1. Mixed signals


AN: Just a little something before S4. (First person perspective is Piper's) Enjoy!

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Did I even have the right key?

I've been struggling to jam my supposed key into the lock of my apartment front door for the last half hour. No matter what angle I was twisting it into - it just wouldn't go in. I briefly contemplate just sagging against the front door and spending my night right here on the floor.

It serves me right for not being able to say no when Tom the bartender - at the behest of my overzealous friend, Polly Harper - had kept insisting I should have one more margarita. Each drink offered had seemed like a better and better idea. There had been a sliver of sober brain at the time that had made a flimsy attempt in reminding me this was how axe murderers always made their first move: get the silly lonesome woman lamenting her first world problems, well and truly drunk before luring her back into their lairs.

But I hadn't cared.

I've just worked close to a fifty hour week and and I - more than anyone, deserved to forget about life's issues for just one night, even if that included neglecting important things like stranger danger. Plus Tom had nice blue eyes, and surely serial killers didn't have smouldering eyes that looked they wanted to bed me or told lame jokes that had me laughing way way too loudly at them.

Anyway, so I now found myself locked out of my front door and inadvertently reenacting the life of a homeless person. Just to give you a flavour of how well my night had gone; I couldn't even remember the journey home let alone stand up straight, that's how close to catatonic I was at the moment.

"Fuck fuck fuck."

It was maybe three-ish in the morning and my thirty year old body was reminding me just so. Every joint possible was aching and it felt as though someone had hurled me into a well of treacle and left me there to fester. And don't mention the humongous bruise over my upper arm already beginning to show its face - I silently curse Polly - she had an annoying predilection of delivering over-enthusiastic fist thumps whenever she overstepped her limit of three drinks.

It hadn't even been more than a few hours since I got here, and already felt as though I was beginning my slow descent into a fully blown hangover. I probably looked like death warmed over, even worse when I had to be up at eight the next morning - which implied that I should be asleep in the first place, something which wasn't going to be happening any time soon as I pitifully stared at my house-key.

My phone starts ringing. I stupidly realise I could have just rang Polly and asked her nicely whether I could crash at hers for the night. It was infinitely better than resting my head against the grimy wooden hallway floor of the apartment complex I lived in. God knew what kind of bodily fluids had dried up here. I fish my phone out of my handbag and was about to answer when the display suddenly dies, together with my Florence & The Machine's Take Care ringtone.

I hiss out my fourth fuck of the night.

The battery had gone and apparently so had my patience and general giving a fuck about things. I pull myself upright, which is no mean feat in itself. I precariously sway for a second or so before making a beeline for the stair bannister, thankfully correcting my centre of gravity and grab onto my dress which for some reason kept sliding down at the front despite it being a halter neck. I didn't have that much cleavage to start off with but through the course of the night it had transformed itself into the most low-lying dress ever. I had complained to Polly about this who had just insisted there was a definite correlation between degree of lowlying-ness and the probability of getting laid.

That hadn't happened.

And if there was any truth in that - my dress would have to be around my knees before anyone considered making that theory come true.

I make a brief plan of scaling back downstairs and hailing a cab to Polly's. If I went now, I would at least get a few hours of restful sleep.

I'm halfway across the hallway when my foot catches against something. One minute I'm walking in a semi-straight line, the next I have taken flight and veer forwards, hurtling through the air before landing in a sorry heap a few metres away. I'm too busy swearing all kinds of profanity to even realise my right arm is throbbing like an absolute bitch and have apparently also lost one heel in the midst of my spectacular fall. I glance back and spot the culprit; a pile of trash stacked so high, it really could have been given its own zip code.

Lo and behold it just had to be the trash belonging to number forty-three. It just had to be hers.

Alex Vause.

I momentarily forget about my lost heel or even the searing pain that was currently traversing through the entirety of my arm and instead focus all of my drunken anger at her door. Trust her to leave this fucking rubbish outside her door, like she owned the place and couldn't even be bothered to walk the few extra metres toward the trash chute. It took a certain measured arrogance to be so blasé and unbothered.

All I knew about her - Alex Vause - was that she had recently moved into the complex and had a penchant for revving her stupid, annoying motorbike at at even more stupid o'clock, had the local pizza express on speed dial and was so inclined to piss me off at every given opportunity that we saw each other, it was of no surprise the rapid decline of my night, somehow had to involve her.

It didn't help we were practically neighbours, made even worse was we left the apartment around the same time each morning which meant I had to endure many elevator rides with her. I think I may have imagined it but those elevator rides took at least twice as long to reach the ground and felt about three times more confined every time we caught one together. It's her snarky comments that always set my teeth on edge - which wasn't doing a whole load of good for my jaw muscles. At this rate I needed to start taking pre-emptive Tylenols whenever I knew I was going to bump into Alex.

