Title: It Takes Two
Author: Ink Cat
Rating: T, for language, but it's not too bad at all.
Summary: A bored sex crimes detective is forced to attend the Manhattan Law-Enforcement Gala, but finds that maybe the evening won't be as dull as expected. AJ.
Author's Notes: Yes, the Gala is made up, and yes, I will be continuing and yes, I understand that it is somewhat OOC for Alex and John to know how to dance so well. Honestly, I don't really care, and neither, I expect, do you! This was originally supposed to be a long one-shot, but I think my brother fed it toxic waste while I wasn't looking and it morphed into this massive creature-thing. I've decided to split it up for your convenience. I hadn't finished the end, but I decided to just post it since it irritated the heck out of me just living in my Fanfiction folder. Except now I've decided to end it differently and stretch it out and it's turning out to be more effort than was planned... Anyway, review (please, please) and enjoy. Please forgive any incorrect spacing in the above section and throughout the fic, if you find any. I've changed it a million times and it still won't stick... Grr.
Disclaimer: I don't own SVU. -sob-
It was going to be one hell of an evening.
Munch entered the large room reluctantly, trailing behind the other detectives. Elliot had an arm around Kathy's waist. She looked good, Munch thought, for someone who had had four children. Olivia had a hand on her date's shoulder and was tilting her head towards him to catch some murmured remark. She glanced back at John, then at her date again. She asked her date something (he didn't catch what, exactly) and looked away in dismissal at his answer. Screw you too, jackass, thought the already irritated detective, I don't like you either. He was some hotshot photographer out of Seattle . John knew that Olivia wouldn't keep him around much longer. Munch had caught the hard glint in her eye when her date had as much as said (buried under niceties and euphemisms) that a woman's place was in the kitchen, not on the streets. Munch knew that he'd be out like tomorrow morning's trash, but for now Olivia needed him, for aesthetic purposes at least.
He groaned inwardly as he saw all of the people that he would have to socialize with. It was, unfortunately for the uneager John, the annual Manhattan Law-Enforcement Gala. Every officer, prosecutor, and criminalist from the area was there. John's worst nightmare, but the highlight of some peoples' social lives. Needless to say, Munch did not enjoy mixing and mingling, and he wasn't much fonder of asinine small talk.
At least they were seated by squad. A small blessing, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He took a seat at their table. It was a little one, but near two the open terrace where many of the guests milled. He saw Doctor Warner a little ways away, husband in tow. Even Huang had a date, a thin Asian woman with high cheekbones, horn-rimmed glasses, and piercingly sultry eyes. How in the hell…? John wondered, and then reconsidered. The man was a psychiatrist. He probably knew all the right things to say. Munch smirked inwardly. He had never really thought of the doctor as a ladies man.
The others had dispersed. Olivia and her date (What was his name? Michael Filter? No, Michael Philips) were making polite conversation with Benny Randall from the two-three, and he spotted Elliot and Kathy sitting at the bar near Morales, the CSU tech. He was looking a bit worse for wear, and a little sloshed already; his eyes had a hint of a glassy sheen, his tie was loosened and he was hiccupping softly. Cragen was with a group of his old friends, trying to dissuade one of the ladies who seemed very intent on pulling him out toabench.He wished the Captain luck with that; as it was, he would still probably enjoy himself more than John would. Fin was nowhere to be seen. He had told his partner that there would be hell to pay if he didn't show, but that was Fin for you. Munch envied his blatant disregard for internal politics, but didn't dare try to replicate it. Fin could always get out of tight spaces, whereas experience had shown Munch that he was more likely to be squished like a bug.
The mayor called everyone back to their seats, talked about how important they all were to keeping the city safe, yada, yada, yada. If you really cared about keeping the city safe, you wouldn't have called us all here, John thought. New Yorkers knew that the night of the Gala was the single most dangerous night of the year (with Halloween second, for obvious reasons). Every aspiring criminal learned early: all cops (except for the minimum number that could possibly be on duty; the working officers list was changed every year) would be busy finessing the boss, a.k.a. kissing ass. The perfect time to commit crimes, with the NYPD understaffed and overrun.
But for now, John was trying to concentrate just on surviving. He saw the looks that he was getting from the others. Poor John, no date, he must be so embarrassed. No, he wasn't embarrassed, though he was considering following Morales's lead and getting completely foxed. The mayor stepped down, to polite applause by most, loud applause by a few, and no applause by even less. Ever smart cop knew that it was career suicide to get on the wrong side of the head honchos. Then again, mused John, there were more than a few police officers on the force who were a few fries short of a happy meal.
As his remaining tablemates chatted about the weather (What was up with that rain yesterday?) and other painfully casual topics (So how old were the Stabler children, exactly?). John examined the other tables, noting familiar faces. The chatter of voices around him merged into a hum. Munch studied the rise and fall of noise, head panning slowly from side to side as he did so. Everything seemed pretty normal, and despite the fact that they were all dressed in formal wear, they still all looked like cops, like lawyers, like scientists.
Except for maybe her. John studied the woman at the other side of the hall. While everyone else was sitting and making small talk she was standing, looking around as if searching for someone. She was lovely, tall and thin with ivory skin and the grace of a dancer. Her face was turned away, though the detective noted the ash blonde hair twisted into an intricate knot atop the woman's head and secured with a pair of black hair combs. There were gardenias in her hair too; the pale flowers nestled atop the crown of her head. Her dress was beautiful in its simplicity. A fitted bodice gave way to a loose, straight skirt that accented the long lines of her body. The black silk was smooth and elegant and had touches of lace at the neckline and waist. There was a thin silver chain around her neck, so fine as to look almost like thread, with a single tiny teardrop-shaped diamond resting between her collarbones.
She was probably some rich socialite's young trophy wife, he decided. But then she turned. A shock ran through the detective. He recognized those high cheekbones, the thin nose, the ice-blue eyes. It was Alexandra Cabot, ADA .
A/N: -exaggerated voice- What will Alex do? Will John survive the evening? And why in the hell is Petrovsky wearing that horrible dress? Find out next time on 'It Takes Two' -snickers- Don't you hate it when people end chapters like that? Anyway, please review. Next chapter is actually DONE (-gasp-). But I'll let you suffer a while... lol. No, really, I'm building theatric suspense! I'll only wait a day or so, though, most likely. If you review I might post sooner... hint, hint.