Sometimes I Miss Mock Trial And Then I Remember When I Accidentally Said “your Majesty” And Then

i could add a second chapter to Clerical Error, but it won’t be what the people want

:p

Fanfiction writers be like:

"here's the immensely time consuming 100K word novel-length passion project I'm working on between my real life job and family! It eats up hundreds of hours of my one and only life, causes me emotional harm, and I gain basically nothing from it! Also I put it on the internet for free so anyone can read if they want. Hope you love it!" :)

Maroon | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

Casey brings home flowers on a random afternoon, and it stirs up more feelings than either of them expect. Just a quiet moment between two people still figuring each other out. based on Maroon by Taylor Swift hurt/comfort, angst 5k wc

reupload, abandoned fic

The first rays of pale sunlight seeped through the windows of Alex Cabot’s loft, illuminating the incense ash that sprinkled across the oak floor.

Casey Novak, with her rumpled hair and wine-flushed cheeks, tucked her legs beneath her and knelt beside the record stand. She gently brushed the sandalwood from cardboard jackets: Rumors, Tusk, Mirage. Faint creases on sleeve corners told their own quiet stories of late‑night needle drops long before she’d moved in, long before Alex had made space for another toothbrush beside hers.

From across the rug, Alex tipped the soiled incense holder over the small trash bin, grimacing as the ash slid from the ceramic in a hush of gray. Her borrowed Harvard Law crewneck hung just past her thighs; every time she shifted her weight, Casey’s gaze caught on the swing of fabric, the easy way Alex occupied her own home—and now, somehow, Casey’s too.

They’d meant to review witness statements and crash early. Instead, Alex had put Fleetwood Mac on the turntable, and Casey cracked open some cheap‑ass screw‑top rosé. Everything after Blue Letter dissolved into laughter—burned popcorn, a debate over hearsay exceptions, Casey’s terrible impression of Judge Petrovsky that made Alex choke on wine and clutch her ribs.

Steam drifted from a single mug on the coffee table—the blonde’s jasmine tea. Casey had already stolen a sip, her lipstick print glowing a faint maroon on the rim beside Alex’s own. She lounged back against the couch, idly brushing her toes against the loose hem of Alex’s sweater, a slow, playful sweep that made the burgundy fabric sway and Alex glance down with a half-smirk.

“How’d we end up on the floor, anyway?”

Alex asked, voice still rough with sleep. Casey, knees drawn up and heels resting in Alex’s lap, tugged her hair down from its haphazard bun and let it encompass her shoulders. “Easy culprit,” she said, a lazy grin tugging at her mouth. “Your old roommate’s bargain-bin wine demolished our sense of time management.

Alex’s laugh was a quick, unguarded burst, sharp and melodic, filling the loft with the kind of warmth that made everything feel brighter. The sound bounced off the brick walls, then sank into Casey’s chest, stirring something she hadn’t realized had settled there. It was a sound she didn’t know she’d need this much. One she’d come to crave more than anything. Three weeks had passed since Casey moved in. Boxes were still haphazardly stacked in corners, a lone lamp perched on the dresser with no shade. But mornings like this, with Alex beside her, had a way of making everything feel rooted in place, as though they'd shared this space for years, not just weeks.

A faint draft slipped in from the fire escape. Smoke from the incense curled and spiraled, pale and gentle against the glass, wrapping the room in its quiet calm. For a few moments, they simply listened. The soft popping of vinyl static, the ticking radiator, the steady, almost shy rhythm of two heartbeats learning the same tempo. Outside, Manhattan kept its frantic pulse, taxis groaning across the wet pavement, but from up here, the noise felt decades away.

Alex reached for the kettle, poured a second mug, and handed it over. Their fingers grazed and Casey’s pulse thrummed, not with urgency but with a grounded certainty that surprised her.

“So,” Alex said, voice soft enough that it nearly blended with the crackle of the record, “when we finally unpack those boxes, where do you want your books?”

Casey leaned her head on Alex’s shoulder. “Somewhere close. I’m tired of looking for things I’ve already found.”

Outside the window, snow began to fall, the first flake landing on the wrought‑iron rail like a single note on an open staff. Inside, two women sat amid incense ash and album sleeves, finishing lukewarm tea and memorizing a silence that felt, for once, like home.

Two nights later, winter hovered indecisively above the city, unable to choose between sleet and snow. The courthouse steps were slick and gleaming when they stepped off the curb, breath visible in the cold.

“You didn’t even call,” Casey said, not looking at her. Her heels clicked down the sidewalk. 

Alex tried to catch her pace. “I was buried in witness prep, Casey. I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“You don’t even have to ignore me,” Casey shot back, then stopped, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her shirt was damp, her curls frizzing at the edges, and her voice came out low. “You just forget.”

