💗Novak, Cabot, Any Benson Enthusiast💗

There’s a pause. She can hear the faint static of Olivia’s breathing, the muffled shuffle of movement. Maybe pacing, maybe the clatter of a mug being set down. The detective always drank too much coffee, though Alex insisted on tea. Then a door closes on the other end of the line.

“It’s Casey,” Olivia says finally. “She got censured this afternoon. It… didn’t go well.”

Alex exhales, long and sharp, more irritation than sympathy. “You’re calling me about office gossip at two in the morning?”

“No. Alex.” Olivia’s tone hardens, quick. “I wouldn’t be calling if it were gossip. She’s not answering her phone. Not texts, not knocks on her door. I think she’s been drinking, or—” Olivia stops herself. “I don’t know. I just—something’s off.”

Alex pinches the bridge of her nose. “And you want me to what? Go check on her? At this hour?”

“You’re better than I am right now,” Olivia says. “She’s been shutting everyone out since the hearing. I tried to talk to her earlier, but she wouldn’t even open the door. I don’t think I’m the person she wants to see.”

Alex gives a dry, humorless laugh. “And you think I am? She barely tolerates me on a good day.”

“She respects you,” Olivia says quietly. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Respect doesn’t mean she wants a midnight visit.”

“Alex.” Olivia’s voice catches just enough to break the rhythm. “Please. Just… make sure she’s breathing. If she’s fine, you can yell at me later.”

“You could’ve called anyone else,” she mutters.

“I did. No one picked up.”

Alex doesn’t answer. She swings her legs out of bed, feeling the chill bite at her feet. Somewhere down the line, Olivia exhales.

“Text me when you get there,” she says softly.

The call ends before Alex can say no.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, letting the dark settle around her. Her phone screen dimmed in her hand, the call long ended, but Olivia’s voice seemed to linger in the air. She’s always been good at silence. Courtroom pauses, quiet office hours, an empty apartment. This one feels different. 

It was ridiculous to feel uneasy. Casey Novak wasn’t her responsibility. Casey had always been too bright, too reckless. Fire that refused to learn from the burn. Still, something in Olivia’s tone clung to her like damp smoke. That quiet, desperate “please.”

She stood, bare feet pressing into the cold floor. The ache behind her eyes was the kind that came from too little sleep and too much remembering. She reached for the lamp, but didn’t turn it on. The shadows felt safer.

Her closet door creaked. She pulled on soft grey sweatpants and a worn navy crew neck she’d forgotten to give back. Her hair’s a tangle, pulled back with fingers that keep catching in it. She pulled it back into a ponytail with a band from her wrist, but her hands hesitated halfway through the motion.

That feeling in her chest, like the air’s gone thick, won’t settle. It’s nothing. Olivia’s overreacting. Casey Novak is many things. Stubborn, reckless, impossible, but not fragile. And yet.

It’s been years since they really spoke. Since that night.

Casey’s office, low lamplight on stacks of files, her voice unsteady as she said Alex’s name. The scent of ink and whiskey. The way Casey’s hand hesitated against her jaw, then didn’t. The quiet gasp when they crossed the line neither of them could admit they wanted to. It hadn’t lasted long. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a lifetime. And after, Casey had laughed in that brittle way that meant she was terrified. Alex had buttoned her blouse without looking at her. 

It ended the next morning, of course, with Casey back behind her desk and Alex pretending her pulse wasn’t still caught in her throat. After that, they’d managed civility. Distance.

Alex ties her hair up, neat as she can make it. She looks at herself again, not out of vanity but habit. Composure is a reflex. Even at two in the morning, even when she’s not sure what she’s walking into. There were a hundred versions of what might have happened to Casey tonight, and Alex tried to choose the easiest one to believe. That she was drunk and fine, passed out on the couch, that Olivia was overreacting. She’s fine. She’s always fine. 

She slipped on sneakers, grabbed her keys, and stood by the door for a long time before unlocking it. She took one last look back at her apartment, the quiet, the order, and felt a sharp, inexplicable certainty that when she came back, something would be different.

By the time Alex reaches Casey’s building, the sky has that bruised, sleepless color that comes right before dawn. She parks without thinking, the tires hissing against wet pavement, and sits for a long moment in the car with her hands still on the wheel. Her breath fogs the window, then fades.

The building itself looks tired—brick darkened by rain, the dim yellow glow of a single hallway light flickering behind the stairwell window. She buzzes Casey’s apartment. Once. Twice. Nothing. The silence hisses through the speaker. Alex presses the button again, harder this time, like she can summon a response through sheer will. Come on, Novak.

Still nothing.

She considers leaving, the thought brittle but tempting. Olivia probably overreacted. Casey’s fine, passed out, sleeping off a bottle of cheap bourbon, something that could be fixed in the morning. Alex could go home, pretend she never got the call. Everything would be fine. 

She climbs the stairs anyway, her footsteps hollow and soft against the old wood. Casey’s apartment was at the end of the hall. The door was painted the same off-white as all the others, but something about it felt wrong.

She knocks, gentle at first. Then louder.

“Casey?”

Silence.

She tried again, softer this time. “It’s Alex.”

She presses her forehead briefly against the door. Her voice comes out quieter, almost reluctant. “It’s Alex. Open the door.”

