Work Text:
i.
Casey took a drag of her cigarette, her elbows on the railing, the cigarette balancing between two fingers. She exhaled, listless eyes following the slow upward drift of the smoke as it disappears into the night sky. Casey blinked and wondered if the smoke brought the pain and grief along with it. Judging by the emptiness in her chest that still lingered, it's apparent that it didn't.
Alexandra Cabot is dead. Her funeral's tomorrow.
The prickle of tears burned and she had to close her eyes tightly, her jaw clenching as she fought with everything she had to push down the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. She will not cry. She does not deserve to cry.
She wondered if grief had weight. If the heaviness that had made its home in the pit of her stomach was nothing but her anxiety of meeting Alex's parents tomorrow for the first time ever since they started dating, and that it will soon be gone. She wondered if the hollowness in her chest where her heart once resided was a temporary condition that will go away once the casket was lowered to the ground, once dirt covered the pristine metal box.
She doubted that it would, but a girl can still hope through the dread.
The air on the rooftop breezed past her, her hair blowing to her face, the metal railing beneath her elbows hard and digging to her bare skin. She shivered, but she knew it wasn't from the cold. She looked over the city, taking in the twinkling lights of the city that never sleeps, and she felt the resentment for this fucking city grow in her chest. This city that put them into this job, put Alex in that courtroom, put Alex in that goddamned bar. In the harsh midnight wind on that rooftop, Casey wished it had been her.
Casey asked herself what she could've done. Should she have insisted that Alex stop prosecuting that particular case? Should she have come with her to that bar? Would an ultimatum work in that situation? Would she be able to live with herself, of Alex hating her for the rest of her life? What else could she have done? Would've, could've, should've. It felt like there's water up to her chin: not quite drowning, but the threat was impossible to miss with every labored breath that she took, filling her with terror.
She winced as she took in another drag. She can almost feel the smoke filling her lungs, corrupting her very being. Another wince as she exhaled, looking at the half-finished cigarette between her fingers, ashes dancing as it fell down to the ledge below. She never liked how these tasted - the way it lingers in her mouth, how bitter it tasted, how it tasted like regret and guilt and pain and memories of nimble fingers stealing the cigarette from between her own, scolding her of its dangers.
Nonetheless, she sucked in another drag. Half-hoping that the fingers that once stole the cancer stick between her own would drag Casey to the grave with her.
ii.
Casey groaned at the loud sound of her phone's ringtone, the shrillness of the tune piercing her ears and through her brain. She grumbled, unhappy with her disrupted sleep. She fumbled, eyes still closed, and her hand blindly reaching for the blaring cellphone that she thought she put on her bedside table. Her fingers bumped into a few things, accidentally knocking them to the floor, and the sound of glasses breaking made her open her eyes and sit up. The damned phone was on the other side of the bedside table, almost to the edge and nearly falling.
She grabbed it, not bothering to check the ID, she answered, “Who is this?” she rasped, annoyed at the person that disturbed her sleep. In the back of her mind, she already had an idea who it was – she assigned a different ringtone for the detectives so she can be alerted when they need her – but her interrupted sleep made her grumpy. The sound of sirens in the background of the call just confirmed her suspicions.
“Casey, it’s Liv,” the person on the other line said, “I know you were asleep but we really need a warrant for Patterson’s storage unit.”
Liv’s voice was far too loud, far too professional this early in the morning. She suppressed a groan as she sat up properly, rubbing her fingers over the throbbing of her temple. It took her a second to respond, “What’s the probable cause?” she slurred, wincing at how she sounded.
“What? Casey, I didn’t quite catch that,” Liv said.
Fuck, she thought. Clearing her throat, she repeated, “Probable cause?”
“We found evidence that he might be keeping his murder weapon there,” Olivia replied before continuing, concern now evident in her voice, “Casey, are you alright?”
Casey kicked her blankets away, pushing herself to stand up, “Yeah, I’m fine,” she replied, her growing tension obscured by her still slurring words.
