Author's Note: I hope there are still Vauseman fans out there who want to read AU stories about Alex and Piper! I've been writing this story off and on for about a year. I plan to post regularly, though not daily, as I wrap this story up. Thanks to my beta, IrishViking20! Hope you enjoy.

This is stupid.

The car ride is stupid, the reason I'm riding with my dad is stupid and where I'm going is stupid. Every bump we hit on the road serves to remind me how stupid this is and agitates me that much more.

I haven't looked at him for the duration of our car ride; instead, I twist my earbuds deeper and sit with my knee bent and foot balanced on the seat, head leaning against the car window. I wonder if he's intentionally hitting potholes just to make my skull bounce against the glass. It hurts, but I don't give him the satisfaction of adjusting my posture until he parks the car.

He turns off the engine. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No." I pause my music in the middle of Bad at Love. "What floor is this place on?"

"Fifth. Check in with the receptionist when you get off the elevator." He opens the car door. "Meet me in my office when you're done."

I grab my bag and exit the car without confirming his plan.

There aren't many high rise buildings in Darien—most people who live here take the train into Manhattan for work; however, my father quit his cushy New York job a few years ago to work in one of the three high-rises in Darien doing the same boring ass utility infrastructure work. I've been to his office a handful of times, and the sterile environment confirms what I long ago suspected: I could never work in corporate America.

We enter the elevator, and before he gets out on the third floor, he touches my shoulder. "Good luck, Piper."

I refrain from rolling my eyes, instead giving him a polite nod.

The bell chimes, indicating I've reached the fifth floor, which looks nothing like my dad's office space. The wall behind the receptionist's desk is covered from top to bottom with a variety of plants and flowers and a stone fountain is mounted on the opposite wall. To my right, there's a white leather sofa and two matching chairs separated by a tall, potted fiddlehead fern.

The young redheaded receptionist greets me. "Good afternoon, may I help you?"

I pop one earbud out. "My name is Piper Chapman. I'm here for an appointment."

"Welcome. We're glad you're here, Piper. If you wouldn't mind reading and signing these two forms, that would be fantastic." She hands me a clipboard. "Have a seat, and someone will be with you in a few minutes."

I sit on the sofa, scanning the confidentiality statement and patient consent form that my father has already signed, then scribble my signature. The woman in the armchair next to me is wearing a beige business suit, and I wonder if she's a patient, too. I scroll through my phone, trying to find an appropriate song to play for the setting I'm in, but the soft, meditative music wafting from a speaker in the ceiling coupled with the sound of the fountain is kind of nice.

A man opens the door and smiles when he spots the woman in the suit. "So good to see you again." She returns his smile and follows him to through the door. I wonder if they aren't supposed to use names of patients in the presence of others.

I direct my attention back to the receptionist and hold the clipboard up. "Do I give this to you?"

Before she answers, the door swings open again. "Hi." A tall, dark haired woman in glasses greets me with a thinner smile than the man who was in her place seconds ago. "How's it going?"

I hook my bag over one shoulder. "I've had better days."

"I might be able to help with that." She holds the door open, and I admire her crisp white blouse and tailored skirt.

I follow her past two doors, and she points to the third one. "We're in here."

The space is just as serene as the lobby and looks more like a small living room than an office. There are two large chairs, one with a blue blanket draped over the corner, and a small gray sofa next to a basket of throw pillows. The only light in the room comes from the bay window that takes up most of the wall and a lamp with an Edison bulb on an uncluttered modern desk.

I glance from the chairs to the sofa. "Where should I sit?"

"Wherever you'd like."

I hand her the clipboard, drop my bag on the oriental rug and then perch on the edge of the sofa.

"Thanks for these forms." She closes the door, then faces me again. "I'm Alex Vause. I'll be working with you over the next eight weeks."

"Seven," I reply.

She creases her brow.

"I went to a session in Camden already," I announce as if she's missing some pertinent information.

She flips to the second form on the clipboard. "I'm sorry to say that won't count."

There must be some kind of mistake. "What?"

"Your plan states that you have to attend eight consecutive sessions with the same therapist." She leans against her desk, and I'm drawn to her long legs and shiny patent leather heels. "So your session in Camden didn't count."

I let out a light huff.

She sets the clipboard down. "Why'd you decide to come here instead of continuing with the therapist there?"

