A/N: Hey guys I really hope you'll forgive me starting a new multi-chapter when I'm already pretty far through another, but I promise I won't be deserting MFtS for this one. I just had this idea that wouldn't leave me alone, and as such, I needed to get it out. This is set some time around s13ish. I haven't really worked out the details of that, but I don't think it matters. I hope this is an idea that interests you - it will be a case-based piece, which heavily features Alex and Casey's relationship, as well as some ensemble dynamics, though Casey is definitely the central point. I'm interested to hear your thoughts. (PS: I definitely stole Casey's secretary's name from someone, and I'm sorry, but I forget who to credit).
It's almost midnight by the time the car comes to a halt outside a neat row of brownstones on the Upper East Side. It's stopped snowing. Mushy puddles of half melted ice, the color of dishwater, crunch under Casey's heels as she walks the path to the front foyer, smiling half-heartedly at the doorman, too exhausted to even greet him properly. She'd stayed at the office too late. Again. It's becoming a habit, and that might have been fine when she had nothing to get home to, but that's not the case any longer. It's a bad routine to get out of, one that feels as natural as breathing. After the third attempt at drinking a cold cup of coffee, she'd relented and decided that the rest of her paperwork could wait until the morning.
Stifling a yawn, Casey clip-clops her way up the stone stairs to the second floor, and slides her key into the lock. It's new and stiff, much like the pair of expensive shoes she's currently wearing. She's almost surprised she hadn't automatically driven to her own neighbourhood out of habit, the route engraved in her bones.
The door is heavy, and for a second she thinks it might be bolted from the inside. She wouldn't blame Alex for thinking she wasn't coming, to be honest, though she thinks the blonde might just be accustomed to her work habits by now. She pushes the door harder, and it opens fully, a gust of warmth hitting Casey as soon as she steps over the threshold.
She still isn't used to living somewhere as expensive as this apartment is. The hard wood floors require treatment every six months (she'd laughed the first time she watched Alex, dressed in an old t-shirt and denim cut-offs, her hair up in a knot, down on all fours rubbing the floor with lacquer), there are lamps that cost more than all of her own furniture put together, and the lights turn on without her even having to touch a switch (that particular party trick had caused much entertainment her first night here, punch-drunk and unbalanced on her shoes, Alex indignantly defending the new technology, before getting promptly distracted by Casey's lips against her throat). Even the air smells expensive, a bottle of high-end room spray, thick like perfume, sitting on the hallway table, sprayed at least twice a day.
It had been intimidating to begin with, but now it's something of a joke between them; Casey continuously trying to find the most ridiculous, unnecessary item in the building, Alex fighting to defend it.
"Al?" Casey calls, stepping out of her shoes, flexing her feet. The cold wood flooring feels heavenly against her skin after being squashed into uncomfortable heels all day.
"Mmmm," comes the muffled response - Alex's thinking voice - from the next room over, "I'm in here."
Relieved that Alex is awake, Casey pads through to the lounge, feeling the weight of the day roll off of her, her body flooding with warmth. Her lips twitch up into a smile as soon as she enters the room, finding Alex sitting at the high-backed armchair in the corner of the room, working on her laptop computer. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, her skin bare behind her glasses. She's wearing cotton pyjama pants and a thin grey sweater. Casey still feels vaguely amazed that she gets to see Alex like this: soft, undone, comfortable. Sleepy.
Her eyes go bright as she pushes her glasses up onto her head and regards Casey warmly, smiling.
"Long day?" she teases, closing her laptop, just as Casey leans in to kiss her. She tastes like red wine. Her lips are soft, and Casey hums against them, before drawing back.
"Yeah."
It's a blunt statement, but they've long since decided not to bring work home with them. This thing between them is still new. Casey agreeing to move in (if not officially) was a leap forward, but they both know how quickly the dark, twisted things they see during the day can ruin a relationship, even if they both have that in common.
"You finished for the night?" Casey asks, perching on the arm of the chair and gesturing towards Alex's computer.
"Can be," she says, lifting a hand to cup Casey's jaw, Casey leaning into it, the movement familiar and catlike.
Casey lifts the computer off her lap, placing it gently on the side table, and slipping herself into the space it vacates, though most of her weight stays on the chair's arm. Kissing her again, lazily, Alex's hands circle her waist, untucking her blouse, soft fingertips running over her skin like velvet. Not for the first time, Casey scolds herself for not hurrying back to this, for allowing her work to once again consume her, instead of Alex. Sure, justice might be significant, weighted, important… but she's beginning to realise that Alex Cabot is pretty damn important too.
She sleeps through her alarm.
