Pink Dress Freudian
A Law and Order Fanfiction
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler
Note: Directly follows the episode Ain't No Love.
I. Pink
Assistant District Attorneys, she rationalized with herself as some nameless, faceless paralegal
handed her an empty cardboard file box, did not get fired.
They were "let go", or "downsized", or "transferred", or "set free to pursue other aspirations",
but they were not fired. "Fired" pertained to underpaid machinists in dim factories. "Fired"
referred to teenage café hands that spill lattes down the shirts of customers. "Fired" did not
belong in the lexicon of an Assistant District Attorney's vocabulary.
And yet, hadn't that been the exact word he'd chosen? Arthur hadn't phrased it as eloquently
as, "I am setting you free, Serena, to pursue other aspirations." No supportive back-pat. No
fatherly smile. No broken-hearted hug goodbye, filled with the bittersweet realization that, in
the end, the right thing was for her to find her niche and explore other options.
No, Arthur had said the word "fired," alright. He'd used it in a complete sentence, with proper
syntax and grammar (despite that low Southern drawl) and all the other nuances that made
effective speaking. He probably still spoke effectively now, the din of his voice mingled with
Jack's still barely audible in her ears.
Barely audible, but there.
Serena opened the empty box and sighed at the void within.
At least she hadn't been handled a pink slip.
II. Dress
Her dress slip itched something terrible.
When it came down to it, she could not articulate why she had chosen a skirt in the first place.
Femininity seemed so useless in the modern world, and as much as she'd like to pretend
otherwise, your clothing choice did little to nothing for your effectiveness as a prosecutor.
Work that day would have proceeded just as well (poorly?) had she worn pants, or capris,
or a hot-pink pleather miniskirt. Well, perhaps not the last one.
But sometimes, when she wore the right skirt with the right blazer and the right blouse and
the right shoes, passing men tended to turn their heads and glance with all the subtlety of an
awe-struck child. Jack arched his eyebrows and Arthur smiled a certain, somewhat different
smile. And those looks let her know that something else about her, something beyond her
talents of a prosecutor, still remained effective.
She had no desire to turn into that impetuous, stereotypical redhead who prosecuted cases
with Special Victims. Not in the least. Skirts did not insult the long war women waged against
chauvinism and oppression. No single piece of fabric included the innate design of unraveling
feminism just by existing. They just made women look pretty.
Perhaps the whole issue laid in that one fact. She scratched at the itchy lace slip.
Perhaps she wore the skirt to remind herself that, beneath everything else, she still remained
a woman.
III. Freudian
She hadn't meant to say it.
She closed the empty box and slid into her desk chair, leaning back. With her personal
effects – pictures, desk sets, knickknacks and trinkets – packed away, the office appeared just
as any other in the hall, bland and impersonal.
A room for anyone.
She could still hear Jack and Arthur talking down the hallway. Perhaps about her
replacement? Perhaps about another case? Perhaps about her outburst, her moment of fiery
impetuousness, the words tumbling from her mouth in the same way they did when she'd
allowed herself one appleitini too many.
They'd stared for the briefest of seconds. Surprised at the self-disclosure. Surprised at the
accusation. Surprised at something they'd never known.
They'd never known.
She rested her elbows on the desk and glanced out into the hallway, the drone of their voices
familiar in her ears.
Perhaps they were talking about Serena Southerlyn, the pathetic and now ex-ADA who'd
just ousted herself in a fit of unmanaged rage.
She could not tell what she hated more:
The possibility that they felt sorry for her, or the undeniable fact that she felt sorry for herself.