Disclaimer: I don't own Law and Order: SVU. Never have, never will.
A/N: I'd like to extend a thank you to the writers of SVU for helping me fill the hole in my heart left by the writers of JAG, who after nine seasons still couldn't get it right. Thanks for the distraction, guys!
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La Toura Restaurant
Manhattan
John
I pull out Emily's chair for her, resisting the childish urge to pull it out too far and let her fall on the floor. We've been on this blind date for less than twenty minutes and I'm already contemplating climbing out the bathroom window. While I realize that's a practice usually reserved for the female of the species, I'm sure that just this once, an exception could be made. The only thing this woman talks about is her job, which wouldn't be so bad if she weren't a dermatologist's assistant. So far she's analyzed the skin types of the doorman, the waiter, and the cab driver. She's also suggested a Clinique lotion to me because 'John, darling, your skin type is susceptible to dryness in the winter'.
I get a brief respite from her one-sided droning while we order drinks. After our waiter is gone, she starts a running monologue on the skin types of our fellow customers and what services her office could perform for them. I'm almost asleep when one of her remarks catches my attention.
"Now that woman over there, the blonde in the blue dress? She's gorgeous. I don't think we could do anything for her." She sighs heavily. "I wish we could bottle that and sell it. We'd make millions."
Naturally, I can't help but look over at the woman in question. When I spot her, I nearly choke on my mouthful of wine. It's Alexandra Cabot, the city's most attractive ADA and the constant object of my silent affections. She's sitting alone, toying with a glass of wine and trying to pretend she doesn't care she's the only person at a table for two in one of the most upscale restaurants in Manhattan. If I didn't know her, I might fall for it, but I know poorly-concealed embarrassment when I see it. I've spent too many hours watching her not to recognize it. Not in a creepy, Jeffrey-Dahlmer way, of course; it's the modest aesthetic appreciation any man would have for a woman like Alex. Brains, beauty, and a sense of humor: how could I resist looking every time I get the chance?
I consider going over to say hi, but I can't in good conscience leave my date. I don't want to bring her over and introduce her to Alex, since I'm hoping fervently that I'll never see Emily again. Trying to discreetly catch Alex's eye doesn't work; she looks from her watch to the window and back, but never in my direction.
A beeping noise pulls my attention back to my date, who's reaching for her pager. She scans the little screen and practically jumps to her feet.
"Oh, John, it's Dr. Marshall!" She's practically jumping for joy. "There's an emergency case of psoriasis in the ER at Mt. Sinai. If I go now I can assist with the treatment."
"I wouldn't dream of keeping you from psoriasis," I reply, making a mental note to find out what the hell that is. She beams at me and grabs her purse off the back of the chair.
"Thanks for understanding," she chirps, already heading for the door.
"Do you want me to call you a cab?"
She shakes her head, waving cheerfully. "I've got it. Nice meeting you, John!"
"Yeah, you too," I lie with a smile, delighted to see her leaving. Once she's out the door, I sigh in relief. "To think people wonder why I'm single," I mutter to myself. "I divorced four different wives for less."
Now that she's gone, I turn my full attention to Alex. She's still sitting alone and looking more uneasy by the minute. Deciding that I can't abandon a damsel in distress, especially one as lovely as Alex, I grab my wine glass and my trench coat and go over to her table. When I drape myself over the empty chair in front of her, she looks so relieved to see me I think she might cry.
"Is this seat taken?" I ask, my tone calculated to show just the right mix of gentle humor and friendly concern. She smiles tightly at me in response.
"Not yet. Probably not at all, since I've been waiting for –" she pauses to check her watch " – two and a half hours without so much as a phone call."
I'm sure some of the shock I'm feeling shows on my face. "Someone stood you up, Alex? This guy must be a complete idiot."
A surprised smile works its way onto her face, and she ducks her head to hide it. I can't help smiling in return. How in the world could some moron stand her up? Heaven knows if I had a date with a woman like Alex Cabot, I'd cut off my own left arm before I'd miss it.
Well, it's his loss and my gain. I raise my wine glass with a wink at Alex. She looks puzzled but raises hers as well. "To being stood up," I propose. "May we always find better company waiting in the wings."