It isn't the first time it's happened, but she still feels vaguely panicked as she wakes to Alex leaning over her, blonde hair tickling at her sternum, and realises that she's dressed, ready to head out of the door, and Casey's still in bed.
"Why didn't you wake me?" she grumbles, sliding out of bed and rubbing at her eyes, though not with a hint of malice.
"I tried, you sleep like a log," Alex says, a hint of playfulness in her eyes, perfectly glossed lips turning up into a smirk, "anyway, I checked your calendar; you're not missing anything. Marla's got your first meeting down as 9.30. Plenty of time."
Alex disrupts her path to the bathroom, kissing her first on the mouth, and then on the top of her head (she's wearing heels and stands an inch above Casey) before sending her on her way.
"I'll see you later. Try not to come home too late," she says to the closed bathroom door, and Casey hears her laugh at the grunt she gets in response.
This is kind of how their relationship is: like a revolving door. Casey sometimes thinks that if they actually had to spend time with one another for more than a few hours every evening (and most of that's spent unconscious), they might not work as a couple at all. Except, that's bitter and pessimistic, and Alex makes her not want to be either of those things, so she knows that isn't true. Their schedules line up, sometimes: a working lunch here, a chance to go for breakfast there. They cross paths at work, of course, but keep it professional. Sometimes they even manage to spend all of Saturday together, though they seldom leave the bedroom if they do. It's nice… normal. A concept that's still sort of foreign to Casey, whose last serious relationship ended shortly after law school.
By the time she's showered and her hair's dry and she's found a clean blouse and skirt, she has to race her way through the New York traffic to get to work in time for her meeting. It isn't a big deal: a pre-trial witness prep. Not even a key witness. But still, she hates being late, hates not being able to prepare herself, knows this is going to put her in a bad mood for the rest of the day.
As if that's not bad enough, Olivia Benson is waiting for her when she arrives.
"I have a meeting in five, Liv," Casey warns, striding into her office and putting her attache onto her desk, unzipping it in a smooth, fluid motion, and beginning to remove the contents.
"I won't take up much of your time, then. I need a warrant."
Glancing at her, Casey frowns, "can it wait til after this witness prep? I'm rushed off my feet here."
"Sure," Olivia tells her, hands buried deep in the pockets of her leather jacket, "the Michaels case?"
Casey hums her response, shuffling her papers into order, before finally shrugging out of her jacket and laying it over the back of her chair, "the mom of one of the kids. Shouldn't take long. An hour tops? What do I need to know about this warrant?"
"Info's all here. Pretty straightforward," Olivia pushes the form across Casey's desk. She reaches for it and skim-reads it, before shifting it to a pile.
"Cool, I'll see what I can do. Call you in about an hour?"
Smiling her thanks, Olivia touches her arm briefly before leaving, almost colliding with Marla in the doorway, there to announce that her witness has arrived.
It is a straightforward warrant. Solid evidence linking suspect to scene of crime, lack of alibi, reason to search apartment. Yada yada yada. Casey could talk a judge into signing it over in her sleep. She gets it done, and then heads over to the precinct to deliver it herself, finding a lull in her work schedule after-all. She's interested to be filled in on the squad's latest case, anyway, so it doesn't seem like a wasted trip. So far, all she knows is it's a rape-robbery, the suspect a junkie whose fingerprints were found on the knife left at the scene. Casey doubts she'll have much work to put in for this particular case - it seems fairly clear cut - but often those cases can be surprising. She likes to keep on top of her future workload.
As she walks into 1PP, she does a 360, turning straight back around to follow Olivia, who is walking two-steps at a time down to her car, Nick Amaro at her side.
"I've got you that warrant," Casey calls after them, struggling to keep up in her less than practical shoes.
"Great," Olivia says, "we've just got called into a commotion in the same building. You feel like tagging along?"
Nick's already sliding into the car as Casey shrugs, nodding. He reaches through to the seat behind him, and unlocks the safety lock.
"Sure, why not," she says, though her hand's already on the handle of the car door.
They drive with sirens, a rarity when it comes to this unit. Olivia fills her in on the details as Amaro weaves his way through the thick traffic, cars struggling to get out of his way. They mount the sidewalk twice. The call of complaint is from the same floor as their perp, two doors over. Arguing, followed by gunshots. Called in by a concerned neighbour just a few minutes ago, and Olivia had taken it because she'd recognised the address, even before a uniformed unit could respond.
"Think it's related?" Casey asks, as the car swings violently around another corner.
"There's been a number of rapes on the same block. His MO's usually a knife, but maybe he escalated."
