A/N: So, I thought I'd start a simpler, standalone story. My two trilogies were getting exhausting! If there are any typos, that is because I fail at proofing. Feel free to mock me.

This story is broken into three parts, telling the story of the times Casey and Elliot have met over the years, prior to her assignment to the SVU, it should be easy to follow.

Oh, and if you're a major EO fan, lets be fair, in the synopsis, it does state that this is going to be all about the CE, so if such isn't your cup of tea, please feel free to read the many, many, many EO fics out there, not just try to convince me to make this one EO. As it shan't happen.

Reviewing will make you an awesome person, and put hairs on your chest….

Disclaimer: I don't own Special Victims Unit, or any of the characters. Except ChiChi the Chihuahua, though she is free for rental to any other fics…

PART ONE

2006

Vendetta

From: Olivia Benson

Sent: July 5th 2006 16:19

To: Casey Novak

Casey,

Nice work today.

Rgrds,

Liv

This is the thanks I get? Assistant District Attorney Casey Novak thought as she relaxed into her plush leather office seat, clicking the mouse with needless malice, banishing the curt correspondence to the ethereal realms of her cluttered inbox.

She'd given everything on this case, the last three weeks her evening and weekend recreation had consisted of sitting around in her Upper West Side apartment, mainlining filter coffee with only thickly bound law journals providing her with scintillating company, as she waded through hundreds of files, in search of precedent setting cases that might lend her an upper hand. The Detectives hadn't gotten her a hell of a lot of evidence, and sometimes Casey wondered if they knew her court appearances took effort, preparation and research; it wasn't a case throw on a pants suit, show up and let Perry Mason work through you.

Often, sleep wasn't an option, as the sole prosecutor working for an overwrought division, if she was to keep up with her case load, sometimes she had to work through the night. And if it wasn't migraine inducing volumes of text keeping her up at all hours, it was the harrowing nature of the cases that landed on her desk. Sometimes Casey felt as though she had the worst, most thankless job in the world, and wondered if she was valiant or masochistic to stick at it, especially when she had worked herself to exhaustion, called in favours, and pissed off several judges and her superiors to get the guilty verdict they'd all been looking for, only to get a pat on the shoulder from Elliot as she was leaving the courtroom and a six word e-mail from Detective Benson, who hadn't even bothered to write the word 'regards' in its full form. Wanting the full complement of vowels in a congratulatory message wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

Casey sighed, toying with the tall, embossed paper cup she'd set down upon arrival, glad she'd decided to congratulate herself with a Mocha Latte with two pumps of vanilla syrup. She'd be flying high on artificial sweeteners and caffeine all afternoon, sure, but her colleagues were used to that at this point, and besides, it sped up her work. She shrugged off her neatly tapered jacket, a black number she'd worn to court. Casey had started to dress in more classic monochromes lately, as she had recently become aware that her favourite lime green and powder blue stylings had been the source of certain somewhat derisory in-jokes around the office, and even the precinct.

She didn't fucking need that, Casey would have hoped that whilst she was busting her ass putting away rapists and child molesters, people might cut her a break for her admittedly eccentric fashion choices, but alas, it was not so.

Casey rolled up her sleeves, and with a sip of her sickly sweet, syrup laced beverage, noting crankily that it was lukewarm at best, she dove into her emails. Self pity was not becoming on anyone, let alone fully grown Assistant District Attorneys.

Besides, Casey knew damn well it wasn't the fickle nature of workplace fashion, unappreciative co-workers or drinks of questionable temperature which had gotten her into a funk. She glanced again at the calendar. July 5th.

It was the day after Independence Day, and Twenty-two years, and one day after probably the most monumental day in her life. But she didn't even commemorate it anymore, she hadn't since she'd left home for college and was no longer obliged. Casey wasn't about to get sentimental at this late stage.

Again, self-pity just wasn't becoming, or remotely useful.

Just as Casey had nearly deleted all the chain emails and advertisements offering her longer lasting erections and miracle hair regrowth at the very reasonable introductory price of just $29.99, her phone let out a whiny trill.

It was at least a distraction.

She snatched up the handset, and muttered,

"Sex crimes."

"Uh, hi there, this is Mike Handsworth, from the Manhattan Times, I was told I could reach Cassandra Everett on this number?"

A jolt ran down Casey's spine at the mention of the name, and her mouth turned arid. She ran her free hand through her newly blonded mane, trying to decide how to respond. No one ever referred to her by her full given name, in fact, before she'd gotten her Law Degree, to avoid the trouble of saying 'call me Casey' to all she met, she'd even had her first name legally changed.

But she hadn't been Cassandra Everett for even longer.

"What's this about?" Casey asked, noncommittally.

