alexcsuprstr

[alexcsuprstr]

all hail ncvqk 🙏🙏

Where the Wings Once Were | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

chapter two loosely based on Let Down by Radiohead 5k creds to irregulargif2 for the cover gif youre literally amazing

Casey hadn’t moved from her desk in hours. The stack of paperwork in front of her seemed endless, each page blurring into the next as the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Her navy blazer hung limply from the back of her chair, forgotten sometime around dusk, when the office had started to empty out and the city outside shifted into night. Her hair, once pinned back in its usual precise twist, had long since fallen loose, now tied into a half-hearted ponytail that kept slipping down her neck no matter how many times she tightened it. Her eyes, dry and burning from hours of reading, flicked over the same paragraph for the third time, and still it didn’t sink in. She didn’t notice how late it was. She just kept working, as if movement might unravel everything.

She was redrafting the closing argument for the Winslow case. Not because it wasn’t finished — it was. It had been for hours. But something about it didn’t sit right anymore. Or maybe something about her didn’t.

Alex had made a comment earlier that stuck like a splinter under her skin, small but impossible to ignore. “It’s solid, Novak. Just… don’t lead with the emotional angle. You’re not testifying, you’re persuading.”

Solid. Not strong. Not great. Just solid.

The word echoed like a shrug. Like a pat on the head. Like something you said when you didn’t want to discourage someone, but didn’t quite believe in them either.

She gritted her teeth and deleted her sentence for the third time in a row. Then again. And again. The blinking cursor mocked her from the middle of the screen. Every word she typed felt too forced, too soft, too wrong.

She wanted more than solid. She wanted to be seen, not as a junior ADA, not as second chair, not as someone who was “coming along” or “doing her best.”

As someone who was already enough. Already there.

Someone Alex Cabot might stop and really look at — not with polite detachment or professional distance, but with recognition. With respect.

Someone who made her think, There’s someone who gets it. There’s someone I can trust.

But Alex never really looked at her. Not like that.

Not with curiosity. Not with admiration. Only when she was correcting her. Only when Casey had missed something, or gone too far with a line of questioning, or let her tone edge too close to passion in the courtroom. Only then would Alex’s gaze land on her — sharp, cool, edged with restraint — and even then, it never stayed long.

The cursor blinked at the end of a sentence she no longer believed in. Words that had once felt powerful now sat limp and hollow, like an argument already lost.

With a sigh, Casey dragged her fingers through her hair, fingertips scraping her scalp as if trying to shake something loose. The last of her ponytail unraveled, strands falling forward across her face like static, clinging to her cheeks, her lips. She let them stay.

She didn’t need to look put together. Not anymore. Not this late. Not when the office lights had dimmed to motion-sensitive half-brightness and even the cleaning staff had moved on to other floors.

No one was watching. Except, maybe, Alex.

Casey hated that she still checked.

She hated the way her breath caught every time footsteps passed her office door. How her eyes flicked up automatically at the flicker of movement behind the frosted glass.

A part of her — the part she’d learned to bury beneath facts and legal code and careful professionalism — still hoped that maybe Alex would come back to clarify something, to thank her.

To say, Hey… that was more than solid.

But the footsteps always moved on. The shadows never paused and it never was.

A notification box popped up on the corner of her monitor. A calendar reminder lit up the screen in calm, impersonal text:

Go home.

Casey scoffed under her breath and clicked it away. Go home. As if that meant something. As if “home” was a place that still held comfort, or warmth, or any real part of her.

It hadn’t, not for a long time. Not since the days had started bleeding into one another. Early mornings became late nights, weekends dissolved into a blur of case files and stale break room coffee. She had a toothbrush tucked behind the cleaning supplies in the bathroom. A spare change of clothes folded neatly in the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet. A pair of sneakers shoved beneath her desk, soles worn flat.

She lives here now. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

Because this was where Alex was, even if only in passing glances, shared silence, and clipped feedback that lingered far too long in Casey’s head.

She wanted to stay close to the sun.

And if that meant orbiting until she burned out completely, until she came apart at the seams trying to prove she belonged in the same galaxy, then so be it.

She closed the old draft, fingers hovering for a second over the delete key, and then opened a fresh document.

A clean slate. No flourishes. No heart. This time, she cut the emotion completely. No appeals to sympathy. No mention of the victim’s trembling voice or the bruises that didn’t show. No rising cadence. No righteous anger.

Just the facts and argument. Just what Alex would expect.

She could save the rest, the ache, the fire, the messy truth of it, for later.

“You’re still here.”

Casey startled, fingers freezing mid-keystroke. She hadn’t heard the door open. Hadn’t heard the footsteps. She turned sharply, her heart thudding in her chest, eyes adjusting to the figure in the doorway.

Alex.

She stood with casual authority, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her coat still on. Her hair, normally pinned with clinical precision, was looser now, framing her face in soft waves. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the collar, just enough to suggest the hour, but not enough to soften the sharp line of her gaze.

Casey blinked hard to clear the fog behind her eyes.

“Just cleaning up the Winslow close,” she said too quickly, the words tumbling out like an excuse. Like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Alex’s eyes swept the room — over the cluttered desk, the empty coffee cups, the crumpled legal pads inked with revisions and second guesses.