She clinks her glass against mine, winking back at me. "Better company and a less pretentious restaurant?"
I tilt my glass toward her in a wordless salute, taking a sip and then setting it down as I reach for my wallet. Pulling out enough to cover both glasses of wine, I drop it on the table, over Alex's protests that she can pay for her own, and pick up her coat. Standing up and holding her coat open for her, I ask, "How do a slice of pizza and a game of pool sound to you?"
"It sounds great, John," she sighs, rising from her chair and setting her napkin down firmly. I can tell she's upset with whoever this no-show guy is, and I decide that I can't let her go home angry on a Saturday night. The two of us will just have to paint the town until she's over the jerk.
Guiding her arms carefully into the sleeves of her coat and earning myself another dazzling smile in return, I snag my own coat as an afterthought as we head for the door.
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Uptown Manhattan
John
Two slices of pizza and three games of pool later, Alex and I are wandering along the busy city streets near Rockefeller Center. She doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get home, and I'd be content if this night never ended. We stroll lazily down the sidewalk, watching tourists take pictures of the skyscrapers as hardened New Yorkers walk right past them without so much as a glance. The quiet is nice, but eventually I have to say something. I'm still burning with curiosity. There has to be a good reason why Alex would have waited for over two hours for a guy who never showed. That's not the Alex Cabot I know; I'd have expected her to leave after fifteen minutes and then proceed to make his life a living hell for the next week.
"I still can't imagine a guy dumb enough to stand you up, Alex. I'll bet that's a once in a lifetime mistake."
She sighs, sounding dejected. "Actually, it's his third time so far."
"Three times?" I ask, incredulous. "In a row?" Man, this guy really is an idiot. To ditch out on Alex, the most breathtaking woman in the tri- state area, not once but three times? He must have been dropped on his head as a child. Repeatedly and forcefully.
"Not quite," she replies, scuffing her toe against the pavement. "After the first one, there was a benefit party at which he wanted the two of us to 'make an appearance'." She makes little quotation marks with her fingers as she says the words. "That time he showed up, but he was an hour late."
"Very fashionable," I say with a straight face. "Who is this guy, Giorgio Armani?"
Alex giggles. "Actually, I think Armani is dead," she replies. "You probably know this guy, though. Todd McKenna?"
"The defense attorney? Only by reputation," I reply truthfully. I don't bother to mention that his reputation includes the allegation that he thinks his good looks and sizeable fortune give him the right to treat women like dirt. After getting an idea of the way he's been treating Alex, I'm inclined to believe that charge.
Alex is quiet for a moment. "Maybe I've been out of the dating scene too long," she says finally. "I miss the good old days, when a guy would ask you out and then actually show up on time at your place. He'd pick you up at the door instead of honking from downstairs, open your car door for you...all the good stuff."
"If that's changed, then I don't want to go back to the dating scene," I inform her. "I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. I don't think I could handle being expected to stand a lady up. It's not my style."
"No," she says, giving me a thoughtful look. "No, John, I don't think it is."
"And if I were to miss a date, through some strange accident of fate, I would adhere to the Gift Code," I continue, not quite ready to suggest to Alex that I wouldn't mind taking her out sometime. I've faced down sociopathic murderers with less anxiety than I feel at the idea of asking her out on a date.
She raises an eyebrow in polite disbelief. "And what, pray tell, is the 'Gift Code'?"
"We gentlemen have a specific set of gifts, which we are required to provide as compensation to the members of the fairer sex for putting up with us."
"Like anniversary presents?" she asks, eyes dancing with laughter.
"That, madam, is just the tip of the iceberg. Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays...the list is extensive, but the most important section is the one that describes making restitution for our indiscretions."
"So, what does the code say about breaking dates?"
"Well, the first offense requires flowers. Some guys just pick up whatever's handy at the corner store, but I prefer to pick out something special that will hopefully keep me from getting my rear end handed to me by the lady in question."
"A wise decision," she laughs. "What about the second offense?"
"Chocolate," I reply. "Lots of it. Preferably with the word 'Swiss' on the package. And of course, if one wants to avoid striking out after the third missed date, one has to produce something a little more impressive."
