won't you hang a picture?

She bit 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, but Claire reveled in the fact that this sight was one reserved solely for her. (Or: It's 3 AM, and Claire Kincaid finds herself thinking about Jack McCoy.)