Silence again. Not even the shuffle of movement from inside. Just the soft hum of the building and the pulse beginning to hammer in her ears.

For a long while, she just stood there, torn between protocol and instinct. Then she glanced down at the cluster of plants beside the door, half-alive, half-forgotten. A potted fern drooped tiredly under the yellow hall light.

Alex crouched. She didn’t know why she checked. Maybe she’d seen Casey do it once. Maybe it was just a hunch. Her fingers brush over the damp soil until her nails catch on something hard beneath the lip of a rock.

Of course. Reckless, careless Casey. Always trusting the world a little too much. Alex hesitates, the key heavy between her fingers. She could still walk away. She could call Olivia, hand this over, keep her distance.

She hesitated only a second more before sliding it into the lock.

“Casey, I’m coming in,” she said quietly, though her voice didn’t sound like her own.

The hinges groan softly, a tired exhale, and the darkness inside folds around her. The air is stale and heavy. The faint, sour scent of alcohol and something else she doesn’t want to name. The lights were off. The blinds half-open, city glow cutting the darkness into crooked shapes.

“Casey?”

Her voice doesn’t echo. It just lands somewhere in the stillness and disappears. She steps in anyway, letting the door close behind her, and the click sounds far too final.

The living room looks almost normal at first glance, with case files scattered across the coffee table, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside them, a blanket crumpled on the couch. But there’s something off about the arrangement, something too still.  Alex’s chest tightens. Her hands start to shake, but she keeps moving forward, calling out again, softer this time. “Casey…?”

She stepped further inside, her throat tight, her heart drumming a low, awful rhythm. She reached for the light switch, then stopped halfway, hand trembling. 

It had been late then, too. They were both exhausted—half-drunk on adrenaline, half-dizzy with something unspoken. One wrong glance had been enough.

She remembers the stillness before it happened, the moment when their laughter fell away. The way Casey’s eyes flicked up, uncertain, searching. Then the sound of breath, quiet and uneven.

Alex had told herself to stop, but then Casey’s hand was on her wrist. The world folded in around that touch.

She remembers softness. The warmth of skin against skin, the scent of rain still clinging to Casey’s hair. The way she’d leaned in as if afraid Alex might disappear if she didn’t hold her close enough.

She remembers the way Casey’s breath hitched, small, almost imperceptible noises. The curve of her lips, parted, the heat of her skin beneath Alex’s fingertips. She’d held on so tightly that Alex could feel her heartbeat right beneath her palm.

Alex could feel it again—the way Casey had held on so tight, as if trying to fuse their bodies, to anchor herself in the only place she felt safe. Fingers clutching hair, arms curling around neck and shoulders, desperation mixed with trust. She remembered bending down, mouth grazing Casey’s throat, the tiny shivers that ran up her spine in response. Every gasp, every tremor, every subtle sound Casey made was lodged in Alex’s mind, echoing in the quiet apartment like a ghost she couldn’t exorcise. The way her hands had threaded through Alex’s hair, clinging, holding on, needing to leave a mark on her, needing to become part of her entirely.

The memories crawled along her nerves as the blonde walked further inside. The scent of Casey haunted her, mingling with the whiskey in the glass on the table. She remembered the way their bodies had moved together, the quiet intensity, the way everything outside that office ceased to exist for those fleeting minutes. The tension, the release, the warmth, the trembling. The sense that time had slowed, the world contracting until it was just them, caught in a fragile bubble of trust and heat, one trembling against the other.

Alex’s fingers brushed over the arm of the couch almost absentmindedly, and the memory hit harder; Casey’s sighs, the way her hands had ached to anchor Alex to her, the way every tiny sound, every quiver, had made Alex’s own body remember how fiercely she could feel.

When it ended, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, catching their breath, the silence sharp and too fragile to touch. Casey smiled. 

She stops outside the bedroom door. Left ajar. Who has time for closing doors?

The bed’s unmade, sheets tangled, the faint smell of perfume and stale air clinging to the fabric. A half-empty bottle sits on the nightstand beside a stack of case files and a photograph turned facedown.

“Casey?”

A faint, steady trickle. Not quite rhythmic. Water, she thinks first. The sound of a faucet left on. It comes from the en-suite.

She stands very still, listening. The dread crawls up her spine until her skin feels too tight. Every instinct tells her not to move. Not to open that door. But she’s a prosecutor, right? She’s supposed to be brave. 

She steps closer. The doorknob is cold under her palm. The world narrows to the small space between her breath and the sound behind the door.

“Casey…”

Her voice breaks on the name. a tremor so small she almost doesn't hear it herself. She pushes the door open.

At first, she can't understand what she's seeing. Just shapes. The blur of motionless limbs. The faint steam curling against cold tile. The room smells of soap and iron and something sharp that makes her heart seize.

There's water everywhere. Coating the floor and reflecting the unapologetic light. It's reached all the way to the door already, the small tiled floorspace coated in a layer of liquid that bled into the carpeted bedroom the same way Casey's life is diluted into the water. Alex's brain is confused for a moment- she thinks she should be able to feel it- but she still has shoes on. Her socks won't soak with it if the rubber of her soles are in the way.

She must've been like this for more than a while for the water to have overrun the room like this. A second hand which echoed every time it ticked away time moving, each a twisted sort of signal that Casey's time was being spent. She must've been- like this, for a while. 

