Author's Notes - This is the second oneshot in a series I have decided to create based around Casey's character. I have decided to retain part of the title of the first story and use it again here not only to make the parts easy to identify, but also to establish the theme of these pieces. Please note that although all of these are in the same series, they are not necessarily all related to one another. This piece is set before a relationship, but not necessarily the one I already wrote about. This series has no inherent sequence or canonical limitations. In each piece, my primary objective is to establish that this is Casey - a different facet of the same person given a certain scenario, inspired by the workings of her personality, seen or unseen, inherent or implied. This is an exploration purely of her.

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The first sip is always a little hard to take. As it slides over your tongue you know you're committed by now, and the uprising, the struggle waged by your throat as the burning liquid goes down, then comes up through your nostrils is part of the ride. Then it settles again and all is quiet. What will be, will be. It clears the body, and with a bit more, hopefully the mind.

I'm trying to drink slowly, so you don't think I'm a booze hound or something. If I was alone as usual, this glass would be long gone. But you're here with me, and that means I have to be a little more civilized. I want to remember as much of this as I can before I go home and seek a liquid sedative from a similar bottle.

Vodka is a bit of an acquired taste. I acquired it in college, and I have it every so often nowadays. Your eyebrow stretched upward when I asked the waiter for some, and I let it sit there. It was something neat and exotic, as am I to you in a way. I'm trying my best, and I hope it's working. From the size of the glass this guy gave me, I don't think I can afford to have another if you're not a little interested by the time it's empty.

You drive me bloody nuts, and I can't even determine why. I'm sure if I committed a little more thought to the matter, I'd think of a million reasons, involving but not necessarily starting with the V in your sweater and the swell of your - damn it, I wasn't going to look there! What can I say, old habits die hard. In my case, very, very hard.

I lift my eyes to your's and pray that you didn't notice anything, but the barest hint of red gracing your olive cheeks leads me to believe you did. Surely half a beer isn't enough to get you tipsy. And if you did notice, I thank God you didn't say anything. I smooth out a non-existent wrinkle in my skirt and redouble my efforts to stay in reality.

I'd know your voice anywhere, I think as you speak. I'd know every single crest and trough in your tone, every minute inflection, and to some extent even your true intentions and feelings behind them. I haven't studied music in years, but your voice is full, round like a bell tone. Even at it's darkest point, there's a strangely calming clarity. I guess that comes in handy with your job, perhaps the perceptive victims can identify that clarity too. It's a metaphor of who you truly are. And for reasons not entirely unbeknownst to me I'm drawn to that like a moth to a candle.

But surely you won't burn me if I get too close.

I've managed to stay more attentive this time, by focusing on the orbs north of your neck versus their distant cousins. I'd never found brown eyes attractive before I met you, but then again I hadn't been an "eye person" before you either. I finish my last sip of vodka as I wonder what else you've subtly changed about me. I remember a moment later - you've changed what I wear and how tight it is. You've changed my hair colour. And with a little luck, you just might change my opinion on office relationships.

I feel a strange headache coming on. Damn vodka. I should've practiced with it first. I guess my mental distress is written across my face, because suddenly you're asking if I'm okay and as your hand covers mine I get electrocuted. I pray my face doesn't betray my heart rate, and apparently it doesn't because you move closer to me and there's a warmth on the side of my thigh. Feeling dumb, I look down and realize that you've come over to my side of the semi-circular booth, your hand is still covering mine and now our legs are touching. I manage a quick look at my chest and I'm relieved that my heart hasn't found a way to burst out of it yet. Thank god for biological impossibilities. I half hope that you chalk any and all blushing on my part up to being slightly buzzed off of Eurasian liquor. I take a deep breath, choosing to stare at my feet for a few moments. I take another deep breath, and I know I'm blushing by this point as I learn that if I concentrate hard enough I can feel your denim on my almost bare legs. And when you move your leg slightly, oh god, just like that, yes, it drives me crazy.

I'm vaguely aware that I have yet to give you a proper answer, but as my head comes up and your's seems a lot closer than I remember, the words leap into the back of my throat. I swallow them very visibly. Those delicious chocolate eyes are threatening to peer into the depths of my soul, I can tell. You're seeking something. What exactly that may be I'm uncertain, but the subtle once-over your eyes are conducting give me a hint. I wonder if you want me to do the same to you, but you move away a little bit. There's a marked coldness over me where you once were. Not that I'm not grateful for the breathing space anyways. My lungs fill again for the first time in what seems like ages. As they fill I get an idea. My head flies backwards and I stretch myself as far as I can, arching my back off the seat and my chest upwards. I dare you not to look.

As suspected, you couldn't be held to that. Your eyes drink in the perfect view down my front, created specifically for you by this shirt, and accentuated by a few slow, deep breaths. Your eyes have grown cloudy. I imagine mine have too.

I look into your face and reap the fruit of my efforts, and as your eyes slide back up to mine I see the full effectiveness of the tactic. Something sexy this way comes. Not tonight, detective, I nearly say. I nearly call you on coming closer. I nearly call you on backing off. I nearly tell you to do it again but that would be cruelty to myself as well as you. Not tonight, detective. Unfortunately, not tonight.

I hold your gaze for a while longer than a coworker ought to, then I dig into my purse and slap a few bills down on the table. I tell you the truth, that I'm tired and getting a bit of a headache. You offer to drive me home and though I heartily disagree, I politely decline. My building's only a block or so away anyways. I make sure I catch your eyes when I say thank you for providing your company, and you say the same to me.

I walk to your car with you to be polite, and get a quick hug. As we stand together for a moment your hand finds the back of my head and plays with the golden tresses I gave you. Your voice is devilishly low as you whisper goodnight in my ear, and I try my best to mimic you. And just as quickly as it happened, we pulled apart. I can see on your face as you open the driver's door that you're slightly disappointed. What I don't tell you is that I am too. I'm disappointed that come Monday morning we'll try our best to ignore what just happened. For our jobs' sake, we probably should. But I'm certain I won't be quite as disappointed come Monday night.

An after-hours visit to your office, a few well placed words, and we'll be right back here. And you'll be the vodka burning away my throat.