A/N: this is set some time around season two. Alex has just joined SVU. I used my artistic license like a lot, so some of it might not be 100 percent consistent with canon. This was meant to be a holidays story but I didn't finish it in time. I thought i would be a shame to waste it. Part one of two.
She thinks she's probably known for making bad decisions. In fact, she knows she is. Office gossip isn't always said quietly, and on more than one occasion in the month she's worked with her, Elizabeth Donnelly has pulled her aside to give her a friendly warning. She's known for other things too - for being on the softball team, for riding her bike to work even when it's raining, for being a little too brash when it comes to court - but mostly, she thinks people think of her as the ADA who puts her foot in it, the one who speaks before she thinks. That's okay. After all, she's doing a good job at proving them right.
When the invite for tonight's festivities had landed on her desk, she'd scoffed at it. Obviously. A Christmas Carol Concert hosted by some big name family out in the Hamptons? She would never fit in.
The military carol nights had been one of the highlights of Christmas growing up. Casey and her brothers and sisters in their obnoxious, matching Christmas sweaters, being herded into a church or a town hall or another officer's house for a few hours of off-key singing before heading out to midnight mass. It was a Novak tradition.
Even despite knowing that this carol event will be nothing like those, that it's just a fancy rich-people party under a different title, something had forced her to RSVP. It might have been a sense of nostalgia, or it might have been the fact everybody else was going and she was growing tired of not fitting in, or it might have been something else entirely, but something had forced her to tick the little box labelled "attending" before she could stop herself.
Which is how she lands herself in the hallway of a huge mansion house, at least three times the size of any of the houses she'd called home as a child, feeling like an idiot in heels she can't walk in and a dress that's too tight, sipping champagne and trying to come up with an escape plan. Despite the invite going out to everybody at the DA's office - and she knows this is true because how else would she, an absolute nobody, have been invited? - Casey hasn't been able to find anybody she knows well enough to hold a conversation with, not even catching a glimpse of any of her colleagues. The only people she's had any kind of contact with is the waiters carrying the trays of canapés and wine glasses. It's been almost an hour. She's agreed that as soon as that hour is up, she can make her escape. Pretend this night never happened.
"There haven't even been any carols," she grumbles, before realising that two other guests are in earshot, and giving her dirty looks. She forces a smile and raises her glass slightly.
"The carols come later," a voice says from somewhere behind her. "And they're not worth staying for."
Casey almost chokes on her mouthful of champagne, whipping her head around to look for the source of the comment. Behind the pillar she's taken to leaning against (mostly to try and take the pressure off her poor feet in these ridiculous heels), she spots a woman sitting elegantly across a small loveseat. Casey might have expected a barmaid, or somebody else feeling as out of place as she does, but what she finds is somebody so beautiful and polished, she looks like part of the furniture of the place. Blonde hair is pulled up into some kind of delicate up-do with a few long strands hanging down to frame her face, the glint of diamonds just visible in her ears. She's dressed in a flowing pale blue gown thats drape makes it seem almost liquid, sleeveless, with metallic embroidered detailing across the bodice - what exists of it - and a slit up the floor-length chiffon skirt, which gives a great view of the blonde's long, pale legs. She looks like a princess, if Casey's honest. Not like all the other flashy, over-jewelled women Casey has watched striding across the marbled floors on the arm of a man with over-slicked hair. Just... elegant, and classically beautiful.
Casey suddenly feels even more stupid in her clothes that do not feel like they belong to her. Probably because, up until two days ago, they did not.
"Thanks for the insider's tip," she says, absent-mindedly whetting her lips.
"No problem. I've been to enough of these to know it's better to sneak out early."
"Yet you keep coming back?"
The blonde laughs, her wide blue eyes glistening. They really are incredibly blue. Casey has to force herself to look away. "The food is good. And the champagne." The woman pauses. "And occasionally the company."
Something flutters in Casey's chest and she has to look away from the blonde momentarily, feeling her cheeks flame. She's not sure that the blonde is flirting, exactly, but she's unused to the attention all the same. And she really is beautiful.
"Alex," the woman eventually says, leaning across to hold her hand out. Something about her seems vaguely familiar but Casey can't quite figure out why.
"Casey."
They shake hands, and then Alex pats the space beside her on the velvet loveseat. With only a little hesitation, Casey takes a seat. It's so small, she has to sit with her leg flush to Alex's, the contact sending a shiver through her that she hopes the other woman doesn't sense.
Perhaps this party is looking up after all.
"You don't look like the sort of person who comes to these parties usually," Alex comments, narrowing her eyes slightly and dipping her head. For a moment, Casey feels even more self conscious than she had before, until Alex smiles a tiny smile, leaning in, whispering conspiratorially, "are you a spy? Or a gate crasher?"