I consider avoiding a response, but there's something about the way she's looking at me that makes me want to be truthful. "The therapist seemed pervy."

Her lips quirk to the side as she seemingly tries to conceal a smile. "I think you'll be comfortable here."

I tilt my head. "Are you saying you're not pervy?"

Her barely-there smile turns into a smirk as she wraps a finger and thumb around her eyeglasses. "We should start with introductions."

"You already told me your name," I state. "And I assume you know mine as well as the reason I'm here."

"I do." She moves to the contoured chair next to me. "But what I read about you and your situation is more clinical in nature. I'm hoping you're willing to share why you're here in your own words."

"Why are you so fucking late?" Polly draped an arm around me while the other hand was occupied with a can of beer. "I'm on my second Coors."

I glanced around the yard, looking for adults or anyone who might rat us out. "I had second thoughts about getting the stuff."

She opened my bag and pulled out a bottle of vodka. "We made a pact with the rest of the gang—everybody has to contribute. Tonight was your turn."

"What if I get caught?"

"You're not going to get caught, Piper. This is our fifth party, and no one's gotten busted so far. You're so uptight," Polly sighed. "Aren't you the one who tells me we should live a little? We're about to graduate from high school—now's the time."

I tried to allow her reasoning to sink in as I pulled out a Ziploc bag with four joints. "Take this."

She grabbed it, holding it up for the other kids gathered near the porch swing to see. "Look what Piper brought!"

"Score!" Blake, the host of the party, jogged over. "I want one."

"We should probably wait until it gets darker or something." I swallowed hard. "Or until your parents go to sleep."

"They're not home," he stated proudly and reached into the Ziploc bag. "Rules are rules—I'm hosting the party, so I get a joint."

"Since when are those the rules?" I questioned as I watched Polly dump half the vodka into a gallon of fruit punch.

He shrugged. "Since I made them the rules."

I shoved the other three joints back into my purse. I'd never smoked pot, and I didn't intend for that to be the first time. Besides, I had a big track meet the following morning.

Polly approached me with the now half-empty bottle of Tito's. "Put this back in your bag." Instead of waiting for my reply, she shoved it into my purse. "Larry's on his way."

"Fuck Larry." Just the mention of my ex-boyfriend's name made me want a drink. I grabbed a red Solo cup and allowed Polly to fill it with the spiked fruit punch.

She finished the last sip of her beer, tossing the can into the recycle bin. "He's still pining over you, you know."

"He can pine all he wants." I took a sip, blanching at the potency of the cocktail.

Polly held up her cup. "To finding Mr. Right."

I didn't say it aloud, but I thought about correcting her—Ms. Right. I'd only brought up the topic once with Polly, and she dismissed my sexual curiosity with something like 'aren't we all supposed to go through an experimental stage in our teenage years?'

The gate swung open and I thought my toughest chore that night would be warding off Larry's advances, but instead of my ex walking into the backyard, two men in uniform scanned the crowd.

"Whose property is this?" One of the men asked.

I watched Blake slowly raise his hand. "Uh, mine."

"Where are your parents, son?"

"They're, um, out of town."

I stood there motionless, wondering how I could toss my drink without the policemen seeing me. I even looked for a way out of the fenced yard, but I was trapped like a caged animal.

"Looks like a party," the other officer stated, lifting the gallon of spiked fruit punch. "Are you all 21-years-old?" He looked at each of us. "I'm guessing not." He set the plastic container down and picked up a six pack of beer. "Is this from your parent's house, or did one of your guests bring it?"

"A guest," Blake replied, and before I knew it, he pointed to me. "It was Piper."

"Did you purchase this alcohol young lady?"

"I…um…I didn't bring the beer—that was here when I arrived." I could feel sweat prickling on my forehead. "I didn't technically buy the vodka…"

"Oh, we're talking technicalities here, are we?" He walked over to my purse and picked it up. "This yours?"

"Uhhh…" There was no use denying it as he was already pulling out my wallet.

He handed my wallet to the other officer. "And this, I assume, is the vodka that you didn't 'technically' purchase?"

"I borrowed it from my parents," I confessed, now feeling my legs wobble beneath me. "It's not like I have a fake ID or anything."

He turned to his partner. "Mike, you locate an ID on this girl?"