“You submitted that brief three days ago.”

“I know,” Casey said, forcing a tight smile. “I just thought it could be tighter. The jury’s going to be looking for something they can hold onto, and I don’t think the current structure—”

Alex raised a hand, gently but with the kind of finality that made Casey stop mid-sentence.

“It was fine, Novak. You don’t need to rewrite the whole thing.”

That word again. Fine.

Casey looked away, jaw tight. “I just want to get it right.”

Alex didn’t move. Her voice came quieter this time. “You already did.”

It landed with more warmth than Casey had expected. But not enough to sink in.

Alex lingered a second longer, her eyes lingering on something unreadable, then turned without another word. The soft click of her heels echoed down the hallway, growing fainter with each step until there was only stillness.

Casey sighed and turned back to her screen. She stared at the blinking cursor. Her fingers hovered for a second, then moved to the mouse.

She saved the document even though she didn’t believe her. 

The courtroom buzzed faintly with quiet conversations and the clicking of heels against the tile floor, but it all bled into static for Casey. She stood behind the prosecution table, hands clasped too tightly around her legal pad. The paper had crumpled in her grip.

She hadn’t slept. Not really. She’d gone home sometime after one a.m., her eyes raw from staring at the screen for too long, her skin tight from dried tears she refused to name. She’d curled up on the couch with her coat still on, only meaning to rest her eyes, and woke up just two hours later to the morning news playing on low volume, a migraine crawling behind her right eye like a live wire.

A shower and a new suit had helped. A little. The navy jacket, sharp at the shoulders, was familiar armor. She’d even put on mascara. Control, or at least the illusion of it. But inside, everything throbbed. Her thoughts felt like a struck tuning fork, humming, high-pitched, endless, and just slightly off-key.

Across the room, the defense counsel leaned over to whisper something to his client, gesturing toward the jury box. The judge hadn’t taken the bench yet. The court reporter was already settled in, her fingers poised over the keys. 

The Winslow case had always been straightforward: a textbook assault with credible witnesses and clean evidence. Alex had let her take lead, officially. Unofficially, Alex had still given her notes, refined her outlines, narrowed her opening argument to exactly 41 seconds of digestible rage. And Casey had followed every cue. Not because she didn’t know how to build a case on her own, (she did), but because Alex’s input was sharp, instinctive, just one step ahead of where Casey was already going. It was maddening how right she always was. Casey had spent the week convincing herself that taking the lead meant something. That it was trust. That it was progress. That maybe Alex saw her as a real ADA now, not just a promising one, not just competent. But then Alex edited the timeline she’d built from scratch without asking. Cut her closing argument down by a full paragraph. Called her outline “clean, but a little eager.” And just like that, the illusion cracked.

Now it was mid-trial, and Casey was on cross. Her pulse thudded heavily against the inside of her skull, loud enough that she thought maybe the courtroom could hear it too. She shifted slightly, fingers trembling just enough to remind her how high the stakes were. “So you’re telling me,” she began, her voice flatter than she meant it to be, “that despite witnessing the altercation, you didn’t call the police until the following morning?”

The defense’s key witness sat rigidly on the stand, his too-perfect suit gleaming under the harsh courtroom lights. A twitch in his left eye betrayed the practiced calm he tried to wear like armor. He shrugged, almost nonchalantly. “I wasn’t sure what I saw. And… I figured someone else would’ve called.”

Casey narrowed her eyes, heart pounding faster now. She flipped through her notes, hoping to find the precise line she needed to corner him, to pin down the cracks in his story, but panic clawed at her when she realized the pages were out of order. The crucial paper had somehow slipped into the wrong folder. Her breath hitched. She had to think fast.

She forced herself to steady her hands and voice. “But you later gave a statement that contradicted your original story. Isn’t that—?”

“Objection,” the defense attorney interrupted sharply. “Mischaracterization of prior testimony.”

The judge didn’t even look up. “Sustained.”

Casey’s stomach dropped, cold and heavy like a stone. The courtroom felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker, like the walls were closing in on her. She clenched her jaw, forcing her hands to still as she retreated internally, searching for the next move, because losing the judge’s favor here wasn’t just a setback; it was a warning. She had to be flawless. She had to be strong.

But right now, all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

She faltered, fumbling a correction. “Let me rephrase—”

The words caught in her throat, brittle and breaking apart before they even left her mouth. Her hands trembled just enough to betray her composure. The courtroom seemed to shrink around her, the pressure mounting with every pair of eyes locked onto her, waiting.

Then Alex’s voice cut through the haze beside her—sharp, tight, like a whip cracking just inches from her ear. Barely above a whisper, but heavy with heat and unmistakable authority. “You’re losing control of your line, Novak. Get it together.”

Casey blinked rapidly, swallowing hard as the chokehold tightened around her throat. The carefully rehearsed sentences she’d practiced a hundred times, the steady cadence she’d clung to all night, scattered like dry ash in a sudden gust of wind. She was adrift, caught between panic and desperation, but Alex’s presence anchored her—if only just barely.

Fighting to steady her breath, she forced her eyes back to the witness, trying to recapture the thread of the moment. Her voice came out low, measured, but still carrying a tremor. “Did you, or did you not, observe the defendant strike the victim with a closed fist?”