I think my great dislike for her stemmed from that one time she rather loudly pointed out the piece of salad stuck between my teeth. I mean, I know according to unwritten social rules I'm supposed to thank her, but she lost that privilege when she declared this in front of Ben, the guy who I've already married in my imagination, and lived a few doors down from us.

Thankfully, she worked for some fancy-ass advertising company which must have its perks because she was forever travelling to and fro the airport but meant for me I hardly got to see her.

I now stared hard at the door, debating.

I was in the process of sliding a passive-aggressive note under her door, when it suddenly swings open.

"It's a bit early for postal deliveries, don't you think?"

We both simultaneously glance at the scrap paper scribbled with my awful shorthand made worse by my drunken state.

I'm still recovering from shocked surprise when Alex locks eyes with me. "A personalised letter?" She smirks just as she picks it up. "How sweet. You know I was just speaking to my mom the other day and we were talking about how it's about time old-fashioned letter writing should make its comeback."

"You shouldn't leave your trash out there in the open." I blurted out shamelessly. We both don't seem to address that this is the first conversation we've had over the last few months that consisted of more than three words.

"You woke up especially to write me a note, telling me this? You couldn't wait until the morning?"

I don't answer but instead resign myself to watching her briefly skimread my now realised, ill-thought out method of retribution. She continued heedlessly, "And here I thought you wrote me a love poem. How disappointing."

Alex's eyes narrowed dangerously, piercing me through and through with their gaze. I realise I have never been this close in proximity to her, and it strikes me she's actually not bad looking, maybe even easy on the eye. But that's besides the point, because right now I needed to stand my ground and act all indignant. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? I could have been seriously injured…this is a public hazard! You can't just leave this stuff lying around!"

In her typical I don't give a fuck fashion she responds with something that just serves to wound me up, "Death by leftover pizza and empty beer cans. What a way to go though, don't you think?"

She cuts me off just as I start flinging an angry retort. "But that's a very thoughtful letter and I'll be sure to take more careful notice of my trash disposal habits next time."

"Good!' God I sounded like a fucking petulant child, add to that, her unfailing smirk was doing its usual job of heating up my temper. She roves me up and down, and it feels like she's disrobing me layer by layer with her eyes. I wasn't wearing anything that substantial to start off with and it suddenly reminds me of my low cut top. Ergh, I felt so exposed. "Rough night?" She cuts through my thoughts.

My hair must look like someone had swung me full into a tumble dryer and had forgotten to switch it off and my face felt like it was melting into an unrecognisable mess of congealed make up and sweat. Rough didn't do my current appearance the slightest bit of justice.

"That's none of your business."

"Well it looks like at least one of us has had a good night."

"What?"

She crosses her arms across her chest, the movement causing me to focus on the artistic flower tattooed across her triceps, the petals swaying under her flexing muscles. I was so transfixed on this, I nearly miss the haughty grin she throws me. Ergh. I want to vomit and blush in dual measures.

"I mean…I just watched the season finale of House of Cards and it turns out Frank Underwood is exactly the conniving asshole I thought he was all along."

I have no idea what's she talking about but I figured it was better than her usual repertoire of humiliating me so I didn't really mind.

"That's too bad."

"Thanks for understanding."

"Hang on." I shake my head. "Why are you even awake at this time?"

"Six cups of coffee with a splash of whiskey in each, and about a dozen episode cliffhangers."

"I suppose having to get up early tomorrow doesn't motivate you to sleep?"

Alex's lips quivered into a smile, "And what would you know about my daily work routine, huh?" She suddenly leans toward me, making a show of looking past my shoulders and inspecting the hallway behind me. "Unless you're spying on me and tonight happens to be the night I caught you in the midst of your little reconnaissance?"

"Maybe it's you that's spying on me."

None of what I just said made any sense. I really needed to work on my comebacks.

Alex seems to agree because she throws her head back and laughs, she tilts forwards again, and I briefly catch her scent; a mix of coffee and cigarettes. Maybe it's because I'm completely drunk or maybe it's the fact that Alex was wearing a way way too tight tank top that I'm pretty sure I have never seen before, and I'm also highly certain she's braless, but my eyes keep finding themselves looking a little too southwards one too many times.

"I'm spying on you? Because nothing screams creepy when someone leaves strange letters in the dead of the night and then accuses said personof spying."