He held my driver's license up and read, "Piper Chapman. Looks like you're going to celebrate your 18th birthday soon. Too bad it's not your 22nd birthday; then this would've probably turned out just fine for you…except for the distributing to minors part."

Something between a whimper and a moan escaped my mouth.

One of the officers said, "I don't see a fake ID."

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" He sniffed the plastic bag before opening it. "You like to toke up, Ms. Chapman?"

"Those aren't for me." I took a step forward. "I don't smoke pot."

"Yet they're in your purse."

"I bought them for my friends, I swear." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I'm the captain of the track team, and I have a meet tomorrow. I wouldn't do something stupid like that."

"But you'd do something stupid like steal your parent's vodka, buy a few joints and drink this spiked, fruity concoction here?"

"I…" My head was spinning, and I felt weak. "I'm sorry…"

"Sorry's not going to cut it, Ms. Chapman."

"Please don't take me to jail," I pleaded as they escorted me to the front lawn. "Please. I'm begging you."

"Don't worry, you're not going alone. All your friends will be there with you," he laughed. "It'll be one, big party only this time, behind bars."

I lean against the sofa cushion. "I'm sure whatever you read in your report just about covers it."

"All I know is you were sent here as part of a deal in a drug and alcohol case." She crosses her legs. "And that you're required to go through eight drug and alcohol counseling sessions."

"I don't have a drinking problem if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking that."

I fold my arms. "Or a drug problem."

"I wasn't thinking that either."

I stare at her for a moment, trying to read her. I'm usually pretty good at judging a person's character, but this one is tough. "How old are you?"

Almost imperceptibly, she juts her chin back. "Why is that important for you to know?"

"I'm just making conversation." I shrug. "I read that developing a relationship with a therapist can be conducive to a client's personal growth."

Her lips tick up just a bit. "Almost 30. You?"

"Almost 18." I bend my knee, resting my ankle on the opposite leg. "Are you a psychologist?"

"I'm a behavioral counselor with a focus on substance abuse," she states as if she's explained her job a thousand times.

"So, you're not a doctor?"

"I'm not." She clicks a pen. "I finished my master's in December and am working on getting licensed."

I lean forward. "So, you're like a therapist in training?"

"I prefer the term counselor, but yes."

"Then they must not be taking my case too seriously," I reply, leaning back again and feeling a little more at ease.

She lets out a soft laugh. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I shrug. "If they were really trying to educate or scare me, they'd have assigned me to a licensed therapist or a psychologist."

"I'm not sure how you think this works, Piper." It's her turn to lean forward. "But you broke the law, and instead of spending time in jail, you get to meet with me to sort through some stuff. You can try using avoidance tactics all you want, but you're required to be here." She sits back, stringing an arm over the back of the chair. "If you're smart, and I believe you are, you'd use our time wisely—productively—instead of trying to distract me."

Judging by her posture, Alex thinks she has the upper hand.

I maintain eye contact. "I don't need a therapist on training wheels to tell me how to be a good girl."

"Fine." She stands, running her hands down her thighs and effectively straightening the creases in her skirt. "You can sit here in silence for the next hour. I won't force you to talk." She moves behind the desk and shuffles a few papers. "It'll give me time to get some work done."

"Fine." I pick up a Psychology Today magazine from the side table and flip aimlessly through it, pissed that she does have the upper hand. I didn't realize I had the choice of not participating in these mandated substance abuse sessions, and now that I know I do, it bothers me even more.

"What's your story?" I ask, head buried in the magazine.

"My story?"

I nod, hoping she's looking my way.

"I don't have a story," she says through a chuckle.

"Everyone has a story." I glance at her over the top of the magazine as she bites her inner cheek like she's contemplating how to respond.

"I'll share some information about myself with you, but you have to do the same." She pauses. "And they have to be more than one-word responses."

I consider her offer for a moment. "Alright. Deal."

She moves back to the chair she was sitting in a moment ago. "I decided to build a career on substance abuse counseling after a stint in the drug world that nearly got me killed."

I didn't expect such a response, but judging from the serious look on her face, I believe she's telling the truth.

"I worked for an international drug cartel until I literally watched my friend's head get blown off because of the job." She blinks a few times before continuing. "So, Piper, what's your story?"

I gulp, not knowing exactly how to respond.