“Are you sure? Ever since Ale –”
“I said I’m fine,” she cut-off, not wanting to hear her name, “Give me an hour for the warrant.”
She didn’t wait for Olivia to reply, hanging up the call, and throwing the phone towards her pillows. The throbbing at the back of her eyebrows intensified, the nausea that’s making her stomach churn, and she pressed her closed fist against her lips, bile rising to the back of her throat. But it wasn’t stopping and, soon, she’s running to her bathroom, and falling to her knees in front of the toilet. She retched, everything that she drank and ate the day before coming out. Just how much had she drunk last night?
She groaned when it was finally over, her voice broken and jagged in the silence of her place. White-knuckled fingers still tight on the rim of the toilet, she leaned her head against her hand, taking in deep breaths to try and steady her still racing heart. Her labored breaths echoed in her ears and she roughly wiped the tears that had leaked from her eyes.
She pushed herself up slowly, trying not to trigger the nausea again, and walked towards the sink, steps slow as her hands reached for the toothbrush, her head pounding with every her every move. She got ready, her movements methodical and deliberate. Robotic. A routine that she had to master for the past few weeks. Being transferred to SVU had taught her that their detectives are relentless, persistent, and hell-bent on the concept of justice that they have in their minds. Which meant that, if she doesn’t have the warrant in the next hour, they’ll be blasting her phone again or, worse, blaming her for not getting one.
The cold shower had helped a bit with her hangover, but the throbbing in her head remained, black spots dancing around the edges of her vision, and she had to stop for a second, one hand reaching out to her closet door to steady her and the other clutching tightly on the towel around her. She inhaled deeply through her mouth and closed her eyes, letting the air in her lungs, willing herself to push down the bile that had risen once again. She counted ten deep breaths before she was confident enough to open her eyes again and, reassured by the lack of black spots, opened her closet.
Casey started to pick out her clothes, opting for more cozy ones to protect her from the autumn chill that had started to settle in the city. She did everything she could not to look on the other side of her closet, the side where her clothes are still hung neatly, where the designer clothes that she loved so much sits untouched. She can’t pack up her things. Not yet. It’s still too much for her to do. Her heart wouldn’t be able to handle packing up her things, when it would mean that she’s no longer here with her and never will be anymore. She vaguely remembered her mother kindly offering to pack her things but she responded that she can do it.
Now, it seemed, that she never can.
She walked towards her bed in the middle of the room when she caught sight of broken glass on her floor. Her eyebrows furrowed and she laid her clothes on the bed before looking down at what it was. It was the bottle of whiskey that she drank the night before. It was probably what she knocked over earlier in her search for her cellphone. Her nose wrinkled and stepped closer, fearing that the alcohol had seeped to her hardwood floor. To her surprise, there was no liquid on the floor – just broken shards of glasses that she was lucky to have avoided. She vaguely remembered that particular bottle to be half-full the day before – but the dryness of the floor and the shards beg to differ.
She huffed and went back to getting ready. She can clean that up later, when she had the warrant secured, when the insistent pounding in her head had passed, when the hundred other things that she had lined up for the day is finished. Right now, she can’t stay long in this apartment with its wretchedly long lease, its closet and drawers full of her things that she can’t pack up, its coffee table that still had her last notes before the last trial. It’ll be fine. She’ll be fine.
iii.
Casey Novak was raised by two very catholic, very conservative parents, who taught her how to pray, how to celebrate the Holy Gospel, how to serve penance. When she made the decision of studying out of state – to Harvard Law School, to be exact – they had been angry, adamant that studying there would change her, would teach her to become entangled with sin, would make her forget about the church and God. She remembered that she had to fight tooth and nail to convince her parents to let her go to Harvard, that it had been her dream school for so long, and that she wouldn’t forget about her faith.
However, they didn't warn her of what the real world does to someone. They didn't warn her about the losses, the regrets, the overbearing guilt that pushes her shoulders down every morning and settles over her like a blanket every night.