I collect the remnants of dignity scattered around me and adopt my most offended voice. "I'm not creepy." (Like I said - I was in dire need of practicing my comebacks)

"I'm trying to decide whether I should be worried or flattered to have my own personal stalker."

"I'm not a stalker and I'm definitely not some weird creep!" And off I went, climbing aboard the Piper-temper train, next stop: you'll wish you'd never messed with me. "I fell over your fucking trash - that you always leave for weeks and weeks - and I thought, before some other poor person suffers the same, I'd ask you kindly to move it! Be it verbally or in the fucking written form!"

Alex arches her eyebrows, patiently waiting for me to finish my less than uncouth outburst. She had that effect on me. Always unhinging me with her unbothered responses. I've scarcely drawn in a breath before she steps back and fully opens the door. "When you're done...I'm about to start season three, I've got a bottle of whiskey I need to finish and it looks like you might need some. What do you say?"

Incredulous, I furrow my brows, "Let's say in a hypothetical scenario I said yes. What makes you think I'm going to step into your apartment, forego any sleep and watch a show I've never heard of in the middle of the night... least of all with you?"

"I'll have to take that as a no then."

We stand there - just staring at each other. Well it was me that was dumbly staring, Alex was mostly just laughing at my expense. What at, I'm not entirely sure. Like I said - she likes to fuck around with me, and I'm stupid enough to grab the bait every time; hook, line and sinker. You'd have thought after such fruitful experiences I would have learned my lesson by now.

"Well I could stand here all night but I've got a cliffhanger to see through and a few glasses of whiskey to down."

Alex's already beginning to close the door when I suddenly blurt out, "I'm locked out of my apartment."

I don't exactly know what possessed me to reveal that predicament but I pretend to not hone in on the fact that somewhere beneath all those disparaging remarks, I actually think she's nice. And I hastily quash down the last traces of disappointment I felt when I realised I may not see her again for what would probably be at least a couple of weeks.

"Well that's unfortunate."

My face is burning but I force my eyes to maintain eye contact. Thankfully she saves me any further embarrassment when she strides past me. "Do you have your keys?" Her hands are already outstretched, waiting. I place them in her palms before adding, "They're not working though. I don't know why and believe me I've tried about a thousand times."

She inspects the keys, and without any preamble, selects one and pushes it into my door. To my utmost surprise it swings open with ease.

"How?!" I retort dumbly.

"It helps a great deal when you don't use your car-keys to open the door As far as I know Ford haven't yet manufactured keys for apartment doors."

She probably thinks I'm hardly a cut above a female version of Mr Bean, and these kind of things were not helping my cause in any shape or form.

"Give me that!"

Alex just chuckles and damn her to hell and beyond for making it sound like some seductive throaty laugh. I suspect she's doing it on purpose, like she always does.

"Well aren't you going to invite me in as a token of thanks?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

She goes in anyway.

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"Quite a cosy thing you've got going on here." Alex comments when she steps into my lounge.

"You do know you're trespassing?" I shout after her in vain.

I know, I know. I sound ungrateful, but I feel like I may succumb to my drunken tendency of becoming touchy-feely - especially when Alex is wearing not only a ridiculously tight tank-top but also those grey college sweatpants that are super comfortable to wear and are supposed to be everything but enticing-looking, but damn her - it did the exact opposite. Alex looked like she'd stepped straight out of an indie-alternative cover, whereas I looked like a homeless cat left to forage in the cold rain. Life was just unfair.

I could see a saltshaker tattoo peeking between her top straps, making me wonder whether she had anymore tattoos hidden from away from sight.

(As you can see, I ask myself all of life's very important questions.)

"You like the view?"

My eyes guilty shoot up from their fix on her ass and it feels as though my heart just fast-forwarded itself several beats. A rising blush sweeps across my face and I'm already stammering for an explanation. Luckily, she's pointing at my windows. Relieved, I realised she's referring to the view of the city; all high rises and flashing lights. "Uh yeah."

"What did you think I meant?" Alex asks cockily, a salacious grin tugging at her cheeks.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I've got more that are not for public consumption. I'll show you them to you if you show me yours." She proceeds to throw me a wink just as I suddenly wished for my apartment floor to collapse from underneath me and deliver me to the next level down.

Alex does this a lot. Well we do this a lot. Ever since she moved in a few doors down from me, we've been participating in a strange, yet mutual accepted dance of flirtation and general dislike for each other. It was a double edged sword that to my utter denial was somehow quite deliciously dangerous. But was I going to admit to that much less show her? No fucking way. She had enough of an upper hand as it was already.