"Casey?"

Her voice snaps in the air like a thread pulled too tight.

Then, a sound. A small, broken gasp. So faint it might’ve been imagined, but then it comes again, wet and shallow.

“Casey!”

Alex drops to her knees beside her before she’s even conscious of moving. Her hands shake as she reaches out, not sure where to touch, not sure if touching will help or hurt. Is there a difference? Casey’s skin is clammy, her lips pale, but her eyes, her eyes are open. Barely.

They flutter once, slow, unfocused.

“Hey—hey, stay with me,” Alex says, voice cracking. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Casey blinks up at her, sluggish, the faintest crease forming between her brows like she’s trying to remember something. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.

Alex presses her palm to her cheek, thumb trembling against her skin. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers. “You hear me? Don’t you dare.”

Casey exhales, a small, uneven breath that ghosts against Alex’s wrist. Her eyes roll, then find focus again, dazed and glassy.

“Alex…”

Alex swallows the sob rising in her throat, forces herself to think. Think. The tub. The water. The towels on the floor. Her eyes skitter over the chaos. The slick porcelain, the dark swirls seeping through the water, the fog on the mirror that makes everything feel dreamlike, distant. She moves without knowing how, grabbing a towel that’s already half-soaked, pressing it where she needs to without thinking. Her motions are mechanical, frantic, hands trembling but firm.

“You’re going to be fine,” Alex murmurs, though the words shake. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Her voice sounds alien in the tiled room, too high, too fragile. The towel slips in her grasp, the fabric growing heavy and red. She presses harder, whispering the words again as if repetition could make them true.

Casey makes a small, confused sound, her eyes trying to find Alex’s face. “Didn’t—didn’t mean to,” she mumbles, the words fragile and blurred.

“I know. I know.” Alex’s voice breaks. She presses her palm against Casey’s cheek, desperate to keep her here, in the moment, breathing. “Look at me, Novak. You’re alright, do you hear me? You’re going to be alright.”

The sound of the water keeps going, relentless. Alex reaches back and shuts it off with a trembling hand. “Stay awake. Stay with me, Casey. Look at me.”

Casey’s eyes flutter, and for a second, they focus. Just long enough for Alex to see the faintest, tired smile. “You’re—here.”

“I’m here,” Alex whispers. Her throat aches. “I’m right here.”

Casey blinks. “’M fine,” she mumbles, though she sounds unconvinced. Her lips tremble with the word.

Alex exhales shakily, fingers fumbling for her phone. “You’re not fine.”

Casey’s hand finds Alex’s wrist again. “No. No, don’t.”

“Casey.” Alex says her name like it’s an argument in itself. Her voice trembles, caught somewhere between fury and fear. She shifts her grip just enough to free her hand, the phone slipping against her damp fingers. The screen glares up at her, too bright, the letters blurring as she types 911. Casey. Now. She doesn’t trust her own voice to hold steady, so she sends it to Olivia, less of a plea and more of a command. 

The second it sends, she tosses the phone onto the counter like it burns. The sound echoes off the tile. She reaches over to pull the plug in the tub. The water gurgles and turns, spiraling down in faintly crimson circles. Casey flinches at the noise, a soft, startled sound like she’s waking from a dream.

Alex leans in, voice low. “It’s okay. It’s just the water.”

Casey’s eyes dart around, unfocused, pupils wide and glassy. She looks like she’s listening to something distant, something Alex can’t hear. “It’s loud,” she whispers.

“I know,” Alex murmurs, her hand brushing damp hair from Casey’s forehead. “It’ll be quiet soon.”

The phone buzzes faintly behind them. Confirmation, maybe, or nothing at all. But Alex doesn’t turn around. The only thing she can focus on is the weak pulse beneath her fingers.

Casey’s teeth chatter as the water level lowers. Goosebumps rise along her arms, and she makes a small sound, half-whine, half-shiver. “Cold,” she murmurs. “Alex, cold.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart.” Alex grabs a towel from the rack and wraps it around her shoulders, pulling her gently upright. Casey sags against her immediately, limbs uncoordinated, head resting against Alex’s collarbone.

Her breath is shallow. “You smell nice,” she mumbles.

Alex tightens her grip around her, blinking rapidly. “Focus, Casey. Stay with me.”

Casey’s eyes flutter open halfway. “Let me go.”

“Casey—”

“I said, let me go!”

She tries to move, tries to make her body obey the command that her voice can’t back up. Her legs kick out weakly against the porcelain, her hips twisting, her bare heels skidding uselessly as she tries to shove herself backward, away from Alex, from the towel, from the shame blooming hot beneath her skin.

“Casey, stop—”

But she doesn’t. Not at first. She writhes in Alex’s hold, desperate and disoriented, her wet skin slipping under Alex’s hands. The sound she makes is closer to a sob than a scream. Then her strength gives out all at once, her body folding, collapsing back into Alex’s arms. The breath rushes out of her in a trembling, broken sound.

“Why—” she chokes, her words slurring at the edges. “Why does it hurt?” Her voice wobbles, childlike, frightened. She cranes her neck, trying to see, but the movement only makes her whimper. “Alex—it—hurts—why does it—”

"I know, I know," Alex murmurs, holding her tighter, trying to keep her still. Her voice shakes. "Don't move, Casey. Please don't."