The words landed like a slap. Casey wasn’t raising her voice, but that calm, steady tone was worse. Alex opened her mouth, closed it again. They stood in the glow of a streetlamp, faces half in shadow.

“I didn’t forget,” Alex finally said. “I just… lost track of time.”

“You always do.” Casey’s voice broke, just a little. “And I wait. And I forgive it. And I keep showing up.” She was calm, but underneath her voice was that quiet, brittle kind of sadness that never announced itself until it was already settling in.

Alex ducked into a bodega, the kind with flickering lights and a handwritten sign for oranges out front, without a word. When she came back, she had a bottle of wine (actual cork, not screw-top) cradled in her hands. “Come on,” she said. “Walk with me?”

Casey hesitated. Then, she stepped out of her heels and scooped them up by the straps. “Only if you promise not to talk about depositions.”

“I solemnly swear,” Alex said, and Casey gave her a tiny smile.

They walked under a dull streetlamp that made everything look a little more golden. Casey tipped her head back and gave a spin on the wet sidewalk, hair flying. “Tell me again why we don’t just quit and move to Barcelona.”

Alex laughed, startled and bright. “You don’t speak Spanish.”

“You do,” Casey teased, and twirled again, before handing the bottle back over. “Problem solved.”

A cab tore past, catching a puddle, Alex jolted to protect the wine, but the bottle tilted just enough to splash a crimson streak across Casey’s white blouse.

“Oh my god,” Casey gasped.

“Oh my god,” Alex echoed, horrified. “Casey, I am so sorry—”

“You spilled Rioja on the one thing in my wardrobe that didn’t already look like a crime scene,” Casey said dramatically, but her grin was spreading.

“I’ll replace it.”

“You can’t replace white-collar ugly,” Casey said, eyes dancing.

And then she started laughing. Real, unguarded, throw-your-head-back laughing. It bubbled out of her so easily that Alex couldn’t help joining in, half-doubled over with relief.

“I choose you,” Alex said between gasps, holding the wine like it was sacred. “Always. Even when I’m an idiot.”

“Especially when you’re an idiot,” Casey said, still breathless. “You’re kind of my favorite idiot.”

Then Alex tugged her closer, gingerly, because the wine bottle was still open, and Casey dropped her shoes and wrapped both arms around her neck. They swayed there, in the middle of the sidewalk, tipsy on nothing but each other.

No music. Just the soft rhythm of laughter, the spill of streetlight, and the way the world seemed briefly, wonderfully, theirs.

Casey dropped her bag. Too hard. Alex winced at the sound.

“You could’ve backed me up,” Casey said, not looking at her. “You didn’t have to cut me off like that.”

Alex, already toeing off her heels by the couch, sighed. “It wasn’t personal.”

“It never is with you.”

Alex turned slowly. “Excuse me?”

“You treat me like your intern. Like I’m lucky to even be in the room.” Casey’s voice cracked, too loud for the space between them, but still too small. Inferior.  “I’m not your assistant. I’m second chair. I earned that.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Alex snapped. “You think I asked to work with someone who—” She stopped. Bit the rest off and swallowed it down.

Casey stared. “Someone who what?”

Alex said nothing.

“Jesus,” Casey breathed. “You’re unbelievable.”

She shifted nervously. She knew she was getting ahead of herself but the words were coming out too fast for her mind to stop it. “You don’t even see it, do you? You walk into a room and everyone listens. You speak and people shut up. You don’t have to prove yourself every goddamn day.”

There it was. What Casey could never quite say out loud. The burden that loomed between them. A brick wall. That she felt like a shadow beside Alex. That even when they were laughing, touching, kissing, part of her never stopped wondering how long it would take for Alex to realize she could do better.

Alex crossed her arms, spine straight as a ruler. “You’re being emotional.”

That did it.

Casey’s eyes went glassy, but her jaw locked tight. Alex’s gaze flickered. Just for a second. But it was enough. Enough for Casey to see the wall slam into place behind her eyes. Cold. Controlled. Done.

“I love you,” Casey said, a last-ditch effort, her voice ragged. “But I’m tired of feeling like this. Like I’m chasing after someone who won’t even turn around.”

Alex blinked, but didn’t move. Didn’t answer. The silence pressed in so hard Casey thought it might crush her. She turned and stormed down the hall. And when she reached the bedroom, she didn’t hesitate, just slammed the door so hard it rattled the frame. Then came the sobs. Messy, awful ones, muffled into the sheets of their shared bed,

Out in the living room, Alex stared at the door for a long minute. Then she picked up her heels and her keys and walked out. Quiet. Composed. Like she hadn’t just left a wreck behind her.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°

Crammed into the single‑stall bathroom at the office, whisper‑laughing like schoolgirls at a sleepover instead of two ADAs with open case files and coffee breath.