Alex gives me a speculative look. "Jewelry?" she guesses finally.
"Jewelry," I agree. "And given our man McKenna's tax bracket, if there isn't a little blue Tiffany's box on your desk Monday morning, you should kick him to the curb."
She smiles weakly. "I'm pretty sure his copy of the Gift Code is buried under a pile of legal briefs on his desk," she replies. We're quiet for a moment, and I can tell she doesn't want to talk about this anymore. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that will allow me to change the subject without making it blatantly obvious.
"Alex, look." I point toward Rockefeller Center. "The skating rink is open."
"Already?" she asks, standing up on her tip-toes to get a better view. "It's only the beginning of November." Grabbing my hand, she pulls me in that direction. "Let's go watch!"
I chuckle, allowing her to drag me over to the railing. From there we can see the skaters. Most of them are just there to take a few turns around the rink, dressed in full winter gear, but several girls are out there in skimpy dresses and tights, jumping and spinning like Olympic competitors. It's these girls that Alex watches, longing plain on her face.
"I always wanted to learn how to skate," she says, sounding wistful. "When I was a kid, my mom thought it was a waste. You know, why play in the snow when you could be studying? As I got older, I just never found the time."
"What about now?" I ask. She gives me a puzzled look and I shrug. "Seems like we've both got the time."
She glances down at her outfit; she's wearing a full-length coat buttoned over the short blue dress I was admiring earlier.
"We're not really dressed for it."
"There's no required attire," I remind her.
"But I don't know how."
I give her a rakish grin. "I'll teach you."
She looks skeptical. "You'll teach me how to ice skate?"
"I'll have you know I spent every childhood snow day on the ice," I tell her, pretending to be offended. "I could probably teach you a thing or two."
She frowns, but I can tell she's dying to try it. Winking at her, I turn and walk toward the admissions counter. She hurries to follow me, a smile working its way across her face.
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Rockefeller Center Skating Rink
Alex
I finish lacing up my rented skates, my fingers stinging from the cold. When I've tied the laces securely around my ankles, I put my gloves back on and look up at John. He's already got his skates on and is leaning against the railing, watching me with a smile.
"I have to admit, I'm a little nervous," I tell him, standing up carefully. He takes my elbow, helping me to balance.
"Just take it one step at a time," he advises, walking slowly with me over to the ice. He steps out first and I follow him with trepidation, hoping I'm not going to fall flat on my face and make a total fool out of myself. John wasn't supposed to be my date tonight, but I'm having more fun with him than I ever have with Todd, and I'd hate to ruin it on account of my lack of skill on the ice.
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Rockefeller Center Skating Rink
John
"Okay," I say, taking both of her hands in mine. We're standing just inside the enclosed ice rink, Alex listening intently as I give her instructions. "The first thing you need to do is learn to skate forward. I'll skate backward and hold you up. All you have to do is take baby steps."
"Baby steps," she repeats, nodding. "Got it."
I push off slowly, pulling her with me. She toddles uncertainly forward, looking anxiously at her feet.
"Look up," I coach her. "Just look at me. I won't let you fall."
She looks up, giving me a nervous smile. "Okay," she replies, squeezing my hands. "I'm counting on you, John."
"You can always count on me, Alex," I promise softly. Her cheeks redden, though I can't tell if it's from my comment or from the cold, and she falls silent. I push off again, a little faster this time, and she adjusts her pace unconsciously. We make it around the rink without injury and I breathe a discreet sigh of relief.
"Hey, you did it," I tell her. She glances at the scenery and realizes we're back where we started.
"I did, didn't I?" she asks, excited. Unfortunately, in her excitement she takes a bigger stroke than she should and loses her balance. She stumbles toward me and I catch her, digging one toepick into the ice to steady myself and sending a silent thank-you to my brother for teaching me how to hit on pretty girls by showing them how to skate. I wonder if he had any idea I'd finally try his trick thirty years later.
"You okay?" I ask, setting her back on her feet. She's giggling, a warm, happy sound I'm not sure I've ever heard from her.
"Maybe I'm not quite ready for the Olympics yet," she laughs, resting her hands in mine again. "Are you up for another round?"
"Always," I reply, and we start off again, slowly but surely.