She doesn't want Casey to see what she could barely glance at. Bile rises in her throat as the water level lowers steadily. She doesn't want Casey to have to see that.

But Casey shifts again, blinking rapidly, her expression muddled with pain and panic. She looks down, at last, at her own hands as they twitch and tremble. 

It's visceral. The skin parts like it had been tugged further away from the seam of the wound every time she had tried to change the angle of her wrist. She's never had much meat on her; if she had, perhaps a thin layer of fat would've been visible to her disgusted eyes, but there was hardly any. Not there, on her wrists, which suddenly seemed like a broken doll's might. Like a marionette with the strings cut, ribbons of red line along the injury and pour down her arm, some strands breaking off with the past of least resistance to slide to the back of her wrist to freefall into the basin of dilution beneath her, while others spread down the length of her arm to catch in the crook of her elbow. 

For a moment, she doesn't understand what she's seeing. Then she does. The confusion drains from her face, replaced by something colder, heavier. Her mouth parts. The air leaves her lungs in a sharp, wet gasp that turns into a sob before she can stop it.

Her head falls forward against Alex’s shoulder. “What did I do?” she whispers, her voice cracking. “God, what did I do?”

Alex can’t answer. She just presses her hand to the back of Casey’s head, fingers shaking as she whispers the only thing she can manage—“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Casey’s voice comes out a whisper, rough and raw. “Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Alex’s voice shakes, quiet but unyielding. “Like I give a damn whether you live or die?”

Casey’s lip trembles. “You shouldn’t.”

Alex presses her forehead to Casey’s damp hair. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Casey’s breath stutters, her voice catching in her throat before it even fully forms. “You don’t understand,” she slurs, eyes glassy and far away. “I don’t—” The words break off, her chest tightening. “Don’t know what I am anymore.”

Alex catches her face in trembling hands. “You’re Casey,” she whispers, as if saying it could make it true.

Casey makes a soft, broken sound, something that could be mistaken for a laugh. “No, I’m not. I can’t be. It’s… it’s gone.” Her eyes flick toward the water, the blood-streaked porcelain, as though it’s proof. “I can’t find it.”

“Don’t,” Alex whispers, her voice fraying. “Don’t do this.”

Casey’s hands twitch where they rest in her lap, fingers barely curling. “You have to let me go,” she breathes, like she’s reciting something she half-remembers. “I can’t—keep—” Her chest stutters around the words. “I can’t do it.”

Alex presses her forehead against hers, desperate, shaking. “Stop it. Stop talking like that. You’re here, do you understand? You’re here.”

But Casey just blinks, slow and unfocused, her pupils glassy. “You can’t keep holding on to something that—” She winces, like the truth itself hurts to say. “That can’t stay.”

Alex’s hand finds her cheek again, the pad of her thumb brushing against cold, wet skin. “You don’t get to decide that either,” she whispers. “Not tonight.”

Casey’s eyes close, her lashes clumped with tears and water. “Please,” she breathes. “Just let me go.”

“I won’t. You hear me? I can’t.”

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. Nothing here is. Casey’s breath shudders against Alex’s collarbone, and Alex feels the shape of every heartbeat, every tremor, every ounce of the woman she refuses to lose pressed against her.

The towel she wrapped around her arm is soaked through already, heavy with bathwater and blood. It clings when Alex tries to lift it, the weight of it obscene, the smell sharp and metallic in the air. She curses under her breath, snatching a fresh one from the rack with shaking hands.

“Hold still,” she murmurs, more of a plea than instruction.

Casey barely reacts until Alex starts to peel the towel away. It sticks. The fabric tugs where it shouldn’t, dragging at raw skin, and Casey lets out a sharp, strangled sound that cuts through the quiet. “Stop—stop, that hurts,” she gasps, her body flinching back against the porcelain. 

“I know, I know,” Alex whispers, forcing herself to keep going, voice trembling as she works the fabric loose. The towel peels away with a sick, soft sound, and Casey shudders, her breathing quick and shallow. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just—Casey, I have to.”

Casey’s face scrunches, wet hair plastered to her cheek, her mouth trembling. “It hurts,” she whimpers again, quieter now, and it breaks something in Alex’s chest.

“I know,” Alex says, throat tight. “I know, honey. Just stay with me.”

She wraps her in the clean towel, moving fast but gentle this time, the new one warm from the radiator. Casey flinches less, her head falling weakly against Alex’s shoulder. The water has mostly drained, leaving the air heavy with steam and iron, the floor slick beneath Alex’s knees.

Alex presses her hand over Casey’s, feeling the faint twitch of fingers beneath her palm. “It’s okay,” she whispers again, though she’s not sure who she’s trying to convince.

Casey’s body trembles harder now, shivering in a way that has nothing to do with cold. Her teeth chatter, her lips quivering. “It hurts,” she murmurs, voice cracking.

Alex leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Casey’s forehead, hoping it can carry some of the warmth she can’t otherwise give.

“I know,” she whispers. “I know, honey. Just stay with me.”

Casey’s eyelids flutter, tears brimming and spilling down her pale cheeks. She makes a small, broken whimper, curling slightly into Alex’s side as if she could disappear into her. Her fingers twitch, weak and uncertain, searching for purchase against her arm.

