen him on the mornings after these nights, a thousand yard stare on his face, the faintest hint of whiskey hiding beneath aftershave and cologne. They've never been close-they're barely on first name terms. He prosecutes homicides, she prosecutes robberies and arsons and all manner of lesser crimes. His is the face on the six o'clock news, the last thing she watches on channel seven before Jeopardy comes on. She's just the Executive Assistant District Attorney with the office next door, another cog in the wheel of justice.
She only learns about it at a conference, when the walls between their hotel rooms are thinner than they'd have liked, and she can hear him coughing and retching as she fights her own demons. It takes a while-longer than she would have liked, longer than she thought it should take-to summon up the courage to knock on the door next to hers. He answers, tousled, in his underwear, a vacant look on his face. There's a pint of whiskey-Jim Beam-sitting next to a television playing the news on mute.
He stares at her, blankly, and she's overcome by something and she's not sure what. “You sharing?” She points at the pint and he gives his funny little half shrug, stepping aside long enough to let her past. The seal has barely been cracked, and she knows that his vacant look is not the one of someone who's had far too much to drink. No, the vacant look is caused by someone who's not yet had enough. “Couldn't sleep.” She tells him, pouring a stout measure into a plastic glass.
He drinks straight from the bottle, long controlled swigs. She can't help but grimace as she drinks the liquor straight. He remains as stoic and unblinking as ever as he swallows it down. “How do you drink this stuff?” She asks, and gets another little half-shrug as he sits on the edge of the bed. She takes the desk chair, and watches a talking head go on about something or another-the headlines ticking across the bottom of the screen saying something about a conflict happening half a world away.
It's a long time spent in silence, watching the images flicker across the television, bathing the room in soft blue light before either of them speaks again. “Why are you awake at-” He glances at the alarm clock, the red glow of the numbers the only other light in the room “Two twenty seven in the morning?”
“The bed's as hard as a rock, the pillows are flatter than pancakes, and I think the place has bedbugs.” It's a half truth, something that they are both well versed in. It's a truth, it's not a lie, and it answers the question asked without actually answering the question asked. “I always thought you were a scotch man.”
“I am.”
“Then why the cheap imitation?”
“It's cheap. In case you didn't notice Sonya, I'm a civil servant. We don't make all that much.” She chuckles, it's a stilted attempt at a joke, and they both know it, but neither acknowledge it.
“Try rum. It's cheaper, higher proof, and tastes better.”
“Gives me heartburn.”
“Take a tums.” They return to silence for a long period of time, sitting and drinking, the only sounds being the gentle thunk of a plastic cup being rested back on a desk, and the squeak of pleather as she shifts in the chair. “Refill.” She finally says, pointing at the bottle in his hands. It's already half-empty between the two of them.
The second measure is larger than the first, and she drinks in larger gulps, the liquor already having burned a well worn path, making the foul taste easier to bear. “How come we've never done this before?” She asks, genuinely curious. “We've worked together for how long?” She gives a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Takes a goddamn conference to get us talking.”
“We're lawyers. Who has time to socialize in our world?”
“Good point. I mean even this-its just a bunch of ADA's from around the country trying to rub elbows and make themselves look good.” She pauses for a moment, her mind lubricated, running off in a hundred different directions. “What do you even call a group of lawyers? A herd?”
“A murder?”
“A mustering?”
“A warren?”
“A conviction?” He raises his eyebrows and nods-the most expression from him she's seen all night.
“I like that. A conviction of lawyers.” They lapse back into silence. “Arthur's thinking of retiring.”
“So I've heard. You're the shortlist for the rest of his term.”
“Kibre was mentioned. Cabot too.” She nods, knowing that Tracy could handle the pressure of the District Attorney's
office, but the woman didn't have the same breadth and experience as Jack. And Alex had her own can of worms, despite being back with the DA's office for over a year, it was obvious she was still trying to readjust.