The witness hesitated, his eyes darting like a cornered animal. “I… think so.”

It wasn’t the answer she needed. It wasn’t the clear, undeniable confirmation she had to have. The uncertainty in his voice was a crack in the foundation of her case — a crack she was terrified might widen and swallow everything whole.

And then Alex shifted in her seat. Just a small movement — a sigh barely audible, a subtle shake of her head — but to Casey, it landed like a sledgehammer. The weight of that quiet disappointment pressed down on her chest, heavier than any objection or ruling.

Casey barely got through the rest of the cross-examination. Every word felt heavy, weighed down by the sting of the witness’s uncertainty and the judge’s cold rulings. By the time they finally sat down again, her chest was tight, buzzing with static like an overloaded circuit. The air around her felt thick and suffocating. She didn’t dare look at Alex. She couldn’t. Not after the sharp correction, not after that quiet disappointment.

The courtroom buzzed softly with movement as the judge called for a lunch recess, but she didn’t move. The rest of the world seemed to blur, distant and unreachable. Her fingers traced the grain of the table, finding a twisted knot in the wood that somehow mirrored the tangled mess inside her.

Alex stood beside her, closing her briefcase with a sharp snap that echoed louder than it should have. “You need to tighten your questions,” she said, her tone cold and clipped, each word precise and unyielding. “This isn’t moot court. Sloppy prep loses juries.”

The words weren’t venomous; there was no bitterness or anger in her voice. That made it worse. It was the clinical honesty of it, the reminder that there was no room for error here, no margin for the kind of mistakes Casey had just made.

Casey nodded, barely able to meet her eyes, mutely acknowledging the reprimand. Her gaze dropped back to the knot in the wood, willing herself to stay still.

Alex hesitated for the briefest moment, as if reconsidering, then softened just a fraction. “You’ll clean it up. Just… focus.”

And then she was gone, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she walked away without a single glance back.

She sat perfectly still as the courtroom slowly emptied around her. The murmurs of departing jurors, the shuffle of papers, the footsteps fading down the hall—all of it blurred into a low, persistent roar that filled her ears and drowned out everything else. The sound was relentless, echoing the chaos inside her head.

It wasn’t just that she’d made a mistake. She’d made plenty before, and she’d learned to live with the cold judgments, the sideways glances, the quiet criticisms. But this—this was something different. It was the way Alex had looked at her. Not with anger. Not with frustration. But with something sharper, more cutting. Disappointment.

Casey had grown used to coldness in her life, to the indifferent walls people sometimes built around her. She’d learned to brace herself, to keep going when others stopped noticing. But this was rejection, raw and unspoken, seeping under her skin and settling deep in her chest like a stone.

She hadn’t cried in six months. Not since the last time she’d let herself break down in the quiet of her apartment, hidden away from the world. But now, sitting alone in that vast courtroom, with only the ghostly shadows of her own doubts for company, the sting behind her eyes grew unbearable.

Her lashes trembled as she blinked hard, desperate to hold it back. She couldn’t afford to fall apart—not here. Not now. Not where Alex might see her fail again.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, straightened her back, and forced herself to breathe. Because if there was one thing Casey Novak knew, it was that giving up wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not ever.

The courtroom emptied once again, concluding the first grueling day of trial, leaving behind silence and shadows that seemed to press closer in the fading light. But Casey didn’t move. Her legs felt heavy and unsteady beneath her, as if they no longer belonged to her, as if they were made of lead instead of flesh and bone. Every breath she took was sharp and cold, squeezing around her ribs like a tightening vice, constricting and relentless.

She blinked, trying to clear the sudden sting in her eyes, but the room tilted slightly on its axis, spinning just enough to make her stomach lurch. The distant noise of the bustling courthouse, the low chatter of staff, blurred into a high, frantic ringing in her ears, like a storm building behind her temples.

Her knees buckled before she even realized it, and she stumbled toward the women’s restroom, barely managing to cross the threshold before she collapsed against the wall. She slid down, head bowed low, her hand shaking as it reached out to lock the stall door with a shaky click.

Inside the cramped, fluorescent-lit space, she crouched down on the cold tile floor, the roughness pressing into her palms as she rested her trembling hands on her knees. Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps, chest heaving in a tight rhythm that felt as though it might snap her ribs in two. The air felt thick and suffocating, every inhale shallow and desperate.

Her fingers gripped the edges of the toilet seat like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart, a lifeline in the storm of emotions raging inside her. Sobs rose up from somewhere deep and raw, ragged and desperate — but no sound escaped her lips. It was as if the grief and frustration clotted inside her chest, too heavy and dense to break free.

She stayed there, pressed into that small space, shrouded in silence, as the noise and light of the courthouse went on without her.

She was alone. And it felt like everything was breaking.

Her vision blurred, edges melting into streaks of gray, and finally, hot tears spilled down her cheeks—unbidden and relentless. Yet the sobs stayed locked deep inside her chest, hollow and strangled, as if her throat had sealed itself shut.

For a long moment, Casey sat frozen in the dark stall, the cold tiles pressing into her skin, drowning in a panic that clawed at her chest but refused to be named. A grief heavier than any words weighed her down, a silent scream buried beneath layers of fear and doubt.