Casey laughs. She shakes her head, "I'm not sure I was supposed to be invited. I'm hardly the same... calibre as most of the people here."
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way. Just that you don't appear to have a stick in your ass, and I don't recognise you as having a rich mommy and daddy forcing you to be here either."
Casey raises her eyebrows, "and which of those categories do you fit into, Alex?"
She enjoys making her new companion laugh, the way her eyes crinkle, the husky, breathy tone to it. It makes Casey's chest feel warm. She realises it's been a long while since someone laughed with her, not at her.
"Neither... or both. I'm not sure," Alex says, shrugging. As far as Casey's concerned, she doesn't fit into either category. "I think it depends on who you ask."
Mysterious. Casey decides she likes the idea of not knowing anything about this woman, besides her name. Details complicate things, anyway. And she knows things are complicated enough. She's just glad to finally be having some fun. Harmless fun that isn't going to lead anywhere. Which is why she's surprised by Alex's next question.
"You want to get out of here?"
The low tone, the way she raises her eyebrows just slightly, looking at her from beneath her eyelashes, blue eyes suddenly serious... Casey bites her lip. Maybe it isn't so harmless after all.
Then, suddenly, Alex laughs.
"God, my pick up lines aren't usually so... obvious. I didn't mean to be leery. There are enough people like that here. I just suddenly have a craving for pie."
It's Casey's turn to laugh, only she immediately feels self conscious for it. Of all the things she expected this goddess of a woman to come out with... a pie date isn't quite what she expected. She fights the urge to look at the time. She doesn't want to worry about that. Not whilst there might actually be some unexpected joy in this evening after all.
"And where does one get pie at this hour?" She asks, teasing. It's surprising how quickly they've fallen into step, despite the awkwardness of everything. By this point, Casey has usually put her foot in it.
Alex grins, an adorable dimple popping out in her left cheek, "I know a place."
"Full disclosure," Alex says, as they walk outside, their heels click-clacking down the marble steps that lead to the front of the building, "I'm a little drunk. Maybe a little too drunk to drive. Did you leave your car with the valet?"
Casey thinks of her car - an older model sedan that's definitely seen better days - and inwardly shudders at the thought of bringing it to a function like this. It looks out of place in the parking lot of 1PP on the rare days she doesn't cycle in, let alone somewhere like this. Even if she had brought it, she wouldn't have let Alex inside it, not in a million years, the backseat permanently littered with case notes and fast food garbage, the passenger side footwell not always faring much better. Instead, she shakes her head.
"Not to worry - I'll call us a cab," the blonde says, taking a cell phone out of her clutch purse. Now that they're outside, it's obvious to Casey that Alex is tipsy - the way that she's clinging to the banister, how she hasn't even noticed the cold despite her arms coming up in gooseflesh. She begins to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. It seems a little too late to go back now, though.
"How do I know you're not going to take me out to the middle of nowhere, kill me brutally, and dump my body?" Casey asks, though she isn't really concerned.
Alex's eyes glitter as she responds, smirking, "you don't."
The cab arrives in no time at all, and they pile into the back seat, sitting a little closer than is strictly necessary. Close enough that Casey can smell Alex's perfume - something fruity and floral - can hear her breathe. She thinks that they'll sit in silence, but as soon as they're out of the long driveway that leads to the country house, Alex starts talking.
"I'm not usually so impulsive," she announces, her eyes trained on the view outside the window, "I don't usually interrupt people talking to themselves, even if they are a stunningly beautiful woman who I might kick myself for not talking to otherwise."
Casey feels her cheeks flush, deep crimson, but fortunately not visible in the dim light of the taxi cab.
"I also don't usually drink quite so much at these functions. But there were mitigating circumstances."
"Of course," Casey says softly, though she has no idea what Alex is talking about. She can smell the alcohol on her breath now, like maybe the fruity under layer of her perfume is in fact red wine.
"It's ridiculous, really, because I did the breaking-up-with, and we've been rocky for as long as I can remember, but it being over still feels like some great deed that should be commiserated. Mourned, even."
Any lie Casey had been telling herself about this being purely platonic seems redundant now. As thrilling as it feels to be told Alex had sought her out based on attraction, it's also a lead weight in her chest that feels an awful lot like guilt. Casey should have come clean immediately, but now it's too late. They're sharing a taxi together. She can hardly just get out now. She's committed to this mess.
"Sorry, didn't mean to over share," Alex tells her, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, "it's really been a while since I drank so much in such a short space of time. I don't usually get quite such bad verbal diarrhoea," she pauses, grimacing, even with her eyes closed, "I apologise."