"I'm not your average counselor," she states. "I lived a luxurious, lucrative life before turning things around, and if I can help other people figure their shit out, it makes me feel a little…redemptive."

Her stare penetrates through me, and I worry if I don't look away, I'll morph into exactly the kind of person I don't want to be, gushing about how much my privileged life sucks. I try to come up with a proper response, but I get distracted when I notice the top three buttons of her starched blouse are undone.

"I've never smoked pot and don't intend to," I manage to eek out. "And I've had a few beers or drinks at house parties—nothing enough to get me drunk."

"What happened that night at the party?"

"It was my turn to bring alcohol and a few joints." I shrug. "I never thought it would turn into this."

"Do you regret it?"

I conceal a snort. "Of course, I regret it. Who wouldn't?"

"A lot of people, I think."

"I made one, stupid, irresponsible mistake," I say. "And this is the punishment I get."

"Try not to see it as punishment," she responds. "Think of it as an opportunity to talk to an unbiased source about the stress of growing up in the modern world." She tosses the throw pillow that was behind her onto the other chair. "I wish I would've had someone to talk to at your age."

"Don't…Please don't do that—the whole let me empathize with you shtick."

"It's not a 'shtick'," she says in a solemn tone. "My job is to help you understand what drugs and alcohol can do to a person. I'm sure you get that, but I'm not the one who required you to be here, so cut me a little slack."

I consider her words, and while they're true, right now I blame Alex for my having to talk to a therapist. It's not fair to her, but it's the reality of how I feel.

"Did you go to jail?" I ask out of nowhere.

She raises her eyebrows. "I did."

That frightens me, but I try not to let it show. "For how long?"

"Long enough to realize how badly I'd fucked up my life."

I'm taken aback by her word choice.

"And long enough to get a few regrettable tattoos," she finishes.

I smile, grateful for the levity.

"How often do you drink?"

"I don't know…" I lift my shoulders. "When I'm at a party, which is pretty much every weekend."

"Do you think about drinking?"

I shake my head. "Not unless I'm in the moment, deciding if I want to have a beer or whatever else is being served."

She nudges her glasses up her nose. "What about drugs?"

"I already told you." I pull the pillow onto my lap. "I've never done drugs."

"Why'd you buy pot for your friends?"

I shrug again. "It was my turn."

Alex rests her elbows on her knees. "You take turns getting supplies?"

I don't look her in the eye.

"I'll take that as a yes." She lets out a small breath. "It's my understanding you didn't have a fake ID on you."

This time, I do meet her eyes. "I don't have one."

"Then how did you get the vodka and the pot?"

"I signed a confidentiality form," I reply instead of answering her question. "Whatever I say in this room stays between us, right?"

She nods. "The only time I'm required to report anything you say is if you intend to harm yourself or others."

"I'm not going to do that," I chuckle.

She issues a tiny smile. "Good."

"I took the vodka from my parent's house, and I got the pot from my brother's room," I confess.

She lifts her brows. "Do your parents know this?"

"They know about the vodka." I shift in my seat. "I told them I got the joints from some guy on the street."

"To protect your brother?"

I nod, feeling sheepish all of a sudden.

"How old is he?"

"He just turned 15." I look anywhere but at Alex. "He's not a bad kid—he just occasionally smokes to help with anxiety."

She slowly sits back. "He's a minor."

"But you can't tell anyone about this," I quickly respond. "You just told me that."

"I'm not going to tell anyone." She holds up a hand. "Does he know you stole it from him?"

"We didn't talk about it specifically, but I'm sure he noticed four joints were missing from his dresser."

"You should probably have a conversation with him about what you did and why it's wrong," she comments. "You do understand it's wrong?"

"Yeah."

"If you don't talk with your brother, he might be headed down a dangerous path." She folds the cuff on her shirt. "I'm sure you'd want to protect him from that just as much as you'd want to protect him from your parents' wrath."

I nod.

She glances at the clock on the wall. "Looks like our time is up."

I follow her gaze, noticing it's a couple minutes before five o'clock. "Oh."

Alex walks towards the door. "I hope I wasn't too much of a perv, and you'll come back next week."

"Actually…" I toss my bag over a shoulder and then move in front of her. "You weren't pervy enough."

That causes her to smile, and as it turns out, Alex has a perfect smile.