She wanted to disappear. To fade into the shadows and leave behind the crushing pressure of failure, the sting of disappointment, and the relentless ache of loneliness.

She wanted to be anywhere but here.

The cold tiles bit into her palms, but the ache in her chest was fiercer, spreading like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. She pressed her forehead against the stall door, searching for something solid to hold onto, something real to anchor her fraying grip on reality. But the edges around her blurred, the world growing distant and unreal, like a dream slipping through her fingers.

Why am I like this? The thought struck sharp and unforgiving, louder than any judge’s gavel pounding down in a courtroom.

Her mind replayed her mistakes, every pair of eyes fixated on her, every whispered judgment she imagined hidden beneath their silence. They don’t really see me. Not the real me.

The bitter taste of failure rose in her throat like poison. She was supposed to be good enough. Brilliant, even. But all she’d ever been was second best, always a step behind, always in the shadow, never quite enough.

Her hands trembled. The memory of Alex’s sharp correction that afternoon still stung, sharper than any courtroom defeat. I’m so stupid. I can’t even get the simplest thing right.

The panic curled tighter in her chest, squeezing like a snake.

I’m weak. I’m a failure. I’m not enough.

The sobs she had tried to hold back broke free in a ragged, silent torrent, but still, no sound came. It felt like the ache was lodged too deep for tears.

She thought about her mother, the quiet disappointment that had always lingered in her eyes. About the friends who had moved on, chasing their dreams while Casey felt stuck in a loop of self-doubt.

What if I never get better?

“Charlie?”

The line was quiet for a moment before he answered, his voice flat and tired. “Yeah?”

Tears blurred her vision. “I—I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Her heart felt like it was breaking, spilling over with all the pressure, the exhaustion, the relentless weight of expectations. The late nights, the impossible reading, the endless feeling that she was drowning in a sea where no one could hear her scream.

She waited, hoping for something. Any kindness, any reassurance.

But what came instead was cold, almost cutting. “Stop complaining,” he said. “Law school is hard for everyone. If you can’t handle it, maybe you’re just not cut out for this world.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than any argument, tearing through the fragile thread she’d been holding onto.  Her hands clenched the phone tighter, knuckles white. “Maybe you’re right,” she whispered, voice breaking.

Click.

Maybe he was right.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the memories away, but they clung, heavy and relentless.

I’m tired.

So tired of fighting to be seen. So tired of being measured by standards she could never meet.

How did it come to this?

A soft voice called out, tentative yet urgent. “Casey? Are you in here?”

Alex froze.

For a second the cool, polished mask she wore in court cracked, and something raw flashed across her face. She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected to find Casey like this, folded in on herself like something shattered.

“Casey.” Her voice was quiet, low. Careful.

Inside the stall, Casey flinched. She didn’t lift her head. Couldn’t.

Alex stepped closer, the sound of her heels muted now, reverent almost. She crouched just outside the door and rested her palm flat against it, not pushing — just making contact. “It’s me.”

A pause. Only the sound of Casey’s ragged breaths filled the space between them.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Alex said gently. “But let me in. Please.”

Another breath. A hiccup. A heartbeat.

Then the lock clicked, slow and tentative.

The door creaked open, and there she was — eyes red, face pale, her entire body curled into itself like she was trying to disappear. Alex took it all in. And then, without a word, she knelt on the tile and pulled Casey into her arms.

Alex stayed quiet for a moment, just watching the younger woman. Watching the way her shoulders still quivered with leftover sobs, the way her lashes clung wetly to her cheeks, the way she tried to shrink into herself even now.

It hurt to see her like this. It gutted her.

She shifted carefully, lowering herself fully onto the cold tile beside her. Their backs pressed against the same stall wall, inches between them, but Alex didn’t move closer yet. She knew better. She knew when silence meant safety.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Alex said softly, voice almost swallowed by the hum of fluorescent lights. “In court. I was… frustrated. But not with you. Not really.”

Casey didn’t answer. Her breath hitched, barely audible.

Alex went on, quieter. “I see how hard you work. I see how much you care. And I—I forget sometimes that you’re not bulletproof.”

A bitter laugh escaped Casey, weak and broken. “You never forget that,” she rasped. Her voice was hoarse, like it had been scraped raw from the inside. “You expect me to be perfect.”

Alex closed her eyes. “No. I expect you to be you. And I forget that being you doesn’t mean being unbreakable.”

Casey turned her head slightly toward her, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, mouth trembling. “I feel like I’m falling apart, Alex.”

“I know,” Alex said, gently, like it was something she’d been waiting to hear. “But you’re not broken. You’re overwhelmed. You’re tired. You’re human.”

“I tried so hard today,” Casey whispered. “And I still failed. I—I thought if I just worked harder, if I just proved myself...” Her voice trailed off, swallowed by a fresh wave of tears.

Alex reached out, slow and deliberate, until her hand brushed Casey’s. She didn’t grab her, didn’t pull. Just offered.

And after a beat, Casey’s fingers curled around hers, trembling but tight.

“You didn’t fail,” Alex said, firm now. “You lost your footing for a second. That happens. To all of us.”