“Stop moving,” Casey hissed, blotting at Alex’s collarbone with a wet paper towel that wasn’t helping at all.

“I told you not to use teeth,” Alex whispered back, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Her button-down was already halfway open, revealing a smudged scarlet mark just peeking over the neckline.

“I didn’t use teeth,” Casey grinned. “Not exclusively.”

Alex glared but her lips twitched. “You’re a menace.”

The mirror caught the flush on both their faces, the way Alex leaned into Casey’s touch like it was gravity. Somewhere outside, footsteps echoed down the hall, but the moment stayed quiet, warm, dizzy with stolen time.

“We should probably get back,” Alex said, though she didn’t move.

Casey’s fingers brushed the mark one last time. “Too late. Everyone already saw your scandalous hickey. The entire floor knows you’re getting railed by your second chair.”

Alex snorted. “Jesus.”

“Don’t worry,” Casey murmured, eyes soft now. “I’ll make sure you win your next case. For…reputation’s sake.”

And Alex, against all her instincts, let herself laugh, really laugh, and pulled Casey in by her stupid tie.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°

She didn’t even hear the front door close. Just the quiet afterward, thick and mean, like the apartment itself was holding its breath. She slid down the side of the bed until she hit the floor. Her coat was still buttoned, hair still pinned, makeup smudging with every wipe of her sleeve. Her sharp composure was gone, replaced with a mess of hiccupped sobs and red eyes, knees pulled up to her chest. 

There were no more hickeys now. No giggles. Just silence thick as grief and the echo of Alex’s voice saying nothing at all when it mattered. She’d cried herself sick and quiet, tucked under her blanket with the door still locked, but it hadn’t helped. The ache stayed put.

Why did it always feel like this with Alex? She wanted to be chosen. Wanted to be seen. She loved her. God, she loved her.

But she couldn’t keep bleeding just to prove it.

In another part of the city, Alex poured herself a drink she didn’t want, stared at a text she couldn’t send. She wanted to call. To say I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Come home. 

Maybe she thought Casey needed space. Maybe she was punishing herself. Maybe she didn’t know how to be soft without breaking. She told herself she didn’t slam the door because she was composed. That she left because she needed space. Because Casey was being unfair.

The words echoed in her mind, muffled by the way her chest ached, tight and quiet. 

I love you.

She didn’t mean to hurt her. She never meant to. But closeness always came with edges. And love, real love, scared the hell out of her. Casey wanted all of her. But Alex didn’t know how to hand herself over without losing the pieces she spent years keeping safe.

Casey brought home flowers.

Not for any real reason. No anniversary, no apology (not officially, anyway), no big win in court. Just a gray, dreary afternoon that needed a splash of color. She’d stopped at the bodega on her way back from arraignments, half-frozen from the wind and tired in that deep, court-stenographer-in-your-brain kind of way. The bouquet wasn’t fancy, red blooms bunched together with a rubber band, wedged in a dented metal bucket near the checkout. They were the only ones that didn’t look half-dead. And they looked enough like roses from a distance.

She paid in crumpled singles, grabbed a chocolate bar for good measure, and walked the last few blocks to the loft with the flowers bundled tight in one arm. By the time she made it inside, her nose was pink, her coat smelled faintly of coffee, and her nerves had started creeping in.

Alex was on the couch, reading a magazine of some sort, hair twisted up and glasses sliding down her nose. Casey stood there for a beat, watching her. Then she cleared her throat, casual as she could manage.

“These’re for you,” she said, holding the bouquet out like she might backtrack if Alex didn’t reach fast enough.

Alex looked up, surprised. “Oh,” she said, setting the papers aside. “Thanks.”

Alex accepted them with a smile she hadn’t worn in days, something small and sincere and just for Casey, even if Casey didn’t look long enough to see it. She disappeared into the kitchen so fast Alex almost laughed.

She opened a cabinet with more force than necessary, pulled down the first glass thing that resembled a vase, and turned the tap on low. While trimming the stems, she caught sight of the little white sticker folded into the paper sleeve.

CARNATIONS — $6.99

Her fingers stilled. Just for a second.

Not roses. Carnations. Of course they were carnations. She stared at them a moment longer than she meant to, then peeled off the tag and tossed it in the trash like it hadn’t caught her off guard. She kept cutting, arranging. Pushed the thought away.

When she turned around, Alex was standing in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable but soft at the edges.