A/N: I'd like to extend a thank you to the writers of SVU for helping me fill the hole in my heart left by the writers of JAG, who after nine seasons still couldn't get it right. Thanks for the distraction, guys!
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La Toura Restaurant
Manhattan
John
I pull out Emily's chair for her, resisting the childish urge to pull it out too far and let her fall on the floor. We've been on this blind date for less than twenty minutes and I'm already contemplating climbing out the bathroom window. While I realize that's a practice usually reserved for the female of the species, I'm sure that just this once, an exception could be made. The only thing this woman talks about is her job, which wouldn't be so bad if she weren't a dermatologist's assistant. So far she's analyzed the skin types of the doorman, the waiter, and the cab driver. She's also suggested a Clinique lotion to me because 'John, darling, your skin type is susceptible to dryness in the winter'.
I get a brief respite from her one-sided droning while we order drinks. After our waiter is gone, she starts a running monologue on the skin types of our fellow customers and what services her office could perform for them. I'm almost asleep when one of her remarks catches my attention.
"Now that woman over there, the blonde in the blue dress? She's gorgeous. I don't think we could do anything for her." She sighs heavily. "I wish we could bottle that and sell it. We'd make millions."
Naturally, I can't help but look over at the woman in question. When I spot her, I nearly choke on my mouthful of wine. It's Alexandra Cabot, the city's most attractive ADA and the constant object of my silent affections. She's sitting alone, toying with a glass of wine and trying to pretend she doesn't care she's the only person at a table for two in one of the most upscale restaurants in Manhattan. If I didn't know her, I might fall for it, but I know poorly-concealed embarrassment when I see it. I've spent too many hours watching her not to recognize it. Not in a creepy, Jeffrey-Dahlmer way, of course; it's the modest aesthetic appreciation any man would have for a woman like Alex. Brains, beauty, and a sense of humor: how could I resist looking every time I get the chance?
I consider going over to say hi, but I can't in good conscience leave my date. I don't want to bring her over and introduce her to Alex, since I'm hoping fervently that I'll never see Emily again. Trying to discreetly catch Alex's eye doesn't work; she looks from her watch to the window and back, but never in my direction.
A beeping noise pulls my attention back to my date, who's reaching for her pager. She scans the little screen and practically jumps to her feet.
"Oh, John, it's Dr. Marshall!" She's practically jumping for joy. "There's an emergency case of psoriasis in the ER at Mt. Sinai. If I go now I can assist with the treatment."
"I wouldn't dream of keeping you from psoriasis," I reply, making a mental note to find out what the hell that is. She beams at me and grabs her purse off the back of the chair.
"Thanks for understanding," she chirps, already heading for the door.
"Do you want me to call you a cab?"
She shakes her head, waving cheerfully. "I've got it. Nice meeting you, John!"
"Yeah, you too," I lie with a smile, delighted to see her leaving. Once she's out the door, I sigh in relief. "To think people wonder why I'm single," I mutter to myself. "I divorced four different wives for less."
Now that she's gone, I turn my full attention to Alex. She's still sitting alone and looking more uneasy by the minute. Deciding that I can't abandon a damsel in distress, especially one as lovely as Alex, I grab my wine glass and my trench coat and go over to her table. When I drape myself over the empty chair in front of her, she looks so relieved to see me I think she might cry.
"Is this seat taken?" I ask, my tone calculated to show just the right mix of gentle humor and friendly concern. She smiles tightly at me in response.
"Not yet. Probably not at all, since I've been waiting for –" she pauses to check her watch " – two and a half hours without so much as a phone call."
I'm sure some of the shock I'm feeling shows on my face. "Someone stood you up, Alex? This guy must be a complete idiot."
A surprised smile works its way onto her face, and she ducks her head to hide it. I can't help smiling in return. How in the world could some moron stand her up? Heaven knows if I had a date with a woman like Alex Cabot, I'd cut off my own left arm before I'd miss it.
Well, it's his loss and my gain. I raise my wine glass with a wink at Alex. She looks puzzled but raises hers as well. "To being stood up," I propose. "May we always find better company waiting in the wings."