“You’re safe,” Alex murmurs again, hand brushing damp hair from Casey’s face, fingertips lingering where they might soothe, where they might remind her that someone is still here. “I’m right here. Just breathe with me, okay?”

Casey hiccups through another sob, her breath shallow, uneven. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she whispers, barely audible.

Alex shakes her head, voice firmer this time despite the ache in her chest. “No. Don’t apologize. You’re here. That’s all that matters right now. You’re not alone, Casey. I won’t let you be.”

Casey buries her face closer, trembling against Alex, and the warmth and fragility of her body presses into Alex like a silent plea. Alex wraps her arms tighter, holding her with a desperate gentleness, whispering her name over and over, willing the sound to tether her to this moment, to life.

“Stay with me,” Alex murmurs again. “Just stay. You’ve got me. Always.”

Her own hands won’t stop trembling. She hates that. She’s supposed to be composed, the calm one, the one who knows what to do. But the sight of Casey, so pale, so small, strips her of every layer of armor she’s ever built.

“I didn’t mean to,” Casey says again, softer this time, a plea more than an excuse. The words slip out in pieces, trembling around the edges. Not even she knows if she’s lying.

“I know you didn’t.” Alex forces her voice to steady, though it wavers anyway, the tightness in her throat betraying her. She runs her thumb along Casey’s temple, sweeping damp strands of hair back from her face. Casey flinches at the touch but doesn’t pull away. Her skin is cold and clammy in places, fever-hot in others, and Alex’s hand trembles as she realizes how fragile that pulse beneath her thumb feels.

Alex hesitates for just a moment, then gently slides her fingers under the edge of Casey's boxers, lifting them just enough to reveal the marks beneath. The damp fabric sticks the same way the towel had which only confirmed her suspicions. 

Casey stiffens instantly, a weak whine escaping her throat. "No-don't," she murmurs, trying to twist away, but her body is too tired, too fragile. Her legs tremble, her hands rise instinctively, weakly pressing against Alex's chest in a futile attempt to stop her.

"I need to see," Alex whispers, her voice low and steady, a tether. "Just for a second. It's okay. I promise."

It's an argument, but at the same time it isn't. She's lying to her and it feels selfish but she's not really lying either. She does need to see but as much as she wants to delude herself into thinking she's checking for medical purposes only, her brain is possessed. She's in this now, Casey is buried in her arms, and she wouldn't ever forget this. She needs to see the devastation Casey had done to herself first hand. She'd never let herself stop thinking about it uselessly if she didn't; at the very least, this way, it wouldn't be morbid curiosity. She wouldn't imagine it, she'd know. That didn't make her feel any less guilty.

Casey's lips tremble, eyes brimming with tears, and she bites the edge of her lip, trying to stop the sob that's building. "Please... don't-"

Alex pauses, thumb brushing over her hip in reassurance. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to know you're okay. That's all."

Slowly, hesitantly, Casey lets her, eyelids fluttering shut as she presses herself into Alex's side. When Alex finally sees, her chest tightens-not anger, not disgust, but a raw, unbearable ache. 

She tries to think of it clinically, or as though she was reading an autops- victim's case files. An alive victim's case files she was reviewing before trial. Perhaps that would make the hurt gnawing at her psyche lessen if she thought in a more detached way.

There must be dozens of marks on the fragile dip in Casey's thigh; not all were horrible. Alex had been in high school once, she'd seen what women did to themselves with some of her friends in the backyard pool. Theirs had been scabbed over, or already scarred, these were raw and still very real wounds. As she watched, a renewed droplet of blood formed by the edge of one and then slid down pale skin like a taunt. Alex felt like she couldn't swallow.

In a sickening way, they told the story of how tonight must've gone. The ones highest on her, near her hip, could pass as cat scratches had they been on her arm, angry and red but shallow all the same. Her eyes moved down and she tried to hold onto the detached feeling she desperately had manufactured. They deepen the farther they go, a map of her frustration and despair carved into skin too soft for it.

The layers of skin that gave way to vessels and muscle were more visible on the ones deeper on her thigh. A glance up told her that the ones on her wrists were still, by far, the worst. As though before the pain which must've been excruciating from the last of the divots she'd carved out of her thighs hadn't even registered yet before she'd used the immediate blistering adrenaline to force the blade deeper somewhere where the damage wouldn't only be agonizing, but- but potentially- no, no. Casey would be fine. Casey would be fine. She had to be.

"Casey."

She startles like she’s been caught. Her eyes flick up, glassy and too bright, and she jerks the towel down, fumbling to cover herself, to hide the mess, the evidence. Her fingers shake too much to do it properly. The fabric slips again, and panic flashes across her face.

Alex reaches out, gently stilling her hands. “Hey,” she says softly. “It’s okay.”

Casey’s breath comes too fast, shallow little gasps that don’t quite make it all the way down. “I didn’t—” She stops, swallows, tries again. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“I did.” Alex’s voice wavers, but her touch doesn’t. She keeps her hand steady against Casey’s arm. “It’s okay. I saw.”

Casey’s mouth opens, closes. Her lower lip trembles. “Are you mad at me?”