“You thought they were roses, didn’t you?” Alex said, quiet but not teasing. Just... knowing.

Casey’s answer was automatic denial. Of course it was.

“No,” she lied. “I mean—they’re red. Close enough.”

Alex didn’t press. She stepped forward and touched the petals instead. They were soft, full, bright red. Carnations or not, they were beautiful. So was the effort behind them. So was Casey, awkward, flushed, and pretending it didn’t matter.

What Casey didn’t know, what Alex would probably never say out loud, was that the flowers were already perfect. Not because they looked like roses, but because Casey thought they would pass for them and still brought them anyway.

“They’re pretty,” she said finally. “Really.”

Alex had spent so much of her life being measured, held up to standards, expected to be perfect. And Casey made her feel human. Not always in a gentle way. Sometimes it was clumsy or loud or full of missteps. But it was real. Messy and meaningful and real.

She looked at Casey, still holding the vase like a question, and felt her throat tighten.

You’re always trying so hard, she wanted to say. You don’t have to.

But the words didn’t come. Alex was good at holding her tongue. At silence. At taking up less space in the room so no one could accuse her of being too much.

She leaned in and kissed her temple, murmured a soft thank you that landed somewhere behind Casey’s ear.

It helped. A little. But even as she smiled and leaned into the warmth of it, Casey couldn’t stop thinking: I meant to bring you roses.

*******

Alex sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, hands clasped quietly. The carnations were in a mason jar on the windowsill now, catching the last of the city light. They looked brighter here. Or maybe it was just the way Casey kept glancing at them like they might vanish.

Alex hadn't said much. She rarely did when things mattered most. But her eyes kept drifting toward Casey, who was curled up on her own side of the bed, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists, legs drawn up like a child. She wasn’t crying, not really, but there was a crease between her brows like she was waiting to be wrong again.

Alex hated that. Hated that Casey walked through the world like she always had something to prove, even to her. She didn’t know how to fix that. Not without screwing it up more.

Sometimes Alex forgot how new this all still was. How love looked different in Casey’s hands: louder, messier, wrapped in too many layers. Carnations she thought were roses. Apologies she never said but still brought home in paper-wrapped bundles from the corner store.

Alex had always admired Casey’s fire. But now it felt like that fire kept trying to prove it wasn’t a flicker. Like Casey believed she had to earn this every single day. To earn her every single day. She rubbed her thumb against the ring of condensation on her water glass and swallowed the quiet between them.

“I don’t care that they weren’t roses,” she said finally. Her voice came out lower than she meant it to, but steady. “You could’ve brought me a bouquet of bodega receipts and I still would’ve put them in water.”

Casey blinked, startled by the words, maybe even more by the softness in them.

Alex didn’t look away. “I know I don’t make this easy. I pull back when I shouldn’t. I go quiet when you need me loud.”

Her voice caught, but she kept going.

“But you try so hard, Casey. You always do. And I see it. Even when you think I don’t.”

Casey looked down, biting her lip like she didn’t believe it. Or didn’t know how to.

Alex reached over and took her hand. Just held it. No speech, no grand gesture. And for once, Alex let it be enough.

“I love you so much it scares me,” Casey said, voice barely above a whisper.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. Maybe silence, maybe some diplomatic half-answer. But Alex didn’t say anything. Instead, she stepped closer, close enough that Casey could smell her shampoo, faint bergamot and something darker. She reached out, fingertips brushing along Casey’s jaw like she was memorizing it. No rush. No sharp edges.

Then she knelt and pressed their foreheads together, slow and steady, like a promise.

Casey’s hands curled into Alex’s shirt without thinking, just needing something to hold. She blinked fast, trying not to cry again, and felt Alex’s arms come around her in that sure, quiet way, like she wasn’t going anywhere.

For a long moment, they just existed there. No more explaining, no apologies. Just breath and skin and closeness.

Alex’s thumb traced lazy circles between Casey’s shoulder blades. Casey exhaled into her neck, tension bleeding out one breath at a time. Everything loud had gone soft.

Outside, traffic rolled on. Inside, it was just them. A little fragile. But still together.

******

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the radiator and the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling. Alex was asleep beside her, steady in the dark, one hand curled loosely near her chest. Casey lay on her side, staring at the ceiling, eyes burning.

She hadn’t meant to cry. Not again, not now. But it kept coming in slow, steady waves, a tight ache that knotted behind her ribs and refused to let go. She tried to breathe past it. Tried to think of something else—anything else—but her brain wouldn’t let her. It kept circling back to the courtroom, the look on Alex’s face when she cut her off, the way her voice had gone flat like Casey wasn’t even in the room.

