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0) "He talks about you, you know. In bed." It's true, of course - Dana will lie about a lot of things, will bend the truth about even more, but she tries not to put herself in a position where she has to lie about something like this.

It's true, but it's not the whole truth. Even here, she is less than flawlessly honest - but a girl has to have some secrets.


1) Cary talks about Dana, of course, about what she's doing to him, about what he's going to do to her. That's what you do, when you're fucking somebody. His dirty talk isn't particularly creative, but it's not embarrassingly bad, either: no awkward pet names, no telling her to "take it, bitch, come on, like that". Dana's done that; it's not bad, in its place, but those words don't seem right, matched with Cary Agos' baby-faced smile.

Mostly he says yes, and fuck, and god, and please, fuck, Dana, please—

—which suits her just fine, really.

And he doesn’t just talk about her during sex - they’re colleagues, too, in addition to whatever else they are. On some level, Dana suspects she should object - insist that he leave work at the office, keep their time in bed for the two of them. Her sister's always after her about that stuff, telling her that the reason none of her relationships ever work out is because she keeps dating men who love their jobs more than their girlfriends.

But Dana's been at the State’s Attorney’s office for four years, been dreaming of it for twice as long. She'll never tell Krissie, but she's never yet dated somebody she loved more than the thrill of doing a cross-examination that flows just so, of piecing the research and the evidence together to make a case, of standing up in front of the jury and making them see things her way.

So they talk about work: the cases, the criminals, the logistics of their professional lives. They talk about how she can break the Rogers defense, about the cases she worked last year, what she could have done differently, what she thought at the time. They talk about other stuff, too: what he needs from the witness on the Romanov thing, Matan’s insane whistleblower case, whatever stupid shit the staffers have done this week.

It's weird, but it works for her - for them.


2) “What do you think of Wendy?” She asks one evening. They’re stretched out on the bed, sweat cooling on their bodies; Cary’s checking his email on his phone.

“Scott-Carr?” he says, without looking up. “She knows her shit, I’ll give her that.” He shrugs. “Not the friendliest person I’ve ever met, but I guess she doesn’t have to be.”

Wendy Scott-Carr had smiled at Dana, when they met, saying, call me Wendy, please. She’d taken Dana aside, after a few hours, and told her how glad she was to have Dana working with her on this. Later, when Cary and Matan were getting into it over right of access, she’d smiled at Dana, inviting, almost conspiratorial, raising one eyebrow as if to say, boys and their toys - aren’t they silly?

“Yeah,” she says, absently registering that Cary has stopped speaking, has set his phone aside and is watching her. “I don’t know, I liked her, but - “ But that doesn’t mean that Wendy Scott-Carr is on Dana’s side.

“She’s hot, though,” Cary says, and isn’t that just always the way?


3) He mentions Alicia Florrick exactly once, the first day of the depositions. They’re both exhausted from a long day of questions and non-answers, trying to find one solid fact to build on. Wendy seemed optimistic, even enthusiastic, but Cary’s spent the whole day looking more and more haggard.

“She’s good,” Cary says, during a commercial break. “I—sometimes I forget how good she is, you know? With everything else.”

Dana nods. “Wish she were on our side, though.”

Cary snorts. “God, right? I used to think that, too - get her on the side of justice, she’d be so much better. She could—” He shakes his head. “She’s changed a lot, though.”

Dana thinks about Alicia Florrick, who’d sat in a conference room and answered every question with an unshakable calm and absolutely zero usable information, and wonders.


4) Carey has a thing for women in power. That’s not actually a secret; he told her that outright after the first time she outmaneuvered him for a case. Even if he hadn’t, it would have been obvious from his stares, from the way he watches: frank, appreciative, and never more so than when he’s getting his ass handed to him.

This, though -

“God, stop looking at me,” he says, one hand over his face. “Like you’ve never thought about it.”

“I—no, actually,” she says. Diane Lockhart is good-looking, in a terrifyingly well-put-together sort of way, but Dana can say with some confidence that she’s never wanted to see the woman naked. “So, what - you want her to tie you up and lecture you about case law? Tell you you’ve been a bad, bad lawyer? Make you—” She trails off, staring. Carey’s bright red, now, and she can tell that he’s trying to laugh it off, but his pupils are blown wide and he’s breathing quick and shallow, biting at his lower lip.

“Shut up,” he says—but she’s pretty damn sure he doesn’t actually mean it, so she doesn’t.


5) She actually starts the conversation about Kalinda, after yet another night out watching the two of them eyefuck each other.

“Should I be worried?” she asks, watching Cary watch the sway of Kalinda’s hips as she leaves the bar. He looks up, slowly - not surprised, not guilty, just looking back at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Should I?” he counters.

Dana smiles, shows her teeth. “I’m not a lesbian,” she says - a true statement. She sleeps with men, has slept with Cary, will doubtless sleep with Cary again. The fact that she also sometimes sleeps with women - that’s true, but not relevant, not right now.

Cary has nothing to fear from Kalinda. The only thing Cary has to fear is himself.

She brings it up again, later, the two of them curled together in bed.

“Did you ever, though? With her?”

To his credit, he doesn’t pretend not to know who she’s talking about; she likes him all the more for it.

“Almost,” he says, “but she’s - there’s always something, with her.” He shakes his head. “She’s always got an angle, always got a reason.” His smile is thin, rueful. “Usually more than one.”

Dana thinks about Kalinda: the curve of her hip, the line of her neck, the razor-sharp intelligence behind her smile, the deft, deliberate movements of her hands.

“Yeah,” she says, looking away, “but can you blame her?”