"Is that Miss Everett?"

Casey blinked slowly, toying with the idea of slamming the phone down and forgetting all about this. Curiosity got the upper hand though.

"Yes, now what is this about and how did you get this number?" Casey asked, consciously lowering her voice as a co-worker shuffled past her glass pane door. The man on the other side of the phone sounded suddenly sheepish. She could almost see the beads of nervous sweat forming on his brow across the telephone line.

"I'm writing a piece on the Whitely Murder/attempted suicide case, you know, that lady who offed her husband and tried to do herself in yesterday? With your experience, I thought you might be able to offer some insight into the mindset of the…"

Casey cut him off, "I can't," she snapped slamming the phone down and placing her hands over her face. They were shaking violently.

Casey tried to calm her breathing, but it was no use. Her body had slipped into full-on breakdown mode, and this was the sort of problem no amount of coffee could assuage. If that reporter bastard was right, then this case was likely headed for her desk right at that moment. She glanced up just in time to see Detectives Benson and Stabler appear at her door. Quickly, she composed herself, affecting her best neutral pout, and neatening her blonde hair, swatting the pesky bangs to the side where they belonged.

*****

TWO DAYS LATER

Olivia Benson did her best not to steam into Novak's office.

No point in riling the young attorney up before appealing to Casey's seemingly rather limited compassionate side. Olivia knew this meeting was unlikely to go well; ever since this new case had landed, Casey had been on the warpath. The ADA's leaning toward impractical idealism was laudable in certain respects, but in the world of the Special Victims Unit, it didn't always cut it, and that meant someone had to pull her on it. Unfortunately, in this particular instance, El had been cagey, and reluctant to talk to Casey about the way she had breezed icily through the squad room, barking clipped orders, cocking those infuriatingly manicured eyebrows, and generally making an impatient pain in the ass out of her lawyerly self. That of course, left this little 'chat' up to Olivia.

Joy.

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open. Knocking was redundant, she had seen Casey look up and give her a weathered 'come-in-if-you-have-to' look before returning her olive green eyes to her computer screen.

"What?" Casey asked once Olivia was inside. She stationed herself in front of Casey's desk, opting not to sit.

"I heard you're charging Marissa Whitely with first degree murder," Olivia sounded out, getting straight to the reason she was here. Neither of the women were given to pointless small talk.

"You're damn right I am," Casey agreed tetchily, focusing not on the conversation, but instead to sentences quickly appearing on her computer screen as her slim, pianist fingers flew over the keyboard, tapping up a concerto of legalese, "arraignment will be as soon as I can get it onto the courts calendar."

"Casey, it's manslaughter, and you know it." Olivia said softly.

"She shot her husband in the head, point blank, in cold blood," Casey said passionately, finally tearing herself away from her work to pin Olivia with an unnerving gaze, "and she bought the gun especially for that purpose two days before, that's premeditated, and that is murder one."

"The man beat her within an inch of her life on a daily basis," Olivia said, "she didn't know what else to do, if she was really the heartless murderer you're making her out to be, why did she try to shoot herself straight after?"

Something seemed to click with the blonde, her deportment changed near imperceptibly, Olivia herself only noticed the strange recognition that flashed across Casey's face thanks to years spent as a police detective.

"That only goes to prove she knew that what she did was wrong," Casey said flatly, "if I plead her out, it just sends the message across the City that if someone slaps you around, it's okay to just go ahead and shoot them in the face."

"I'm not sure that's a message I wouldn't want to send," Olivia shrugged. Whilst she could see where Casey was coming from, killing was wrong, no matter who the victim, she couldn't help feeling a battered woman striking back shouldn't be punished more harshly than her former aggressor would have been had he ever been caught, just for fighting back after years of abuse.

"Luckily, the DA sees it my way," Casey said, a hint of a smirk playing about her full lips.

"She didn't have any way out Casey," Olivia said, trying one last plea.

"Well she certainly tried the easiest route," Casey said, tone mock bright, "unfortunately for her, that bullet to the head narrowly missed her vital functions, so she's facing the music, now if you don't mind, I've got work to do."

"She's got kids Casey," Olivia whispered.

The younger woman swallowed hard, a thoughtful look taking her features a moment before her hard-line, grim determination face returned.

"Marissa Whitely obviously didn't give a damn about them when she put that Ruger to her temple and tried to blast her way out of responsibility," Casey spat angrily. Olivia didn't think she'd ever seen Casey get so keyed up about a case, "she doesn't deserve to see those kids ever again. I'm taking this to court. No deals."

Olivia nodded silently and took her leave. She was by no means giving up, but she needed to confer with her partner. Perhaps he'd know why Novak was taking the case so personally. He'd certainly alluded to something earlier.