Alex shifted the moment she felt Casey’s grip tighten, not in fear, not in panic this time, but in surrender.

Without hesitating, she moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around Casey’s shaking shoulders. Casey didn’t resist. She collapsed into the embrace like a dam breaking, burying her face in Alex’s blouse, the fabric catching a fresh wave of tears as the sobs came harder, deeper.

Alex’s other arm came around her, holding her close, steadying them both on the cold bathroom floor.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her lips brushing against Casey’s temple. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

And Casey did. Her whole body convulsed with the force of it, hands clutching at Alex’s blazer like it might keep her from falling apart completely. The sounds she made weren’t clean or pretty; they were ugly, aching things. Gut-deep and years old. The kind of sobs that came from exhaustion that wasn’t just physical.

She pressed her cheek to the top of Casey’s head and closed her eyes, breathing in the moment with its raw edges and unbearable closeness.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured after a long stretch of silence, voice thick now too. “You don’t have to hold it in. Not with me.”

Casey shook her head, unable to speak. The sobs were tapering now, but they still came in waves, like little aftershocks that made her chest shudder and her breath catch. Alex rocked her gently, not even realizing she was doing it. Just small, soothing motions like she was trying to remind Casey her body still existed. That she was still tethered to the world.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time felt suspended.

Eventually, Casey’s arms came up around Alex, clinging tight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely against Alex’s collarbone.

Alex shook her head. “No. None of that. Don’t apologize for falling apart. You’re allowed to feel this. You deserve to.”

“I just…” Casey’s voice broke again. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I’m glad I did,” Alex said softly. She pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, thumb brushing beneath one damp cheek. “Because now I know. And now I can be here for you, not just in court — here. Where it matters most.”

Casey blinked at her, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, expression caught between disbelief and something softer.

And Alex held her gaze, steady and unwavering, even as her own heart ached.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Casey,” she said. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Casey believed it. Or at least… she wanted to try. So she nodded, just once. And then leaned back into Alex’s arms, not to hide, but to rest.

To finally let herself be held.

Alex’s fingers moved gently, brushing the tears from Casey’s cheeks with a careful tenderness that made Casey’s breath catch. Her hand lingered for a moment, then she reached up to tuck a stray lock of damp hair behind Casey’s ear, as if trying to smooth away the storm inside her.

“Can I walk you home?” Alex asked softly, her voice low and steady, full of quiet concern.

Casey blinked up at her, the vulnerability in Alex’s eyes grounding her, steadying her.

After a small pause, she nodded.

Alex stood slowly, offering a hand. Casey took it, her fingers trembling but clutching tight

[alexcsuprstr]

[alexcsuprstr]

Where the Wings Once Were | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

chapter one loosely based on Let Down by Radiohead 3.5k i didnt really edit this and i kinda forgot what i wrote already...

The file slipped from Casey’s hands and scattered across the bullpen floor like a burst of paper snow.

“Shit—sorry,” she muttered, already dropping to her knees, fingers scrambling to gather the scattered pages before anyone could look too long or care too much. Her hands shook, just slightly, but enough to make the pages bend and crinkle in her grip. She could feel the tremor starting in her wrists and working its way up her arms like static.

The blazer she wore, borrowed, a size too big, folded awkwardly at the shoulders and swallowed her frame. It made her feel like a kid playing dress-up, like everyone could see through the fabric to the imposter underneath. Her cheeks burned. God, she hated how easily she blushed, how quickly nerves painted her face in blotchy red. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was exposure. A flare that said: Look at me. I don’t belong here.

Alex appeared beside her without a word, her movement so smooth and quiet it felt choreographed. She crouched with practiced grace, her heels barely making a sound as they touched the tiles. Without hesitation, she reached for one of the loose pages, pinching it delicately between two fingers. Her nails were perfectly filed, glossy with a pale polish that never chipped. Not a single wrinkle marred her suit—tailored, expensive, composed, just like her.

Casey didn’t look up, but she could feel the heat of Alex’s presence next to her, the subtle perfume she wore, something sharp and clean, intimidating in its own right. It made Casey hyper-aware of everything: the way her own hair was slipping from its bun, the ink smudge on her palm, the awkward slump of her blazer across her back.

“You know,” Alex said finally, her voice as calm and clipped as always, “if you want to make a dramatic entrance, it helps to have an opening line.”

She said it lightly, but there was a smile just beneath the words—a carefully placed olive branch wrapped in sarcasm. 

Casey glanced at her then, cheeks still burning, but her mouth tugged into a crooked, embarrassed grin that barely masked her panic. “Sorry. I—uh—I was just trying to find the lab report. For the Sanderson case.” Her voice wavered on the last syllable, the kind of crack that didn’t go unnoticed in a room like this.

Alex nodded, already flipping through the disheveled stack with practiced efficiency. Her fingers methodically, not a single page bent or smudged under her touch. “It’s in here,” she said after a moment, holding up a section like it had been obvious all along. “Second section. You organized this chronologically instead of by relevance.”

Casey’s face crumpled. “I thought it would make more sense that way,” she said, voice smaller now, defensive and shrinking in the same breath.