Alex’s answer catches in her throat. Mad. The word feels obscene in her mouth, too small for the enormity of what’s happening. She swallows hard, her hands still pressed against Casey’s skin, feeling her pulse flutter like a trapped bird.

“No,” she says at last, and it comes out rough, almost hoarse. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

Casey blinks, searching her face as if she doesn’t quite believe it.

Alex’s eyes sting. She shakes her head once, sharp. “I’m terrified. I’m—” She breaks off, breath hitching. “I’m terrified, Casey. But not mad. Never mad.”

Something shifts in Casey’s expression then—some faint flicker of relief, or maybe disbelief, it’s hard to tell. Her body softens just slightly, the fight draining out of her.

Alex cups her cheek again, thumb brushing over damp skin. “You scared me,” she whispers, voice cracking. “You scared me so much.”

Casey’s eyes flutter shut. “You weren’t supposed to find me,” she murmurs, and the words sound so heartbreakingly young that Alex has to bite down on the sob rising in her chest.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, softer now, coaxing. “We’re going to talk about it later, okay? But right now, I just need you to breathe for me.”

Casey’s mouth opens like she might argue, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale. She blinks, dazed, eyes darting somewhere past Alex’s shoulder. “It hurts,” she whispers, the words slurred by shock. “I didn’t—why does it hurt so much?”

Alex’s chest twists. “Because you’re still here,” she says before she can stop herself. Her hand presses against Casey’s cheek, thumb still tracing slow, grounding circles. “You’re still here, and that’s all that matters.”

Casey lets out a noise caught between a laugh and a sob. “You always—you talk too much.”

Alex almost smiles, but it dies before it reaches her lips. “Yeah, well,” she murmurs, voice breaking at the edges, “someone has to keep you awake.”

Casey makes yet another weak sound that might be a laugh, her eyes unfocused and glassy. Her breath trembles against Alex’s neck. “You never—” she starts, then stops, the thought slipping away as soon as it forms. “You never stop talking.”

Alex brushes damp hair from her face, the motion automatic, tender in a way she doesn’t have the energy to question. “That’s right,” she says softly. “So you can’t stop listening. Deal?”

Casey’s lips twitch like she’s trying to answer, but all that comes out is a low hum. Her head tips against Alex’s collarbone, eyelashes fluttering.

“Hey,” Alex says quickly, panic clawing back up her throat. “No sleeping. Eyes on me, Casey.”

“’M just tired,” Casey mumbles, the words almost swallowed by the quiet.

“I know.” Alex pulls her closer, tucking the towel tighter around her. “But you don’t get to sleep yet, alright? Just breathe. In and out. You’re okay. Help’s coming,” 

Casey’s eyes flutter again, exhaustion dragging at her. “You called?.”

“Of course I did.”

“Didn’t want you to.”

Alex tightens her grip around her shoulders. “You don’t get to want that.”

Silence settles over them, save for Casey’s uneven breaths. Alex keeps talking—about nothing and everything. The cold tile. The godawful lighting. Anything to fill the air, to keep her from slipping away.

When the towel grows heavy again, she trades it out once more. Every motion is deliberate, desperate. She feels the weight of Casey’s body leaning against her, the slow rise and fall that means she’s still alive. At least she’s alive. 

“Stay with me,” Alex whispers again. “You hear me? You don’t get to leave. Not like this.”

Casey exhales a shaky breath against her neck. “Didn’t want to make you sad.”

Alex presses her lips to Casey’s temple, closing her eyes. “Too late,” she breathes. “So you’re going to make it up to me, understand?”

The sirens grow louder now, flashing light spilling faintly through the frosted glass window. Alex doesn’t look away from Casey. She keeps her pressed close, keeps her breathing steady.

She shifts, her hands firm beneath the younger woman's shoulders. The wet towel slides slightly as she lifts her, and she's struck all over again by how light Casey seems to be. It should be hard for her to lift someone almost her own weight; but it isn't. The things that made holding someone up difficult, the stiffness of spines and straightening of limbs and the way they intrinsically tried to keep their own center of gravity did not exist here. Casey was utterly boneless in her arms, as though she was made of pliable material and not flesh, fragile like she could slip through Alex's fingers entirely. The blonde's arms wrap around her, supporting her completely as she pulls her from the tub, hoping it gives off some sense of sanctity. Water drips from the ends of Casey's hair and the towel onto the tile.

Alex knows that there's no way Casey had severed deep enough to make her wrists hang at an unnatural angle, but if she looked for a millisecond longer than the seconds she could stand to look it seemed like they were to her addled mind. Her brain unhelpfully provided the image of torn tendons and snapped ligaments and she tried to breathe through her nose, not her mouth, so that liquid would only be leaving one of them.

"Almost there," Alex murmurs, trying to calm them both. "You're okay. Just a little more, yeah?"

Casey makes a soft, confused noise, head lolling against Alex's chest. "Don't... don't..." she whispers, but the words trail off.

“I know, I know,” Alex says quickly, brushing damp hair from her face. “I’ve got you. Just breathe. Just stay with me.”

Once she is fully out of the tub, Alex wraps her in a fresh towel, pressing it snug around her shoulders and chest, trying to preserve what dignity she can, shielding her from the paramedics’ eyes. “That’s it, that’s it,” Alex murmurs, smoothing the fabric against her back. “Warm now. You’re warm. You’re safe.”