Casey leaned her head back on the couch, empty eyes tracing the lines of the ceiling. She wondered what had become of her life. She graduated at the top of her class at Harvard, acing the bar exam on her first take. She's an Assistant District Attorney for Manhattan SVU, for god's sake. What was she doing in her friend's couch, lounging and sniffing lines on their coffee table on the rare day that she had no work?
She rolled the term in her mind a few times, the drugs in her system making her feel sluggish and lazy. 'Friend' wasn't an accurate term - it's far too familiar, as if she'd known this person for years instead of just the past three weeks. ‘Dealer’ is the more apt word for her. As if she didn't know the reputation this person had when she made the conscious decision of wandering around Lexington at 3 in the morning – far from her apartment and her work, it’s the perfect place for her to hide from the rest of world.
She breathed in deeply, her eyes rolling lazily towards her companion in the small kitchen, taking glasses out of the cupboard and bringing over a bottle of cheap whiskey. She was nice enough to let her stay while she gets her fill. She didn’t point out the fact that Casey’s face was on the newspaper and that it was about her trying to sue the Department of Justice. She didn’t point out the darkening eyebags, the empty eyes that now roamed the small apartment space. Casey is thankful for that: the false sense of anonymity giving her the courage to do the one thing that she never thought she’d do.
The dealer – she must’ve asked for her name at one point but, for some reason, it never stuck to her – put a glass on the coffee table, right beside the remaining white powder that Casey herself had meticulously ground up with a card. Her glass was filled halfway and Casey was quick to snatch it up, the brown, bitter liquid burning as it went down her throat. She finished it in one go, ignoring the raised eyebrow that her companion was giving her as she sat down on the other end of the couch, and leaned back on the couch again, her back pressing more firmly on the stiff cushion. She closed her eyes, almost willing the alcohol and cocaine to work its magic quicker.
The void in her chest never went away. If anything, it had expanded, deepened, a constant reminder of what she had lost. If anything, it had expanded, deepened, a constant reminder of what had remained since she left: an agonizing void that nothing could fill. It was a quiet emptiness, yet it resonated through every part of her, an unshakable reminder that something essential was lost for good, never to be seen nor heard from again.
At least this would help. For a moment, she would be able to forget that she lost her.
She leaned back down on the coffee table, a finger pinching her nostril down, as she eagerly sniffed the white powder on the surface. Tomorrow, she'll get up, take a shower, and go back to being ADA Casey Novak. But tonight, she will be a nobody with a problem that no one is looking for.
iv.
“Novak.”
Startled, Casey looked up from her paperwork, surprised to see Olivia Benson leaning against her doorway, her arms crossed on her chest.
“Olivia,” she greeted as the other woman moved further in her office, the dim lighting inside caused Olivia to squint slightly, her eyes adjusting to the low light. The brunette took a seat on the couch a few feet from her desk and Casey suppressed her sigh of relief, thankful that she didn’t sit on the chair right across her desk. She subtly moved her half-full mug of vodka, using the picture frame on her desk as its cover, and tried to appear calm.
“It’s late,” Olivia commented as she settled, “What are you still doing here, Casey?”
She gave a noncommittal shrug, “Trial prep,” she replied, wincing when she heard the slight slur in her own voice. Fuck.
Olivia hummed and raised an eyebrow, “Oh? What case is that?”
Casey cleared her throat, “Jeffrey York’s,” she answered, keeping her voice steady and responses short as she turned back to her paperwork. It wouldn’t be good if Olivia would hear the slur in her voice.
“Ah. The down-low?”
“I see Fin told you about that, too.”
Olivia chuckled, “They already accepted the plea deal, right? Come on, Novak, let’s celebrate about it.”
Casey shook her head, keeping her eyes on the documents laid on her desk, “Can’t, honestly. I have to finish this.”
The brunette sighed, the sound awfully loud in the confines of her office, “Casey,” she started, “You really think I don’t know what’s that on your mug?”
Casey pursed her lips and gave her a sharp look but opted not to respond, realizing that she’s already caught.