She hated how easily it got to her. How small it made her feel. She’d earned second chair. She worked her ass off every day, stayed late, memorized every detail, and still, all it took was one sideways glance from Alex to make her question everything.

She didn’t even know if Alex realized what she did, how the little things added up. The corrections that didn’t need to be made. The praise that never came. The way she’d acted like Casey’s “I love you” was some kind of misstep, something to sidestep and forget.

Another tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away before it could hit the pillow.

Then, slowly, without thinking too much about it, she shifted closer. Not enough to wake Alex. Just enough to feel her warmth. Her legs brushed against Alex’s, and when she didn’t pull away, Casey tucked herself into the space between them, cheek pressed against her shoulder.

Alex didn’t stir. But her arm moved in her sleep, instinctive and loose, settling around Casey’s waist like it belonged there. Casey pressed her eyes shut and let the tears come, slow and silent. She breathed in the warmth of Alex’s skin, the steadiness of her.

It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t make the doubts go away. But for just a moment, wrapped up in the quiet, Casey let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she was wanted. It was enough. At least for tonight.

It wasn’t dramatic when Casey left. No slammed doors, no shouting into the hallway. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that wrapped around her shoulders and made her shiver, even though it wasn’t cold.

Alex was still at work. Probably hunched over her desk, pouring over motions and affidavits like nothing had ever been wrong. Like Casey wasn’t standing here with a trash bag full of skirts and sweaters she barely even liked, feeling like her whole chest was caving in. She moved slowly, like the apartment might notice she was leaving. Touched the back of the worn leather couch where they used to curl up with bad takeout and better wine. Let her fingers skim the chipped corner of the coffee table Alex kept meaning to fix. She wasn’t sure if she was saying goodbye to the space or the memories pressed into it. Maybe both.

The carnations had withered in their vase on the kitchen counter, petals crisping at the edges. Casey almost laughed when she saw them. She thought about tossing them in the trash but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she turned them gently toward the window, like maybe the light would give them a little more time. Time that she didn’t have to give. The box she carried smelled faintly like dust and fabric softener and the candle Alex hated but let her burn anyway. She shifted it higher against her hip, heart knocking hard against her ribs. It shouldn’t hurt this much. It shouldn’t feel like peeling skin from bone.

At the door, she hesitated. Her hand hovered over the handle like maybe there was still some invisible force that would pull her back in. Like Alex might magically appear in the doorway, sweaty from work, tossing her briefcase down and saying, Hey, where are you going? like it was nothing. Like it was fixable.

But Alex wasn’t here. She never was when Casey needed her most.

The spare key felt heavy in her palm. She tucked it under the mug by the door, the one they used to joke was their “communal change jar”, the one  Casey had bought for $2 at a garage sale their first month together. Neither of them had ever replaced it, even though it was ugly and the handle was cracked. It had survived somehow. Casey wasn’t sure they had. She pulled the strap of her backpack higher, wincing at the way the sharp familiarity twisted inside of her. 

Maybe if she had just looked at me, Casey thought. Maybe if I hadn't needed her to choose me out loud.

But the ‘maybes’ didn’t matter anymore. Not when the weight of being almost enough had already hollowed her out.

She opened the door. Paused once, just once, looking back at the place where her heart used to live.

The first time she’d walked out like this, she’d told herself it was survival. This time, she didn’t even know what it was. Just that she couldn’t stay somewhere she wasn’t wanted.

Then she pulled it shut behind her, careful, almost tender.

The lock clicked softly into place. Final.

And for the first time in a long time, Alex Cabot wouldn’t have anyone waiting for her when she came home.

************

She didn’t even remember the cab ride. One minute she was shutting the door behind her, and the next she was fumbling with keys outside the apartment she was supposed to have let go of months ago. She never canceled the lease. She told herself it was practical— just in case —but really, it was because somewhere deep down, she knew she might need somewhere to run.

The door stuck like it always did; she had to shove her shoulder against it. The place smelled stale, like dust and old memories, and she hated how familiar it still felt. The sagging couch was exactly where she left it. The crooked frame of a print she’d bought at a street fair tilted a little further to the left. Nothing had changed except her.

The second the door swung closed behind her, her body gave out. She sank to the floor, knees knocking against the hardwood, box abandoned at her side. It hit the ground with a dull thud and spilled open. Hoodies, leggings, the worn out softball Alex always teased her for, all of it just scattered across the floor like wreckage.

The first sob punched out of her so hard she doubled over.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t cinematic. It was ugly and raw and full of the kind of hurt that didn’t have words. She curled her arms around herself, gasping in these shallow, broken breaths that scraped her throat bloody. Her whole chest hurt, like her heart was clawing at her ribcage trying to get out.