“Do you want it?” She asks, genuinely curious. They know each other by reputation, by the occasional moments that they have rubbed elbows at various social functions, the few times they've found themselves passing a case from one to the other as investigations deepened and jurisdictions changed.
“My own little kingdom.” He grinned. “My father would be proud.” The vacant look comes back, but only for a second, disappearing again when he takes a long swill from the bottle. “It would be a chance to fix some things.”
“Like what?”
“The way that narcotics seems to plea bargin everyone down to probation. The rate at which convictions out of the one-six get overturned.”
“Sex crimes?” She gives a mirthless chuckle. “I've had to deal with them once. Those detectives are off their rocker.”
“Munch is good people.” She shrugs, not having had any experience with the detective. “Cragen does the best he can with what he has to work with. But Novak makes me look like an ideal prosecutor.” It's a familiar topic of conversation, one that hides both their problems. Gossip about the office. The only way they know anything about each other. She knows about his demons, his past liaisons, his history, and she's sure he knows hers, but they do not talk about why they are there as the clock ticks closer and closer to three in the morning passing a pint of cheap whiskey back and forth.
She's given up on the glass after she finishes it, in favor of drinking straight from the bottle, same as him. There's not much left, and she's sad, because she's just drunk enough to be tipsy, and not drunk enough to be drunk, and she can tell he is as well. It should shock her more than it does when he gets up for a moment, producing another pint from the suitcase, and she wonders how many more are tucked away neatly. But she'd not thought ahead, like he had. She'd had plans of going and socializing, and drinking with the rest of the conviction below.
She hadn't expected the hotel to lack a bar, and the nearest one to be out of walking distance. She wasn't used to not being able to stagger home at the end of a long night. Jack, on the other hand, had done his research, knew what he was up against, and prepared accordingly. They are both skilled drunks. They have their own demons, and have both learned how to cope, how to function with their respective pasts. She drains the remainder of the pint in two swift gulps. “Why are you here?” he asks, after another long lapse in conversation, and she's just drunk enough to answer him truthfully.
“The walls are thin. I heard-” She pauses, and he nods, understanding. “Didn't want to see the next Manhattan DA facing death by calamari.”
“There are worse ways to go.”
“I suppose so. Wouldn’t want to die in a dump like this.”
“On the contrary, I think a dump like this is a wonderful place to die. They're used to it. Wouldn't shock the staff.”
“I used to live in a place like this, after my undergrad. I just didn't want to go home and admit that I'd fucked up my majoring in philosophy. I was waiting tables just to make ends meet and keep a roof over my head.” She doesn't know why she tells him this unprompted, but he's easy to talk to. He understands. There's a common bond between drunks, a certain confidence that comes with the territory of sharing a bottle, more sacred even than attorney-client privilege or what is betrayed to a priest in confession. He gives a small snort of laughter, and for a moment a spark of anger flairs up.
“I hated philosophy.”
“What was your undergrad?”
“It was back when they still had pre-law programs at Loyola.”
“Maryland?”
“Chicago.”
“How'd you stand the winters?”
“I grew up there. You get used to it.”
“Better than Jersey. Glad to be on the other side of the Hudson these days.”
“Jersey's not that bad.”
“You lived there?”
“Two years. Second wife. Ridgewood.”
“At least it wasn't a shitty commute.”
“There was that. Nice little town. Quaint.”
“So was Moorestown. Didn't mean it was a good place to live.”
“You from there?”
“The boss' version of Jersey Girl was my wedding song.”
“I prefer the original.”
“Tom Waits isn't exactly wedding song material.” There's that half-shrug again, and she takes another long gulp of whiskey.
“Good music for nights like this.” She nods, but the silence that falls between them is almost comforting. It's nice, she thinks, away from the bright lights and big city. She doesn't even live in Manhattan like he does. She lives on Staten Island, hardly part of the city-she was positively suburban by comparison. They've nearly killed the second pint, drunk in long, lengthy gulps.
“We should do this more often. Better than drinking alone.”