Liv continued, moving to stand in front of her desk, keeping the redhead’s attention on her, “You think I don’t see those bloodshot eyes? Can’t smell the reek of alcohol in this room? I grew up with an alcoholic, Casey; I know one when I see one.”
Casey glared at her, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Olivia chuckled mirthlessly, “Oh, but I do. You think Alex would want to see you like this?”
The reaction was instantaneous. Casey swept her hand across her desk, her papers all tumbling to the floor, her mug shattering upon contact. She glared back at Olivia, who stood still and unflinching, her chest heaving with adrenaline.
“Get the hell out of my office,” she said lowly, her tone dangerous as she pointed a finger towards the door.
Olivia threw her a sympathetic look, “You have a problem, Casey,” she said as she moved towards the door, “And believe me when I say that she wouldn’t want to see you like this. Call me when you need anything.”
v.
She opened up her closet, carefully choosing what she had to wear tomorrow. She’s bound for court early tomorrow morning, and she thought it would be best to pick out her clothes for the next day. That’s when she saw a balled-up fabric on the very back of her closet. It was unfamiliar to her and she frowned, reaching for it and taking it out of the closet.
Casey shook out the unfamiliar fabric, startled when something literally flew out of it and tumbled to the floor, where it rolled under her bed. She crouched down with a sigh, fingers reaching blindly for what appeared to be a box that made its just out of her reach. She managed to draw it out by the tips of her fingers, but her triumph was short lived when she realized what the box was.
The unfamiliar red velvet box sat in the palm of her hand and, with trembling fingers, she lifted the top. Inside was a solitaire-cut emerald engagement ring, sitting in a black jewel cushion. It was beautiful, breathtaking, and it was Alex's birthstone. The beating of her heart echoed in her ears as she looked more closely at the fabric - it was Alex's old Harvard crewneck, one that she had a penchant of wearing when Alex first moved in with her.
The onslaught of emotions that flooded Casey was unexpected - a wave that swept away what little control she had as the dots connected in her mind:
Alex had planned to ask her to get married.
Something inside her snapped, the chasm that Alex left when she died deepening, widening, threatened to consume her whole, and she crumpled to the floor, her grief overtaking her already brittle control as she finally cried for the first time since her death. She gasped, her hand clutching Alex's shirt close to her as she drew her knees to her chest, trying - and failing - to get enough air into her lungs. It was all too much: the piles of guilt, anger, and regret that had built up inside refused to give her respite, the floodgates that opened refused to close, and she was left with Alex's shirt pressed to her face, her tears staining the fabric that held memories of cuddling on the couch after a long day, of failed attempts at cooking, and of the bright smile that once greeted her every single morning.
Alexandra Cabot is gone. But at the same time, she remained; leaving a painful reminder that Casey was the one left behind. The one that had to make it through every single day, trying to make sense of what had become of her after the love of her life was gone, all while wading through an ocean of pain and guilt.
She didn’t know how long she stayed curled up on the floor, how long she cradled the shirt and the box close to her chest, before she got up with great effort, her muscles sore from their previous position. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hand reaching for her cellphone. For a moment, she hesitated, fingers hovering over the contact’s name of the last person she’d ask help from. Making up her mind, she pressed ‘call’.
“Casey?” the person on the other line said, confusion obvious in her voice.
“Olivia,” she replied, hating the way her voice broke but she couldn’t seem to control the tears that kept on coming to her eyes, “I need help.”
iv.
Somewhere in Wisconsin, ‘Emily’ wiped the last remnants of her tears and opened her front door, plastering a fake smile to her face for the sake of her nosy neighbor. Here, in this sleepy, rural town, ‘Emily’ is a claims underwriter in an insurance company. Here, she doesn’t know a thing about law and prosecution except for the ones that’s relevant to her work. Here, she doesn’t have a beautiful redhead prosecutor to wake up next to every morning. In fact, in this place, she had nobody.
Here, Alexandra Cabot – ADA, daughter, lover – doesn’t exist.