She pressed her forehead to the floor and cried until she couldn’t tell where her body ended and the apartment began. She cried like she was emptying out everything she had left, every soft thing Alex had touched, every piece of her she hadn’t guarded closely enough.

How the hell did we lose sight of us again?

The words ran circles in her head, relentless. The thing was, Casey wasn’t even sure Alex ever had sight of them the way she did. Maybe Casey had been seeing something that was never really there. Maybe she loved harder than she was supposed to, needed more than Alex was ever willing to give. 

The sobs kept coming. She couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop feeling like the stupid carnations, too. A cheap, almost-right version of what Alex deserved. And the worst part was, even now, with her body wrung out and her heart shattered across this empty apartment floor, she still wanted her.

God, she still wanted her.

The tears eventually burned out, leaving Casey dry-mouthed and shaking on the floor. Her whole body felt too heavy to move, like gravity had gotten personal. She wiped at her face with the sleeve of her Harvard crewneck, but it didn’t help. Her cheeks were raw, her eyes swollen, and there was an ache in her chest that she couldn’t get rid of.

For a long time, she just lay there. Listening to the radiator click and hiss. Watching the ceiling blur and refocus as her breathing tried to settle into something human again. The floor was cold against her palms, and the ball rolled back and forth in slow arcs, tapping softly against the baseboard.

She thought about getting up, thought about finding a blanket, maybe even changing out of the clothes that still smelled like Alex's apartment. But the thought of moving, of doing anything , felt impossible.

So she stayed. Curled onto her side, knees tucked up like some kind of defense against the empty stretch of the room. The walls pulsed quietly around her, full of old laughter, old mornings, old Casey, the one who believed things would work out if she just tried hard enough. She wondered if that girl was still somewhere inside her, or if she’d finally cried her out tonight.

Her body ached in places that weren’t physical.

Sleep didn’t so much come for her as it dragged her under: messy, half-dreaming, tears still drying on her face.

And even in sleep, she reached for someone who wasn’t there.

One Week | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

Casey brings home a cat.

fluff

“It’s just for a week,” Casey said, cradling a scrawny, orange creature in her arms like she was holding a human infant (which wasn’t too far off, because the thing had been screaming since she left the shelter).

Alex gave the cat a once-over. It looked like it had recently fought God, lost, and now lived with the consequences. Its fur stuck out at odd angles, it was missing a small chunk of one ear, and it was currently trying to climb into Casey’s jacket.

“She looks like she eats drywall,” Alex said.

“She’s perfect,” Casey cooed, stroking the cat’s crooked whiskers. “Her name’s Pickles.”

“Of course it is,” Alex sighed. “One week.”

Casey’s face lit up. “I love you so much.”

“One. Week,” Alex repeated, pointing.

“Totally.”

“No exceptions.”

“Absolutely.”

“She’s not sleeping in the bed.”

Three hours later, Pickles was curled up between them on the bed, snoring, her matted tail flicking over Alex’s bare leg.

Alex blinked at the ceiling, deadpan. “I hate you.”

Casey, already half-asleep with a smile on her face, murmured, “Love you too.”

Day Two started with the distinct sound of ceramic shattering on hardwood.

Alex bolted upright in bed. “What was that?”

Casey, groggy and wrapped in the comforter, barely opened one eye. “She’s just exploring.”

“She’s committing crimes,” Alex said, storming into the kitchen.

There, on the counter, sat Pickles—smug and entirely unbothered—next to the broken remains of Alex’s prized espresso mug. The one from Florence. The one Alex had bubble-wrapped and hand-carried back through airport security because “you can’t trust checked luggage with art.”

Pickles sneezed directly into the open sugar bowl.

Casey appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “She’s got spirit.”

“She’s got a death wish,” Alex muttered, sweeping up the shards.

Pickles leapt down and immediately attempted to climb Alex’s pant leg like a tree.

Day 4.

Alex returned home to the sound of running water and the distinct, unmistakable sound of something being violently splashed.

Alarmed, she dropped her briefcase and hurried toward the bathroom.

“Casey?” she called out, knocking once before pushing the door open.

The scene inside resembled a crime scene. The floor was soaked. A towel hung halfway off the shower rod like it had tried to escape. Shampoo bottles littered the ground. In the center of the chaos, Casey sat on a tiny plastic stool, soaked from the neck down, with a defeated look on her face.

Pickles sat beside her in the tub, completely drenched and looking like a very wet, very pissed-off meatball.

Her fur clung to her bones in angry spikes. Her eyes were wild, pupils fully dilated, as she clung to the porcelain tub wall like she was scaling it to freedom. The water was shallow, barely enough to soak her paws, but Pickles made it sound like she was being boiled alive.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Alex demanded, eyebrows raised so high they nearly reached her hairline.