Alex picks off a book from my shelf and saunters to the kitchen island, pulling a chair out and straddling it. "The Perfect Anarchist." She reads the book title out loud as she eyes me through the top of her glasses, raising her eyebrow in a gesture full of amusement. I watch her flick to a random page, listening to her read from a passage, "A consistent anarchist must oppose all means of authority. An authoritarian system has been proven to be detrimental to creative thinking and to the pursuit of knowledge."

I'm not going to deny I was secretly enjoying the effect her gravelly, dulcet tones were having on me, her reading voice had a certain pleasing timbre to it, so much so, I was actually dismayed when she suddenly stopped.

"Is this the kind of of stuff you read?"

Somehow Alex made always made everything I said or did or even had, sound like an insult so I find myself actually trying to contest the book was even mine. "It's my friend's actually…she likes to dabble in the political genre every now and again."

"And she also happens to be called Piper Chapman?" Alex points to my name written in the inside cover before gracing me with one of her know-it-all laughs. "Because that seems like an awfully slim coincidence to me."

I lunge forward and snatch the book out of her hands, too drunk to figure out a reasonable explanation and too embarrassed to expand on my obvious flimsy lie.

"Are you trying to subliminally tell me you're a reckless girl who loves to break the rules?" She punctuates this with a wily grin. "Because wouldn't you have it - I like women with those exact qualities."

I blink. I blink again. And blink a third time for good measure.

It's nearly four in the morning and I'm flirting with my hatefully annoying next door neighbour who has trash disposal issues, and I can't figure out whether I like her or not.

It's a dichotomy, I've learned to live with.

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Through the course of the night I'm swaying toward probably liking Alex; she did have a mean sense of humour, that's if I pretended I wasn't the butt of her many jokes. Add to that, I'm not going to lie she was surprisingly good at the whole charm thing. So much so, I actually didn't even mind it when at some point during the night she turned the flirt dial to maximum, the number of innocuous touches increased by about a thousand fold, and the distance from my mouth to her mouth shrank to about a couple of inches.

"So is this what you normally do?"

We're sat at the kitchen island, the dim lighting bathing our faces in a warm orange hue. Alex looks good. More than good.

I shake my head and force myself to return to reality.

"Hmmm?"

"You know gatecrash people's houses and make fun of their tastes in literature?"

"Oh yes. It's what I do most nights." She flicks her gaze at me, chuckling softly, "How's it been so far?"

"Eye-opening."

"That's better than I thought. I'm glad to have widened your horizons."

"You know, that's probably the first nicest thing I've ever heard you say."

Alex takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes, "If you must know, I don't normally offer my assistance to women locked out of their doors, so that was me being non-verbally nice."

"And what makes me the special lady you reserved all that niceness for?"

"Ah...don't get ahead of yourself. I just wanted to see what the inside of your apartment looked like. It was all part of my big elaborate plan, trash pile included."

"Very funny."

"And it's every bit as I imagined it to be."

"You spend your time imagining what my apartment looks like?"

"Oh yes." She says unperturbed at this revelation. "I thought to myself is her apartment a reflection of who she is? Uptight and self-righteous. And dare I say it - it actually is."

I roll my eyes, "Wow, just when I thought you were actually capable of being nice."

"Well I can be when it suits me." She drops her voice to barely a whisper, "You know the other kind of nice."

I swear I needed a seatbelt whenever I'm around Alex. One minute we're flirting then we're calling each other out, and then back to flirting - I feel like I'm in a car taking about a thousand different turns at breakneck speed.

"The other kind of nice?"

As you can see - I've decided to play along. I'm drunk, remember?

"Oh yes." She tilts her head forward, her hand reaching out to me.

Suddenly I'm having some very colourful visions of mouths crashing and hands exploring and that's when I realise I need to get the fuck back. This is how bad and stupid and thoughtless things happened. And I'm none of those things.

"Not happening." I blurt out.

"What?"

"This."

"This? You've lost me there."

"Whatever you were planning on doing, Alex."

Alex looks at me in confusion, making me think that I may have spectacularly misread all those cues, confirmed when she asks, "I can't even pour myself a drink? That's what I was doing by the way, reaching for a glass and a drink." She tilts her head, and I watch her slowly figure out my mistake. "Piper, what did you think I was doing?"

Everything

I squirm in my seat, "Nothing."

She just chuckles.

We sit in silence for a while when Alex just stares at me, narrowing her eyes - as though I've completely lost it. The woman sure had phenomenal eyes. She also had a phenomenal ego to go along with them. "So about that drink?"

I realise I'm supposed to play hostess, and go on to pour us both a drink. I mean she did save me a night of sleeping rough on the floor - it's the very least I can do.

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AN: Probs a two or three shot. Lemme know your thoughts!