She clinks her glass against mine, winking back at me. "Better company and a less pretentious restaurant?"
I tilt my glass toward her in a wordless salute, taking a sip and then setting it down as I reach for my wallet. Pulling out enough to cover both glasses of wine, I drop it on the table, over Alex's protests that she can pay for her own, and pick up her coat. Standing up and holding her coat open for her, I ask, "How do a slice of pizza and a game of pool sound to you?"
"It sounds great, John," she sighs, rising from her chair and setting her napkin down firmly. I can tell she's upset with whoever this no-show guy is, and I decide that I can't let her go home angry on a Saturday night. The two of us will just have to paint the town until she's over the jerk.
Guiding her arms carefully into the sleeves of her coat and earning myself another dazzling smile in return, I snag my own coat as an afterthought as we head for the door.
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Uptown Manhattan
John
Two slices of pizza and three games of pool later, Alex and I are wandering along the busy city streets near Rockefeller Center. She doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get home, and I'd be content if this night never ended. We stroll lazily down the sidewalk, watching tourists take pictures of the skyscrapers as hardened New Yorkers walk right past them without so much as a glance. The quiet is nice, but eventually I have to say something. I'm still burning with curiosity. There has to be a good reason why Alex would have waited for over two hours for a guy who never showed. That's not the Alex Cabot I know; I'd have expected her to leave after fifteen minutes and then proceed to make his life a living hell for the next week.
"I still can't imagine a guy dumb enough to stand you up, Alex. I'll bet that's a once in a lifetime mistake."
She sighs, sounding dejected. "Actually, it's his third time so far."
"Three times?" I ask, incredulous. "In a row?" Man, this guy really is an idiot. To ditch out on Alex, the most breathtaking woman in the tri- state area, not once but three times? He must have been dropped on his head as a child. Repeatedly and forcefully.
"Not quite," she replies, scuffing her toe against the pavement. "After the first one, there was a benefit party at which he wanted the two of us to 'make an appearance'." She makes little quotation marks with her fingers as she says the words. "That time he showed up, but he was an hour late."
"Very fashionable," I say with a straight face. "Who is this guy, Giorgio Armani?"
Alex giggles. "Actually, I think Armani is dead," she replies. "You probably know this guy, though. Todd McKenna?"
"The defense attorney? Only by reputation," I reply truthfully. I don't bother to mention that his reputation includes the allegation that he thinks his good looks and sizeable fortune give him the right to treat women like dirt. After getting an idea of the way he's been treating Alex, I'm inclined to believe that charge.
Alex is quiet for a moment. "Maybe I've been out of the dating scene too long," she says finally. "I miss the good old days, when a guy would ask you out and then actually show up on time at your place. He'd pick you up at the door instead of honking from downstairs, open your car door for you...all the good stuff."
"If that's changed, then I don't want to go back to the dating scene," I inform her. "I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. I don't think I could handle being expected to stand a lady up. It's not my style."
"No," she says, giving me a thoughtful look. "No, John, I don't think it is."
"And if I were to miss a date, through some strange accident of fate, I would adhere to the Gift Code," I continue, not quite ready to suggest to Alex that I wouldn't mind taking her out sometime. I've faced down sociopathic murderers with less anxiety than I feel at the idea of asking her out on a date.
She raises an eyebrow in polite disbelief. "And what, pray tell, is the 'Gift Code'?"
"We gentlemen have a specific set of gifts, which we are required to provide as compensation to the members of the fairer sex for putting up with us."
"Like anniversary presents?" she asks, eyes dancing with laughter.
"That, madam, is just the tip of the iceberg. Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays...the list is extensive, but the most important section is the one that describes making restitution for our indiscretions."
"So, what does the code say about breaking dates?"
"Well, the first offense requires flowers. Some guys just pick up whatever's handy at the corner store, but I prefer to pick out something special that will hopefully keep me from getting my rear end handed to me by the lady in question."
"A wise decision," she laughs. "What about the second offense?"
"Chocolate," I reply. "Lots of it. Preferably with the word 'Swiss' on the package. And of course, if one wants to avoid striking out after the third missed date, one has to produce something a little more impressive."
Alex gives me a speculative look. "Jewelry?" she guesses finally.