Casey looked up like a prisoner of war. “I thought she had a flea,” she said weakly. “She kept scratching and I panicked. I Googled it. It said to try a bath.”

“You Googled it?” Alex repeated, stunned. “You didn’t call a vet. You didn’t ask me. You just threw the cat in the tub like you’re washing a pair of jeans?”

“I gently lowered her in,” Casey said, defensive. “She launched herself out.”

As if on cue, Pickles made a sound like that of a kettle and tried to leap onto the windowsill. She missed, skidded on a bar of soap, and landed in Alex’s lap.

Alex screamed.

Casey screamed.

Pickles hissed, scratched, and bolted out of the bathroom, leaving wet paw prints and chaos in her wake.

There was a long pause.

Alex, frozen, slowly looked down at the claw marks on her thigh. “I’m bleeding.”

“She didn’t mean it,” Casey said, reaching for a towel and trying not to laugh.

“She’s a menace,” Alex muttered, yanking toilet paper off the roll to dab her leg. “You bathed her like she’s a golden retriever. She weighs five pounds and runs entirely on spite.”

“I panicked,” Casey said again, standing up and wringing out the ends of her hair. “I just—I wanted her to feel clean and safe.”

Alex gave her a look, but her expression softened. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

Casey stepped forward, wrapped her arms around Alex’s waist, and buried her wet face in her shoulder. “She’s kind of growing on you, though.”

Alex sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

From the hallway, a wet mrrp echoed like a vengeful ghost.

Alex groaned. “She’s plotting her revenge.”

“She just wants a cuddle.”

“She wants my soul.”

Day 6.

Alex had gone to the store for one thing: oat milk.

Just oat milk. Maybe a box of herbal tea if they had the kind Casey liked. A quick, efficient stop on her way home from court. In and out.

She did not plan to spend 18 minutes in the pet food aisle.

Yet there she was, dressed in slacks and a tailored coat, crouched on the linoleum floor comparing cans of cat food as if they contained ancient scripture.

“Why are there so many flavors?” she muttered to herself, holding up a tin of “Tuna Florentine in a Delicate Sauce” and squinting at the ingredient list. “Why does she need Florentine anything? She eats her own tail.”

A woman with a stroller passed by and gave her a sympathetic smile. Alex straightened abruptly, tucking the can under her arm like it was contraband.

Eventually, she walked out with three different flavors of “gourmet” wet food, a new ceramic food bowl shaped like a fish (because the current one was ‘depressing,’ Casey had claimed), and, inexplicably, a catnip-infused plush mouse.

She sat in traffic for twenty minutes afterward, staring straight ahead and re-evaluating her entire life.

When she opened the apartment door, she was immediately greeted by the sound of Pickles yowling. Not her usual war cry. This one was lower, more drawn-out. Sadder.

“Casey?” Alex called.

“In the bedroom!”

Alex toed off her shoes and followed the noise to find Pickles sprawled dramatically on the bed, head on Casey’s pillow like a Victorian widow. Casey stood at the dresser, folding laundry.

“She wouldn’t eat the chicken pate,” Casey said as Alex entered. “She stared at it like I’d offended her ancestors.”

Alex blinked. “That was the expensive kind.”

“She looked at me like I was a disappointment. Then she licked my leg and sulked off.”

Alex dropped the bag on the bed and pulled out the new cans. “What about Tuna Florentine?”

Casey gasped. “You got her a fish bowl.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Pickles perked up at the sound of the bag rustling. She rose slowly, suspiciously, and approached Alex.

Alex knelt down. “Look, demon. I brought you the kind with gravy. You better appreciate this.”

Pickles sniffed the air, bumped her head gently against Alex’s knee, then curled up against her side like it was no big deal.

Casey froze.

Alex stared down at the creature now purring like a chainsaw in her lap.

“She’s using me for food,” Alex said flatly.

Casey’s face was splitting into a grin. “She cuddled you.”

“She thinks I’m a vending machine.”

“She loves you,” Casey sang, grabbing her phone. “Smile for the ‘Alex Is Soft Now’ album.”

“I will end you.”

Pickles lifted her head and licked Alex’s hand once.

Alex blinked. “Okay… that was almost cute.”

“Admit it,” Casey said, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “You love her.”

“I—” Alex looked down. Pickles was now curled tightly in her lap, snoring. “I think I’m being emotionally manipulated.”

Casey walked over, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “Welcome to cat ownership.”

Alex sighed and gently stroked a patch of Pickles’ fur that wasn’t sticking up like a cowlick.

“She’s still not sleeping in the bed.”