Alex paused, and for a second, Casey thought she might snap. Correct her sharply, remind her of court protocol, or worse, tell her to hand the whole thing off to someone else. But instead, Alex looked at her, not unkindly, but with a sort of distant patience, like a teacher watching a student figure out the wrong formula in real time.

“It might,” she said, her tone even, “if you were telling a story. But a judge doesn’t care about your narrative arc. They want facts. Fast.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they hit anyway, clipped and exact like everything Alex said. Casey’s stomach sank. She swallowed hard, the back of her throat tight.

“Right,” she murmured, nodding as if it would help the heat in her face fade any faster.

Alex stood, offering a hand. Casey hesitated before taking it.

“I’ve seen worse first weeks,” Alex said as they finished collecting the pages. “Much worse.”

Casey smiled, awkwardly. “That’s comforting.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re in SVU now. Nothing about this place is.”

She handed the reassembled file back. “Come by my office after lunch. We’ll go over your strategy for the preliminary hearing.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Alex interrupted. “But I want to.”

Casey blinked.

Alex paused, then added, “I see potential in you.”

And that was it. Nothing dramatic. Just a small moment. A kindness dressed up as a professional courtesy. But Casey carried it with her. Because it was the first time anyone had ever said they saw something in her that wasn’t broken.

After weeks of too much stress and not nearly enough sleep, Casey stood stiffly in front of Alex’s desk, an amended motion clutched in her hands like a fragile truce. Her fingers were clenched too tightly around the paper, leaving faint creases along the edges. She’d rewritten it twice—three times, if she counted the version she’d deleted at 3 a.m. out of sheer self-loathing. Half the night had been spent staring at a blinking cursor, her thoughts circling like vultures, second-guessing every comma, every phrase, every citation.

Now, standing in the cold morning light of Alex’s office, it looked wrong. Stupid. Thin. Amateurish in a way she couldn’t quite articulate but felt deep in her gut. Still, she handed it over.

Alex took it without a word. She didn’t offer a smile or a nod, just began skimming, her lips pressed into a flat line of focus. Her eyes moved over the page with mechanical precision. She flipped to the second page. Then the third.

Casey stood frozen. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint rustle of turning pages and the ticking of the wall clock behind her. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, heavy and insistent. She became aware of everything—her too-warm sweater, the stale taste of coffee on her tongue, the sweat gathering at the base of her neck and along her spine. Her legs ached from standing so straight.

“I changed the section on chain of custody,” she offered, the words tumbling out faster than she intended. “I added precedent from—”

“I see it,” Alex said, cutting in without looking up.

The silence that followed stretched, long and thin. Not quite a reprimand, but not encouragement either. Just space. Heavy with unspoken judgment—or maybe that was just Casey's imagination, working overtime again.

She bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself not to shift her weight. She’d spent so long trying to get this right. Trying to prove she could keep up. That she belonged in this office, in this job, in Alex Cabot’s orbit. But all she could think now was that maybe she hadn’t come close.

Alex circled a paragraph, her pen slicing through the air with sharp, practiced motions that echoed louder than they should have in the quiet room. The ink bled across the page like a wound.

“This part’s too soft,” she said, voice calm but cutting. “You’re hedging again. You’re not here to be liked, Novak. You’re here to persuade.”

Casey’s mouth opened, the beginnings of an excuse forming before she could stop it. “I was trying not to sound too—”

“Too what?” Alex looked up then, sharply, eyes pinning her in place like a specimen under glass. “Too confident? God forbid?”

The words were quick, biting, and so precisely targeted they might as well have been tailored for the very insecurity Casey was trying so hard to hide.

Casey flinched—just slightly, but enough. Her spine stiffened, and her grip on the folder tightened.

“No,” she said quickly. “I just—”

“You’re not in law school anymore,” Alex said, voice quieter now but no less firm. “No one’s grading you on humility. Say what needs to be said. Say it like it’s the only version that matters.”

Casey didn’t reply. She wanted to scream. She wanted to explain that it wasn’t insecurity, it was hatred. A deep, gnawing certainty that she was always a few steps behind. That she was a fraud. That she didn’t belong here, in this office, in this life, with her.

Instead, she nodded. “I’ll fix it.”

Alex hesitated. “I only push because I want you to succeed.”

“I know,” Casey whispered.

But she didn’t. Not really.

To her, success was something that happened to other people. To Alex. Not to screwups. Not to girls who almost didn’t make it through law school. Not to her. Alex went back to her notes, and Casey turned to leave. Her fingers were still trembling. 

Outside the office, the hallway felt too bright. Her shoes echoed on the polished tile, each step sounding louder than it should have. The cold air hit her like a slap, too sharp after the tight, heavy stillness of Alex’s office.

She kept her head down as she walked, hoping no one would stop her, no one would look too closely and see what was written all over her face.

The restroom door swung open with a creak. She stepped inside and didn’t even glance at the mirror. Just moved quickly into the last stall, shut the door, and locked it with trembling fingers. She sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, legs folded in, like curling into herself might make her smaller. Might make it easier to breathe.

She pressed her palms hard against her eyes until stars bloomed behind her eyelids. It didn’t help. Her chest still felt tight, like something enormous was pressing down on it. The tears threatened anyway—hot, sudden, unwelcome.

Casey gritted her teeth and sucked in a shaky breath through her nose. She wasn’t going to cry over this. She wasn’t.