Casey shivers, hiccupping through a soft sob. Alex leans down, pressing her forehead gently to hers. “I know it hurts. I know it’s cold. But I’ve got you. You’re okay, Casey. Just stay with me. Just breathe with me.”

Casey’s arms twitch weakly, unsure where to rest them. Alex guides them gently, folding them against her chest. “You’re not alone,” she says, voice firm but gentle. “You don’t have to move. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me hold you.”

She can hear the sirens now, closer—so close she can almost feel the vibration in the tile beneath them. Casey stirs faintly at the noise, and her eyes roll open again, unfocused but glittering faintly in the bathroom’s harsh light. She blinks slowly. Her mouth moves, barely. Then she lets out a sound, low, sharp, and wrong. A laugh?

It’s small at first, just a breath of disbelief, but it spills out again, trembling, cracked open at the edges. Alex startles, eyes darting to her face.

“Casey?”

Casey giggles again, quiet, unsteady, her body shaking with it. But it’s not joy; it’s something brittle and fevered, as if she’s laughing through pain she can’t process. “It doesn’t hurt,” she says, voice lilting and unconvincing, every word ghosting out of her on uneven breaths. “See? Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Alex’s stomach turns cold. “Stop—Casey, stop, you’re scaring me.”

Casey just keeps giggling, tears streaking down her face. The sound collapses into itself, breaking apart into soft, shuddering sobs. “It’s funny,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I thought it’d hurt more.” Another little laugh slips out, brittle and wet. “It’s gone. Isn’t that good?”

“Casey, no. No, that’s not good.”

Casey shakes her head weakly, a ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. Her teeth chatter through it. “You worry too much,” she whispers, voice dissolving into another tremor of laughter. “I told you—it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Her tone is so soft, so tender, and that’s what hurts the most. The sound doesn’t belong here—not in this bathroom slick with blood, not under these fluorescent lights, not in the hollow between sirens and silence. 

Alex grips her tighter, forcing the towel against her, trying to feel anything but the slackness creeping into Casey’s limbs. “Stop laughing,” she pleads, the words coming out sharper than she means them to. “Please, stop. Just—stay with me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

But Casey’s still smiling, eyes half-lidded, voice barely a breath. “You don’t have to—” she pauses, giggles again, weaker now, “—don’t have to be scared, Lex. It’s not so bad. It’s warm.”

Alex’s throat burns. “Don’t do this to me.”

Casey blinks slow, her lashes wet, her smile faltering but still there. “Hey,” she murmurs, the word slurred around the edges. “You don’t have to be sad, okay? It’s okay now. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

The words slant downward into silence, the last syllables catching like a hiccup in her throat.

Alex pulls her closer, her voice a hoarse whisper against Casey’s hair. “It’s not okay,” she says, though it sounds like prayer. “It’s not okay. You’re still here. You’re still here.” She shifts, her movements clumsy with panic. She drags Casey closer, pulling her into her lap. The weight of her is unbearably light. She braces her legs around the younger woman, trying to keep her upright, keep her here. “Hold on,” she mutters, voice catching. “Just hold on.”

Casey’s head rolls back like a broken doll’s, her damp hair sticking to Alex’s neck. Alex grabs another towel—god, it’s already soaked through—and presses it hard against Casey’s arms, her hands shaking from the effort. The fabric squelches faintly under her palms, warm and awful.

Casey lets out a sound that isn’t quite a scream, more a strangled, sharp, startled whimper. “Alex—”

“I know,” Alex says, almost to herself. “I know, honey, I know it hurts.” She presses harder. Her forearms ache from the pressure, but she doesn’t dare ease up. “You have to let me help. You have to let me.”

Casey’s breath stutters, her chest rising in uneven jerks. “It hurts,” she mumbles, voice thick, dazed. “You made it hurt again.”

Alex presses down harder, leaning her weight into it, feeling the tremor of Casey’s pulse fluttering weakly beneath her palms. “Stay with me,” she whispers, over and over, like if she said it enough the blood would stay inside Casey’s body. Her vision blurs. She doesn’t realize she’s crying until her tears hit Casey’s shoulder, hot against skin that’s already gone too cold.

Casey blinks up at her, unfocused, lips trembling. “Alex… you’re… shaking.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Alex whispers, pressing harder, her palms slick and trembling, her entire body shaking with the effort to keep Casey here, keep her alive. “You’re going to be fine.”

Casey’s eyes flicker, heavy and glassy. Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but all that escapes is a fragile breath that barely makes it past her throat. Alex leans closer, her voice breaking. “Stay with me. Please.”

When Casey’s lashes flutter shut again, Alex’s heart stutters. The room feels too quiet, too far away. She cups Casey’s face with a blood-smeared hand, her thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, her mind betraying her yet again. There it was, Casey’s face lit by the faintest lamp glow, her eyes soft and wide, lips parted just enough to breathe her name before Alex closed the space between them. That look of surrender, the trust, it burns behind her eyelids now, searing through the panic. 

She wants it again. She wants to kiss her now, to make it all stop hurting, to take back every horrible thing. She wants it so badly her stomach twists with it. No, no. Not right now. What kind of person thinks that now? When Casey’s bleeding out beneath her hands? She swallows hard, presses her palms firmer against the wounds, as if she can press the thought itself back down where it belongs. She’s already done too much. Already taken too much. She’s holding Casey too tight. She’s seen too much of her pain.