“She definitely is.”

Alex didn’t argue.

Day 7.

Casey was crying.

Not the cute, watery-eyed sniffles that made Alex melt a little. No. This was full-on, gut-wrenching, ugly sobbing. She’d clearly given up on tissues and was just using the sleeve of Alex’s hoodie, which she’d stolen again. Pickles was curled in her lap, purring gently and blinking in that vaguely condescending way only cats could manage, like she didn’t quite understand what the fuss was about.

“I just—she trusted me,” Casey hiccupped, pressing her cheek to Pickles’ bony side. “She’s finally not screaming all the time and now I have to take her back? She thinks she lives here, Alex.”

From the door, Alex said nothing. There was a brief scraping noise.

“I mean, I know it was supposed to be a week, I know, I know, but she’s mine, okay? She’s weird and loud and shaped like a brick and she bites you for no reason but—” Casey broke off with another sob, wiping her nose on the cuff of her sleeve. “I love her.”

There was a grunt. More scraping.

Casey looked up blearily, snotty and red-faced, just as Alex emerged from the hallway dragging in a cat tree the size of her.

It had platforms. Ramps. A tunnel. A little flower-shaped perch at the top.

“What… are you doing?” Casey asked between gasping sobs, brow furrowed.

Alex set the tree down with a thud, wiped her hands on her jeans, and looked Casey dead in the eyes.

“I signed the adoption papers three days ago,” she said casually.

Silence.

Pickles let out a single, satisfied squawk.

Casey stared at her, mouth open, blinking rapidly like her brain had short-circuited. “You… what?”

Alex walked over, knelt in front of the couch, and gently wiped a tear off Casey’s cheek with her thumb. “You really thought I was going to make you give her up after you made her a little hat out of yarn and sang her a lullaby last night?”

“That was private,” Casey whimpered.

“I know,” Alex said, smiling faintly. “I came out for water and heard you rhyming ‘Pickles’ with ‘tickles.’ It was disturbing.”

Casey laughed, then immediately hiccuped and cried harder.

“She’s ours?”

“She’s ours,” Alex confirmed. “Congratulations. You’re now legally responsible for a sentient dust mop with abandonment issues.”

Casey clutched Pickles to her chest, who tolerated it with a quiet wheeze, and reached out with her free hand to pull Alex into a hug.

Alex let herself be folded in, buried her face in Casey’s hair, and whispered, “She’s still not sleeping in the bed.”

From her new perch, Pickles blinked slowly, smug as hell.

She knew.

alex being avoidant and casey being anxious is SO real

CALEX headcanons — the series

part 1: running back to each other after breaking up and cursing each other out of their own lives

they have different attachment styles. toxic but they persevered long enough to last two years.

alex being an avoidant attachment and casey being an anxious attachment. both obtained from their own past — unhealed trauma that they carried with them.

they both healed each other but overtime, alex would catch herself relapsing and casey would always be there to catch her and coax her.

alex called the break up and casey cursed her out of her life, repeatedly yelling the sentences “i wish i never met you!” and “i hope you end up alone forever!”

alex spent her days regretting what she had done. drowning herself in work, purposely forgetting to eat, abandoning her feelings, and drinking and crying herself to sleep.

casey spent her days crying over alex. she would occasionally stare at her phone blankly hoping that maybe, just maybe, alex would call and apologize to her.

one night, alex, drunk, called casey. of course, casey picked up. she was waiting—longing for alexandra’s return.

“we we’re doing so well and i messed us up. i’m sorry my love. i really tried. i know you won’t forgive me. so, if not in this life, then maybe in the next one. i’ll be the best you’ll ever get”

sniffling, casey replied with a raspy voice. “why not now? why not in this lifetime, lex?”

there was no response from alex, only soft whimpers that could be heard from the other line. so, without any hesitation, casey grabbed her keys and rushed to their old apartment.

there, she found a cried-out alexandra. weeping, nursing a beer bottle. face red, eyes puffy, and voice raspy. “i don’t deserve you” she cried out as she saw casey’s figure.

casey sighs and walks over to her, sitting by alex’s side. “you’re all i ever wanted, you know?”

“but i’m shitty”

“so what? we all are. except you’re nice to me and you love me — deeply, endlessly.”

“if anything, we deserve each other. we’ll make it work. we already did. we can do it again”

alex, rubs her nose, smiling as she lays her head on casey’s shoulder. “i love you and i love that we’re in love”

spend 3 whole dabloons on cameo

so many people on this app are way too casual about being friends with diane neal

currently watching season one of ncis. if ANYTHING. happens to kate. i swear. i love her so much.

Law and Order SVU: textposts part 4

SVU 7x02