But it was never just one thing. Not the motion. Not the circled paragraph. Not even the sharp edge in Alex’s voice. It was all of it: every late night, every second-guess, every time she felt like she was chasing a version of competence that kept moving just out of reach.

She was trying. God, she was trying so hard. And right now, it didn’t feel like it was enough.

That night, Casey stood by the kitchen sink, still in her work clothes, staring out the window like she expected something to be there. A sign, maybe. A reason. Instead, it was just the city, loud and vast and painfully indifferent.

She hadn’t turned on any lights. She liked it better like this, dim and half-shadowed, like the world didn’t fully see her. Like maybe she didn’t have to fully see herself.

On the counter sat a half-eaten sandwich from the deli by the courthouse and the same mug of coffee she kept reheating without ever finishing.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

She was tired. Not the kind that sleep could fix. The kind that lived in her bones. Most people assumed she came from money. She looked the part now, with tailored jackets, a law degree, and polished shoes. But they didn’t see the student loans, or the double shifts she worked at nineteen, or the public library computers she used to write her first legal briefs.

They didn’t see her mother crying behind a closed bedroom door. Or the way her father left like it was a deployment he forgot to return from.

They didn’t know what it was like to fight her way through every room, knowing she was the youngest, the only woman, the one with the least pedigree, and probably the most to prove.

And she had fought. God, she had fought.

Through community college. Through the bar. Through nights she didn’t think she’d make it to morning. Through professors who called her “fiery” when they meant “angry.” Through men who looked at her and saw either a challenge or a joke.

Alex had never made her feel like that.

Alex had made her feel seen. Capable. Like maybe she really could be more than a survivor clawing her way up a staircase that was always just a little too steep. But somewhere along the way, Casey had turned that admiration into a measurement.

If Alex raised an eyebrow, Casey shrank. If Alex praised her, Casey lit up like it meant something. Like she meant something.

She hated that. Hated that her entire sense of self could tilt so easily on someone else’s expression.

But when you’ve never really believed you deserved to be here — not alive, not successful, not seen — it doesn’t take much to knock you off balance.

She washed the mug. Dried it. Her reflection in the window looked tired.

“You’re a disaster,” she whispered.

She turned away from the window.

Left the light off.

Morning filtered in pale through the blinds, casting narrow stripes across the floor. The DA's office was quieter before nine, hushed in a way that made footsteps sound like interruptions.

Casey hovered by Alex's open door, clutching the latest revision.

Alex didn’t look up right away. She was scribbling notes in the margin of a file. Her blonde hair was tied back, black pen glinting in her fingers like a scalpel. Precision in every movement.

“You have something for me?”

Casey stepped in and handed over the new draft. “Amended again. Took your note about hedging.”

Alex flipped to the highlighted section. Her eyes darted across the lines, scanning like she was trying to locate weakness before it could take root.

Casey stood still.

She knew not to fidget. She’d taught herself how to stand in court with hands folded and chin up. She could name fourteen federal evidentiary rules from memory but still felt, in moments like this, like she was twelve years old and waiting to be graded.

Alex hummed under her breath as her eyes skimmed the page. “You brought in People v. Kent, finally.”

Casey nodded, pulse quickening. “It’s a better fit than McCullough. Stronger precedent on inadmissible statements in custodial settings. The fact pattern lined up more cleanly with ours, especially on the Miranda issue.”

Alex nodded slowly, flipping to the next section. “Mm. Good call.”

Her pen tapped lightly against the margin, then stilled. “And here—you cited Jenkins, but it’s dicta. Try State v. Lyle instead. It’s stickier, but more defensible on cross.”

Casey leaned forward slightly, already mentally rewriting. “I can fix it. I can rewrite that whole section tonight—”

“No,” Alex said, with a small shake of her head. “This is good. Just tighten that one part.”

Casey froze. “You think it’s good?”

She hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. Or so uncertain. But the words escaped before she could soften them, and she hated the way her voice gave her away.

Alex looked up then, brows lifting just slightly, like she hadn’t realized Casey needed the words spelled out. Like she was only now seeing how much Casey had been chasing this moment.

“It’s sharp,” Alex said, and her voice was quieter now, not soft exactly, but more deliberate. “You found your footing. It shows.”

Casey pressed her lips together to hide the twitch in her expression. “Thanks.”

Alex didn’t say anything else, but her eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary. Something unspoken hung between them, too heavy to name and too delicate to touch. Then, just like that, her gaze dropped back to the page, retreating into the safe order of notes and ink and facts.

Casey stayed quiet. She didn’t trust her voice not to crack, didn’t trust herself not to ruin the moment by trying to hold on too tightly. So she just sat there, holding the shape of Alex’s words in her mind like they were something precious. Like they might be enough to get her through the rest of the week, maybe longer.

Alex offered a small smile—barely there. Not warm, not soft, but sincere in a way that still managed to leave a mark. “Keep drafting like this,” she said, almost offhandedly. “And the judges might stop underestimating you.”

Casey nodded. Or tried to. Her head moved, but her chest had already started to tighten, like the air had thickened around her ribs. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? The truth of it, the ache buried just under the surface. People underestimated her because she walked into rooms like she didn’t belong in them. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe that was the problem.