“Almost there,” Alex whispers again. “Just a little longer. We’ll get through this. I promise. You hear me? I promise you’re going to be okay.”

The first knock comes at the door. Alex whispers once again, “You’re going to be fine,” before calling out for help.

A flood of strangers in uniform. Voices overlap urgently, clinically, too fast to catch. She’s pushed back, a hand on her shoulder, someone saying ma’am, we need space, but she can’t move. Her knees feel locked in place. She’s still clutching the towel when they ease Casey from her arms, still staring as gloved hands press and check and call out numbers she can’t comprehend.

Blood pressure. Pulse. Oxygen. Units of measurement and meaning that collapse into static.

Casey’s head lolls to the side when they lift her onto the stretcher. Alex sees the pale curve of her jaw, the bruised shadows beneath her eyes, and for a second, just for a second, she’s sure she’s going to pass out.

A paramedic crouches briefly beside her. “Did she take anything?”

Alex blinks. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “I—” Her mind blanks, skipping like a scratched record. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” the paramedic says quickly, gently. “We’ll take care of her.”

And then they’re gone, weaving out the door with the stretcher, with Casey. The sound of their boots echoes down the hall. The red lights outside splash against the walls like a warning she can’t read.

Alex stands in the empty bathroom, staring at the puddle on the tile, at the towels, dark and heavy and cooling by the second. Her sweatshirt clings to her, still wet, smelling faintly of iron and lavender soap. Her hands shake as she presses them against her thighs, but the tremor doesn’t stop.

She follows in a trance, down the narrow hallway, through the apartment that already feels haunted by the absence. Out the front door.

By the time she hits the street, the stretcher is being loaded into the back of the ambulance. The siren lights wash everything in red and white, too bright, too merciless. She starts toward it, one foot dragging in front of the other.

“I’m with her,” she says, voice rough. “I’m coming.”

The young medic leans toward her. “What’s your relation to her?”

Alex freezes. Her throat closes up, words tangling in her chest. She blinks, tongue thick and useless, and her hands curl into fists at her sides.

“I—I’m…just a coworker,” she chokes out finally, voice breaking on the last word.

The medic’s expression softens, sympathy in the curve of his mouth and the tilt of his head. “Alright,” he says gently. “You can meet us at Mercy.”

“She’s alone,” Alex says. It comes out too sharp, almost pleading.

“She won’t be,” he promises, before climbing in and pulling the doors shut.

The siren wails to life, splitting the night. The ambulance pulls away, taking Casey with it, leaving Alex in the wash of headlights and cold air.

She looks down at herself. Her hands. Her sweatshirt. The damp fabric clings to her skin, heavy and cold. The faint red stains bloom darker where the light hits.

She doesn’t cry—can’t. There’s no room for it. Only the hollow, ringing thoughts circling in her skull, chasing endlessly. 

Alex stands on the slick sidewalk, cold seeping into her bones, sweatshirt clinging to her like a second skin, heavy with blood and water. She can barely move, barely breathe, caught somewhere between relief and panic, between exhaustion and the echoing horror of what just happened.

Her hands shake, but not from cold. She tastes iron on her tongue and smells it on herself, and the sensation makes her stomach twist. She wants to scrub herself clean, to erase it, to forget every second of the chaos, but the memory won’t let her. Not just the water, not just the blood, not just the terror. There’s something else buried in it, something she doesn’t want to feel.

It was too familiar, holding her like that, half-bare, limp, shivering. The warmth of her skin against Alex’s soaked clothes, the faint rise and fall of her stomach beneath the towel. For one dizzying second, her body forgot where she was. It remembered the weight of Casey leaning into her years ago, the heat between them, the way her muscles had tightened instinctively, the quiet gasps, the desperate, shaky hums, the weight of her trembling body against Alex’s chest. Alex’s throat closes as she remembers it, her stomach twisting in a combination of guilt and shame. She doesn’t want to think about that now. Not with Casey almost gone, not with her barely clinging to life. She feels gross. Dirty. Inadequate.

Her mind keeps circling it anyway. The feel of Casey pressed against her, alive and slick and trembling, and utterly hers for those few fleeting minutes. She shudders and pulls at her wet sweatshirt, trying to shake it off, trying to focus on the fact that Casey could have died, that she nearly did. That’s what she should be thinking about, what she needs to focus on, but she can’t.

The way she’d shivered and whispered her name, the way her fingers had fumbled for something to hold on to. That same tiny, fragile whine she’d made back then, when Alex’s hands had found their rhythm and she’d come apart against her. It was the same tone, though the circumstances were far from pleasurable. 

And yet her body couldn’t tell the difference. It had responded the same way: with protectiveness, with terror, with a love she couldn’t name. The shape of her against Alex’s chest, the curve of her ribs, the damp weight of her hair—it all blurred together, past and present, warmth and dread.

Her legs feel weak. Her chest aches. Her pulse is loud in her ears, each beat echoing against the walls of her skull. Every memory of Casey, alive, pressed to her, shaking and fragile, presses down on her like a physical weight. She can’t stop thinking about it. She shouldn’t be thinking about it. And yet, there it is.