The car screeches to a halt outside the apartment building, and Liv's out of the car before it's even really stopped. Casey gets out and follows, leaving a fair distance between them. It's not usual for ADAs to get wrapped up in stuff on the streets, but she's become pretty accustomed to getting her hands dirty since being assigned to SVU. They don't always follow protocol. That's why they get results.
Olivia draws her weapon, mirror-imaging Amaro on the other side. They crouch as they start up the stairs, gesturing silently to one another, and Casey follows the conversation with her eyes, holding back behind them. Maybe she should have waited in the car. Eventually, they make it to the right apartment, book-ending the door with their guns lowered to their sides.
"NYPD, OPEN UP," Amaro yells, banging on the door with the nose of his gun.
There's no sound from inside, though several of the neighbours down the hallway stick their heads out, and a baby is screaming down the other end of the corridor. Nick knocks again, then, when there's no response, gestures for Olivia to back up from the door.
From a legal point of view, whether they have reason to break in is a grey area, but Casey stays quiet.
Nick runs at full-force against the door, hitting it squarely with his shoulder, and the hinges creak at the impact. He pushes again, and the door swings open. Weapon by his side, he heads slowly in, Olivia following suit.
Casey stays in the hallway.
"Living room clear," Olivia calls, and then, from the other direction, Nick's voice echoes hers, clearing the kitchen.
Peering in, Casey sees the living area in disarray, the television missing from its brackets, only the wiring left behind; a coffee table turned over; a lamp smashed on the dirty rug in front of the couch.
"Got a body," Amaro calls from the left, "no sign of the shooter."
Casey walks towards the open door on the right, sees Olivia hunched over a child's bed, the whole room a patchwork of pinks and lilacs, teddy bears with their stuffing blown out lined across one wall shelf, a toy chest and a dolls house underneath.
"Got a second body in here," Olivia says, softly, her voice laced with sadness.
Amaro walks in, and there's blood down the front of his shirt, his sleeves rolled up. His gun's back in its holster.
"Who shoots a little girl at point-blank range in the head?" Liv murmurs, looking down at the child's body. She doesn't look like she can be any older than eight or nine.
"Mom's in the bedroom. Took two to the head, and one to the chest. This look like the work of a deranged junkie to you?"
Olivia shakes her head, "no, and these bodies don't look fresh either."
A noise from the closet suddenly draws all their attention to the corner of the room. Raising his weapon, Nick gestures for Olivia to move back, then Casey, pointing to the exit. She does as she's told, backing away into the doorway as he reaches for the closet door. A second later, he flings the door open, his gun still aimed into the small closet. As soon as he's pulled back the meagre row of clothes, though, he quickly holsters his weapon, and Olivia leaps into action.
"Hey, sweetie," she says, kneeling down in front of the closet, pushing her own weapon back into the clip on her hip, "it's okay, you're okay. My name's Olivia… I'm going to help you."
Casey instinctively finds herself moving closer, standing just behind Olivia and peering down into the darkness of the closet. A little girl - younger than the victim - is sitting amongst the clothes, shivering, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. As Olivia tries to get close, she starts to rock, making an unintelligible sound.
"It's okay sweetheart, it's alright," Olivia soothes, but the child only moves away from her.
Something clicks into place in Casey's head, and she finds herself reaching for Olivia, telling her to let her have a go.
Olivia, who still isn't 100% thrilled to have Casey back working with the unit, not that she'd say as much, scoffs, shooting her a look like she'd forgotten the attorney was even still in the room. Still, she moves away, letting Casey crouch down next to her. Casey meets the little girl's eyes, searching her briefly, then smiling softly as she raises her hands to the girl's eye-level, and starts to sign.
"Hello, I'm Casey," she signs, speaking softly at the same time. She takes care to spell out her name slowly. The little girl looks curiously at her, dark eyes wide with fear, then stops rocking, "what's your name?"
For a second, she thinks her hunch isn't right, but then, slowly, the little girl raises shaky, chubby hands, and signs back: my name's Ana.
Casey's vaguely aware of Olivia behind her, of Nick whispering 'did you know she could do that?' and Liv shaking her head, but her focus is completely on the child.
"Hey, Ana. I know you're really scared, but we're not going to hurt you. How old are you, Ana?"
She waits for a response, then twists to look at Olivia, "she's only six."
"Will you come out here, so we can care for you?" Casey signs, continuing to speak along aloud for the detectives' benefits.
Ana hesitates before nodding, holding her arms out to Casey in a gesture that she assumes means she wants to be picked up. Despite having a bunch of nieces and nephews, Casey's always been terrible with kids, but she gets the gist, leaning into the small closet and scooping the terrified little girl out, holding her shaking form close to her body, and turning to the detectives. Ana buries her face in her hair, and Casey can feel her tears as they fall steadily against the skin of her neck.