"Jewelry," I agree. "And given our man McKenna's tax bracket, if there isn't a little blue Tiffany's box on your desk Monday morning, you should kick him to the curb."
She smiles weakly. "I'm pretty sure his copy of the Gift Code is buried under a pile of legal briefs on his desk," she replies. We're quiet for a moment, and I can tell she doesn't want to talk about this anymore. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that will allow me to change the subject without making it blatantly obvious.
"Alex, look." I point toward Rockefeller Center. "The skating rink is open."
"Already?" she asks, standing up on her tip-toes to get a better view. "It's only the beginning of November." Grabbing my hand, she pulls me in that direction. "Let's go watch!"
I chuckle, allowing her to drag me over to the railing. From there we can see the skaters. Most of them are just there to take a few turns around the rink, dressed in full winter gear, but several girls are out there in skimpy dresses and tights, jumping and spinning like Olympic competitors. It's these girls that Alex watches, longing plain on her face.
"I always wanted to learn how to skate," she says, sounding wistful. "When I was a kid, my mom thought it was a waste. You know, why play in the snow when you could be studying? As I got older, I just never found the time."
"What about now?" I ask. She gives me a puzzled look and I shrug. "Seems like we've both got the time."
She glances down at her outfit; she's wearing a full-length coat buttoned over the short blue dress I was admiring earlier.
"We're not really dressed for it."
"There's no required attire," I remind her.
"But I don't know how."
I give her a rakish grin. "I'll teach you."
She looks skeptical. "You'll teach me how to ice skate?"
"I'll have you know I spent every childhood snow day on the ice," I tell her, pretending to be offended. "I could probably teach you a thing or two."
She frowns, but I can tell she's dying to try it. Winking at her, I turn and walk toward the admissions counter. She hurries to follow me, a smile working its way across her face.
----------------------------
Rockefeller Center Skating Rink
Alex
I finish lacing up my rented skates, my fingers stinging from the cold. When I've tied the laces securely around my ankles, I put my gloves back on and look up at John. He's already got his skates on and is leaning against the railing, watching me with a smile.
"I have to admit, I'm a little nervous," I tell him, standing up carefully. He takes my elbow, helping me to balance.
"Just take it one step at a time," he advises, walking slowly with me over to the ice. He steps out first and I follow him with trepidation, hoping I'm not going to fall flat on my face and make a total fool out of myself. John wasn't supposed to be my date tonight, but I'm having more fun with him than I ever have with Todd, and I'd hate to ruin it on account of my lack of skill on the ice.
----------------------------
Rockefeller Center Skating Rink
John
"Okay," I say, taking both of her hands in mine. We're standing just inside the enclosed ice rink, Alex listening intently as I give her instructions. "The first thing you need to do is learn to skate forward. I'll skate backward and hold you up. All you have to do is take baby steps."
"Baby steps," she repeats, nodding. "Got it."
I push off slowly, pulling her with me. She toddles uncertainly forward, looking anxiously at her feet.
"Look up," I coach her. "Just look at me. I won't let you fall."
She looks up, giving me a nervous smile. "Okay," she replies, squeezing my hands. "I'm counting on you, John."
"You can always count on me, Alex," I promise softly. Her cheeks redden, though I can't tell if it's from my comment or from the cold, and she falls silent. I push off again, a little faster this time, and she adjusts her pace unconsciously. We make it around the rink without injury and I breathe a discreet sigh of relief.
"Hey, you did it," I tell her. She glances at the scenery and realizes we're back where we started.
"I did, didn't I?" she asks, excited. Unfortunately, in her excitement she takes a bigger stroke than she should and loses her balance. She stumbles toward me and I catch her, digging one toepick into the ice to steady myself and sending a silent thank-you to my brother for teaching me how to hit on pretty girls by showing them how to skate. I wonder if he had any idea I'd finally try his trick thirty years later.
"You okay?" I ask, setting her back on her feet. She's giggling, a warm, happy sound I'm not sure I've ever heard from her.
"Maybe I'm not quite ready for the Olympics yet," she laughs, resting her hands in mine again. "Are you up for another round?"
"Always," I reply, and we start off again, slowly but surely.