"That's okay," Casey tells her, resisting the urge to pat her knee, which is altogether too close to her own, "now, tell me about this pie we're getting."
The diner they end up in doesn't feel like it belongs anywhere near the Hamptons, but they arrive at it in no time at all. The neon sign outside is flickering, but the place is open. Casey is aware of how ridiculous they look, walking into this dive of a diner in ballgowns and high heels, having to hold the hem of her dress underneath her coat to ensure it doesn't get muddy, but Alex seems completely undeterred by the strange looks they're getting as they settle into a corner booth. Perhaps it's the alcohol. Or more likely, she simply doesn't give a fuck. That's the impression Casey is getting from her, anyway.
A waitress comes over, the bored expression on her face unwavering as she takes in their appearances, as if formal attire is entirely appropriate for a place with vinyl covered seats and plastic menus. Her name badge reads Pamela, and her mint uniform has more stains on it than clean patches.
"What'll it be, ladies?" She asks, the stub of a pencil poised over a notepad barely bigger than the size of her palm.
"Coffee?" Alex says, glancing at Casey, who nods, "coffee. A pot of it. And I'll take a slice of cherry pie, with a small dollop of cream."
"Apple," Casey says, glancing down at the menu, "with, uh, pouring cream. Thanks."
"Thank you, Pamela," Alex says, with a smile that could win over even the coldest of hearts, and that makes Casey's pulse just a little quicker.
Once the waitress is gone, Alex leans back against the seat, somehow managing to appear as elegant here as on the velvet chaise lounge she'd been perched on earlier. It's unnerving, how poised and graceful she is, how it doesn't remotely seem like an act. Sometimes Casey has to concentrate just on remembering to sit with her legs closed in a pencil skirt. She doesn't think Alex has ever had to think about how she sits or stands or walks. It seems to come entirely naturally.
"I bet this isn't where you imagined your night ending up?" Alex asks, with a smirk.
Casey shakes her head. She glances around the small restaurant, meets the eyes of an older gentleman at the counter whose stare promptly drops to the sweetheart neckline of her dress, visible underneath her coat, and quickly turns away.
"No, but it is a little more me than the Hamptons is."
Regarding her for a moment, Alex leans forward on her hands, fingers intertwined, elbows on the table. Her eyes narrow a little, but a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
"I'm caught between wanting to know everything about you, and enjoying the mystery," she says, finally.
Casey chuckles awkwardly. "There's really not much to know."
"You're invited to a Cabot Christmas Gala, but you don't come from money - you don't, do you? - and you don't look to me like you work on Wall Street. Your coat is too shabby - no offence - for you to be in any real money. Please, correct me if I'm wrong about any of this. You're smart, though. Too young to be a doctor, unless you're a resident... a student, maybe?"
Casey wrinkles her nose, "I'm not that young."
"Old enough to be allowed out without training wheels... so I imagine you're from one of the organisations invited. First invite, right?"
She nods.
"Probably everybody else at the office talked you into coming, but ditched you once you arrived. That dress looks divine on you, but you don't seem comfortable in it. And you can barely walk in those shoes. Where are you comfortable?"
Any other time and Casey might have been embarrassed by how easily this woman - even in her drunken stupor - was analysing every inch of her, but something about her, though irritatingly beautiful and smart, makes Casey want to know just as much about Alex as the blonde apparently wants to know about her. And the misty look Alex's piercing blue eyes get every so often helps; a look that Casey might have even considered labelling as 'desire', if she believed she was capable of eliciting such a response out of anybody, let alone someone like Alex. It gives her a weird floating feeling inside that she tries not to acknowledge.
"Athletic," Alex finally says, once it's clear Casey isn't going to answer her question, "take off your coat, I want to look at your arms."
Casey laughs, but does as Alex asks her, without really pausing to think why. Alex hums a response - her appreciation, perhaps - and nods her head.
"Yes. Athletic. Maybe not a doctor, then. Doctors don't have much time to work out."
"I don't work out," Casey objects, feeling her face flush red. She knows she has strong arms. Years of playing softball will do that to a person. But she certainly doesn't go to the gym, let alone pump iron. Still, she likes the idea that Alex thinks she does.
She shakes it off.
"Are we done with the 20 questions?" She asks, instead, a teasing smile across her lips showing she's not really annoyed by it.
Alex considers.
"20 questions is sort of what I'm good at, but... I'll make an allowance, I suppose."
"Thank you," Casey says, smiling, and folding her arms against the table. She doesn't bother to put her coat back on - it's warm, and any embarrassment about being seen in such a ridiculous dress has tapered off thanks to Alex's compliments. And maybe those two glasses of champagne have helped.