She didn’t know how to stop walking like that, like she was always bracing for someone to notice the cracks. Not when half her mind was still convinced she’d tricked her way into this life with a little too much ambition and a little too little proof.

Alex didn’t look at her again. She didn’t need to. Her pen moved steadily across the page, her handwriting measured and precise, each stroke confident, like a metronome ticking time in a world that made sense to her.

“I’ll use this in my argument tomorrow,” she said, eyes scanning the margins. “If anything comes up in the discovery review, flag it. No surprises.”

“Of course,” Casey replied, trying to keep her voice steady, though her hands still trembled slightly from the adrenaline of the critique and rare praise.

Alex looked up from the paper, her eyes meeting Casey’s with a quiet intensity. “Novak?”

Casey stopped mid-turn, caught off guard by the sudden address. “Yeah?”

“You don’t have to fix everything in one night.”

The words weren’t harsh. There was no judgment in Alex’s tone, just something steady, maybe even gently pragmatic. But for Casey, they landed like a small stone in the pit of her stomach, stirring up a swirl of emotions she wasn’t ready to face.

“Sure,” she said finally, voice thin and brittle, as if the words themselves were fragile. “But some things don’t wait.”

Their eyes met for a breath too long. A pause too still, too fragile to hold.

Then, without another word, Casey stepped out into the hallway. The soft click of the door behind her landed like a punctuation mark, precise and final. A closing bracket on everything left unsaid.

Alex stayed where she was. Motionless. Eyes fixed on the space where Casey had just stood, as if it still held the echo of her presence. The silence crept back in, folding over the room like tissue paper: thin, weightless, but suffocating if you let it linger too long. The kind that rustles if you breathe wrong. The kind that knows the sound of holding back.

She glanced down at the motion in front of her. Clean. Crisp. Elegant without ornament. The kind of argument she wouldn’t hesitate to stake her name on. Not a line wasted. Not a phrase out of place.

Casey had stayed up all night rewriting this. Alex could see it in the edges. In the polish that came not from instinct but from effort. There was a sharpness to the prose now, like every word had been filed down to its final shape. Nothing accidental. Nothing soft.

The case law aligned like vertebrae, tight, purposeful, and inevitable.

And Alex felt it then, that impossible ache of pride. Not loud or sweeping, but something quieter. Twined with caution. Tangled with memory.

Novak had potential. More than potential. She was brilliant, when she let herself be. Tenacious to the bone, unpolished, but real. Still so new to the heat that she didn’t realize she was already burning.

Alex had seen it before, in others, in herself, but it hit differently with Novak. The way she carried herself like she was bracing for impact. Like if she moved too suddenly, she might come apart at the seams. The way she looked at Alex like a lighthouse and a guillotine all at once.

That was dangerous. Too familiar.

She knew the signs. The hunger. The fear. The all-nighters. The self-revisions that went too deep. The way even praise felt like a test, and every critique became a wound. She knew what it meant to measure your worth in wins and redlines. To confuse excellence with survival.

Alex had been there. Still lived there, sometimes. Cabots didn’t fail. Cabots didn’t flinch. There was no safety net in her lineage. Only the quiet, pressing weight of legacy — of ghosts who left no room for error.

And Casey… Casey was learning how to live in silence, but she kept walking through fire like that was the only way to prove she belonged.

Alex let out a slow breath. She didn’t know how to mentor this or how to hold someone together without holding them down.

She could sharpen Casey, teach her how to argue with teeth, how to wear the robe and wield the words and never look like she was afraid. She could help her rise. But could she help her stay standing?

Or would she just pass down a torch that burned too hot to carry?

Her eyes fell back to the motion. Her own initials had been scrawled in the corner, not out of necessity, just reflex. A quiet cosign.

She just wants to do it right. She wants to be enough.

And the part that snagged — the part Alex couldn’t bring herself to say aloud — was that Casey already was. She just didn’t know it and Alex didn’t know how to make her believe it.

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this song is sooo them, so i decided to edit them to it <3

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Me and who

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casey novaks boobs. let’s talk about them.

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the holy trinity

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Those damn buttons fighting for their LIFE 🫦

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Love when people acknowledge casey novak is a baddie in the text.

Bradley coopers character asking her out? Chester lake flirting with her in broad day light? So correct, she's so fine and deserved to be flirted with more.

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Clara's great because before her every companion since Rose was like "Being with the Doctor made me a better person", but Clara is like "Nah, it made me so much worse" while the Doctor stares at her affectionately.

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might write a cabenovak fic where they all lost their moms (Olivia’s to alcoholism, Alex’s died during WITSEC and Casey’s has early onset dementia and doesn’t recognise her anymore) ??

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Ughhhhhhh guys. I just need to reiterate. This is the age difference we're working with for Mock Trial. I hope you see my vision. They're sooooooo tasty.

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One Week | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

Casey brings home a cat.

fluff

posting this from the psych ward GET ME OUT

“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.

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Ughhhhhhh guys. I just need to reiterate. This is the age difference we're working with for Mock Trial. I hope you see my vision. They're sooooooo tasty.

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they’re on my to-do list

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Fuck it olivia benson as cat pics pt2