“You don't want that.” She blinks, and can see the faintest hints of a haunted look in his eyes. She wonders if he's even had a relationship since Kincaid had died. His reputation certainly still stood, but she knew the way that whispers and rumors spread throughout One Hogan Place.
“What makes you think I don't?” It would be a lie to say she's never considered it, even considering asking for a demotion just to be his second-chair when Carmichael had left, knowing his track record with his assistants. But she had always been one to put her career before a relationship. There's a long moment where their eyes are locked, even as each of them take a long gulp from the bottle. They're both drunk by this point, and she thinks coming next door might have been the best idea of her life.
The spell is broken, though, when she chokes on her next swallow, an air bubble catching in the near-empty bottle. He slaps her on the back, and she can't help but jump at the physical contact. “You don't.” The words are almost whispered in her ear, and she blinks.
“Why not? You're the next district attorney of Manhattan.” Even as she says it, she knows that there is a truth to his words. Just because she's thought about it doesn't mean she wants it. She's thought about all sorts of men that she knew it wouldn’t work with, simply because that was part of the human experience. She knows they wouldn't work, and that even if the sex was mind blowing, it wasn't worth the title of just another one of Jack McCoy's conquests. She thinks it's almost sweet the way he's looking out for her reputation.
“Even if I serve the rest of Arthur's term-if he retires before the end of his term-what makes you think I'll run?”
“Jack, quit fooling yourself. You're going to run, going to get elected, and you're going to serve until you drop dead in your office from old age.”
“That's why I drink alone.” She quirks an eyebrow, trying to follow his train of thought. “No one would vote for a damned drunk into the DA's office.”
“You never let it affect your cases.”
“Neither do you.” She gives a tilt of her head, a not-quite agreement.
“You learn to cope.”
“Isn't that all life is?”
“For someone who hated philosophy, you sure sound like a philosopher.”
“So sue me.”
“Not my area of practice.” She's surprised to catch the first glimpses of the sun starting to peek through the curtains. A glance at the clock reveals it to be pushing six in the morning. “Time flies when you're having fun.”
“I suppose it does.” He swallows the last dying gulp of the second pint, staring at the stained purple of the pre-dawn sky.
“I should probably start getting ready. I was supposed to go to the eight o'clock panel.”
“I suppose.”
“This was-nice. I'll-uh-I'll see you around.”
“Yeah. I'll see you around.” She sneaks back to her room trying to be as stealthy as possible. She's not too bad at the walking thing, and by the time she staggers out of the shower, she's feeling absolutely presentable. As she heads down to face the conviction of lawyers that have converged on the free continental breakfast, she's surprised to find Jack there as well, looking every bit as presentable as she was. Neat suit, perfectly affixed red striped tie, every bit in his usual uniform. They nod at each other from across the breakfast area, a silent acknowledgment about what has transpired.
They share the same nod when they run into each other later that week, as she's fighting with the lock on her office door-it's a familiar battle that maintenance has been saying they'll fix when they have the time, and they haven't found the time in the two and a half years she's had the office. He helps her with the door, pointedly ignoring the pint bottle that all but falls out of her briefcase when she sets it down harder than expected.
So when he shows up in her office door at six that evening, pretending to make small talk about why she's there so late, before the casual offer to go out for a drink, she plays along. Which is why when he mentions his father, letting slip just enough through the alcohol-induced lack of filter, she simply nods and offers a consoling shoulder. Which is why when she tells him of her own demons, he does not judge, merely offers the same. This is their confessional, their attorney-client courtroom conference. This is privileged information that they would not share with anyone. There is a different code that they play by, as much as they are cogs in the gears of justice, as much as they were representatives of the laws of the United States, of the State of New York, of the city of Manhattan, they were also bound by a different code, the laws of drunks. And those were laws that they respected far more. Because while there was a large conviction of fellow attorneys who represented all the same laws they swore an oath to the bar to represent, the laws of drunks were far more important.