Alex's hand darts across the table before Casey realises what's happening, fingers softly brushing over her forearm, close to her elbow, her eyebrows knitted into a look of concern. It takes a moment for the movement to process, for the slight tenderness in her arm to make sense, and once it does, it's too late to pull away.
"Who did this to you?" Alex demands.
Casey twists her arm around to look at the bruise, the thin lines of fingers gripping too hard still visible within the greys and purples and yellows of it. She winces.
"My ex."
The lie slips from her mouth before she can think to stop it, and the pool of guilt in her stomach only takes a moment to catch up.
"Did you press charges?"
Casey laughs, hollowly, though inside she's panicking. People don't normally notice. Or if they do, they don't say anything. She's become very good at hiding it. Darn this stupid gala. "No, of course not. It was an accident."
"Do you want to TP their house?" Alex says, after a beat, and her face is entirely serious - angry, even - which just causes Casey to laugh more. Alex's expression turns indignant.
"You've never TPed a house in your life," Casey says, though the swell of affection for this stranger who would be willing to do something so ridiculous for her doesn't quite match her tone, "besides, he lives in an apartment block. Not so easy to TP."
Fortunately, the arrival of their food stops the conversation from going any further than that. Casey is eternally grateful for the disinterested waitress who slides two plates in front of them, the slices of pie absolutely huge, and the cream that goes with almost as big. Between them, the waitress places a huge pot of coffee and two cups. Casey quickly shifts in her seat so her arms aren't visible any longer, and picks up her fork.
The pie really is good.
Something about Alex's expression has changed, her lips fixed into a straight line. She cuts a tiny, delicate piece of pie, and nibbles on it.
Great, Casey thinks, another conversation killed. And she'd thought she might actually get some enjoyment out of the night after all.
"Well, I ought to go," she says, finally, lying her fork down on her plate. She's eaten two mouthfuls of pie - could easily go for another slice, let alone finishing this one - but the awkward air between them is quickly growing unbearable. And the guilt... well, they always say Catholics are better at it than anybody. And she might not be all that good of a Catholic, but she believes it all the same.
"Don't," Alex says, and her tone is soft, but the force behind it isn't. She's used to getting her own way, Casey thinks. She's stubborn enough to leave just out of spite, just to prove she can, and yet... she doesn't move.
"I don't think this was a good idea," she says, instead.
"You don't like the pie?"
Casey frowns. Are they really going to do this? How did she ever think it was a good idea to follow this complete stranger anyway? What exactly did she expect to happen? Alex had admitted from the get-go that her intentions weren't entirely innocent, and she'd changed her story accordingly, getting a rush out of pretending she might actually do something with this woman, even if she knew deep down that she'd never let it go that far. She'd let herself get wrapped up in a fairytale, setting aside her own life as if it wasn't going to come back to haunt her.
"I like the pie fine," Casey tells her.
Alex raises her eyebrows, "oh, so it's me, then."
Casey swallows, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and chewing for a moment whilst contemplating her answer. She watches Alex's gaze drop to her mouth, then back up again. That swimming feeling in her stomach is back, two-fold.
"No," she says, evenly, sounding every bit the young lawyer that she is, though inexperienced enough to know she might not quite have the follow through. "I just... don't know what it is we're doing here, Alex."
Alex shrugs her shoulders, the movement every bit as graceful as anything else she's ever done. "We're having some pie. That's all."
The tension between them makes it abundantly clear that that is not all. Alex's icy blue eyes fix on hers, and Casey realises she couldn't look away even if she wanted to, sucked unwillingly into her hardened gaze. She swallows again, feeling self conscious, not used to being under such close scrutiny. Charlie never looks at you like that. The thought is there before she can force it away, and she immediately knows it to be true. He hasn't looked at her with the mix of tenderness and desire that she sees in Alex's eyes for a long, long time.
Casey blinks the thought away, her throat suddenly dry, a sick feeling creeping through her. Slowly, she retrieves her fork, and cuts off another square of pie, lifting it to her mouth, knowing Alex is watching her even now she can't see her eyes.
"I'm sorry if I've made you feel uncomfortable," Alex says after a long silence has drawn out between them, the only sound Casey's fork scratching along a well-worn plate, "I really shouldn't be let loose on champagne. I promise this isn't what I'm like usually. You'd... ah, you'd laugh if you knew the irony in it. You should go if you want to."
Staring at her for a moment, Casey tries to weigh up the options. She really isn't sure which decision she'll make until she feels herself shaking her head.
"No. It's fine. I'll stay."