Chapter Text
“I don’t miss Ed.”
Rafael looks up in surprise to see Olivia sitting on the bed, one knee to her chest and the other leg stretched out before her. She’s not holding her bent leg to herself — what would be a half-fetal position — but he can tell she wants to by the tension in her arms, which are bare. Bare and maybe still a bit damp from her shower and she doesn’t miss Tucker. And she’s choosing to tell him this now .
“Hmm,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound nervous. He looks back down at his book and refuses to allow himself to shift in the scratchy hotel armchair.
“Isn’t that awful?” she muses. “We were together for over a year. We went to Paris together.”
I remember. Rafael can hear his own sarcasm in his head.
“I loved him.”
I know.
“Or at least I thought I did.”
...Huh.
She turns to look at him and he raises his gaze from the page to her face. Rafael can’t read her expression.
That’s a lie.
He can read her, after five years he can always read her, but he’s scared of what he sees because she looks — well, somehow pensive and reckless at the same time. Whatever she’s thinking of is a bad idea. She should stop before she gets them both into trouble.
He swallows but raises an eyebrow, trying not to worry about the fact that she can read him just as easily as he can her. “Do you need my advice on something?” he asks dryly.
Olivia regards him for a moment. “No.” She stretches out her bent leg and reaches to the bedside table for a book of her own. Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of NIMH. She hardly has time to read, and when she does she chooses sweet, light books. Ones she thinks Noah might enjoy when he’s a little older. Rafael finds this almost unbearably endearing. “Just thinking out loud.”
“Hmm,” Rafael says again, and returns to Allende’s La Casa De Los Espíritus. An old comfort book for a long trip.
I don’t miss him.
He bites his lip. Steals a glance. She’s not reading either — just frowning at the page, eyes unmoving.
“Maybe...” She looks over at him and he gestures vaguely. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.” And what is that supposed to mean?, he demands of himself immediately. “Maybe it was for the best,” he adds, digging himself deeper. “Because he wanted to retire,” he explains. “And you didn’t.” Obviously. “Just bad timing. Maybe you’ll reconnect one day.”
She gives him a wry, only slightly frustrated look. “So which is it, not meant to be or bad timing and we’ll get back together?”
“I don’t know,” he says peevishly. “I’m just presenting possibilities.” Including the possibility that you’ll go back to him, which would be a better idea than what you’re going for right now so please get the message.
“I said I didn’t love him.”
Rafael shuts his book. “You said you weren’t sure. It sure looked like you did at the time. And he loved you.” He manages not to sound bitter. Mostly. “He probably still does.”
“You never liked him,” she says accusingly. “Why are you defending him all of a sudden?”
“I wasn’t aware he was under attack.”
"He's — he's not." She rubs a hand over her face. "I'm tired."
Rafael almost asks her where all this is coming from, but he stops himself. He knows the answer, and he can't let either of them say it out loud. There'll be no going back.
"You should sleep, then," he says gently. "I'll go down and check if they have my room ready." The chirpy girl at the front desk had assured him it would be and apologized for the inconvenience — so many conference guests, so sorry for the mix-up, Mr. Barba, we'll have it ready for you by eight — so it had better fucking be ready.
"It's only seven thirty," Olivia points out.
"I'll wait in the lounge."
"It's fine," she says pointedly. "I'm not falling asleep anytime soon."
He admits defeat with a shrug and crosses his legs, settling further back into the chair. Doesn't matter. Like she said, it's fine. Except she doesn't look ready to drop it, this ill-advised conversation, and he's getting more and more nervous he won't be able to control its direction.
Sure enough: "It's only been a month since we broke up. Shouldn't I miss him?"
Rafael sighs out loud and ignores the look she gives him in response. "You didn't break up, you dumped him, and I'm sure you were thinking about it for much longer than a month. You were ready. You did most of your feeling about it beforehand, so you don't miss him now, it makes sense." Now please drop it.
There's a smile tugging at her lips.
"What."
"Nothing. You." Olivia shakes her head fondly. "Whenever you give me advice about — I don't know, emotions or whatever — you always blunder for a bit and then hit on exactly the right thing to say."
"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment," he informs her, and tries to ignore the happy skip of his heart. Exactly the right thing. "Anyway. Glad I could help." He pointedly opens his book again.
"Do you really think it was only for the best because he wanted to retire and I didn't?"
He groans. "Liv, I don't know. It was your relationship. I'm tired. I just want to read. Let's not — look, if you don't miss him, it must have been for the best, does it really matter why?"
"Yes, it matters," she says quietly.
Fuck.
"Maybe you should talk to Lindstrom about it," he suggests, and she looks offended. "No, no, I mean — I just mean as an objective outside party. It could help."
"So you're not objective."
"Of course not. I'm your friend."
Olivia regards him. “I did talk to Lindstrom, actually.”
“Good,” he encourages.
“He wants me to be more... communicative.” She grimaces. “Actually, the word he used was vulnerable. And honest. He wants me to allow myself to be vulnerable and address things head-on. With people I trust. Even if it’s, uh... scary.”
She pulls her gaze from the bedspread back up to his face. It’s no use trying to school his expression. He knows his panic is clear.
“I’m not good at vulnerable, Liv,” he managed to get out through numb lips. “Not even with you.”
She smiles ruefully. “I know. Maybe that’s why we — why it’s — ” She takes a breath, and then, despite his silent pleas, plunges ahead. “Maybe that’s why it’s taken us so long. We’re both bad at this.”
Despite himself, Rafael uncrosses his legs and leans forward. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The denial is paper-thin and pathetic but at least he’s managed to hide the anger that’s flared up within him. How can she do this to him, to them — break their unspoken agreement to keep all of this unspoken?
“Yes, you do,” she says steadily.
“I — Olivia, I don't want to talk about this."
"Why not?" she demands.
"Why do you?" he counters. "It's been years, all of a sudden it needs discussion?" He curses himself the moment the words leave his mouth. Years? He had to let slip that it's been years?
She doesn't look surprised. "I told you. I talked to Lindstrom. I think he's right. This conversation is overdue."
He's shaking his head, over and over. "No," he says adamantly. "No, this conversation is unnecessary. Just because you broke up with Tucker doesn't mean anything should change between us. You have to understand," he continues, switching tacks almost against his will. He hates to plead. "I can't — we can't do this. We work together. We have no free time. Neither of us has a good track record, and Liv, you're my best friend." Practically my only friend, these days. For the love of god, shut the hell up.
She opens her mouth to protest, or to confess that she —
"It's just not worth the risk," he tells her flatly, and gets to his feet. "Just think, think for even a moment what would happen if it went wrong."
She looks stricken, but he knows he has to be merciless, has to make sure they never bring this up again. Because he's not sure he'll be able to say no next time.
"It would destroy everything, " he tells her. And himself. "There would be no coming back."
"Of course I've thought of that," Olivia snaps. She straightens her back up and crosses her legs. Her hands are balled in fists atop her knees. "But at some point we have to try, we can't just sit around like this forever."
"Oh yes we can. And we should."
"Rafa —"
He lifts his hands, palms up, to stop her. "I cannot have this conversation." She stops, and he can see her realize how hard he's breathing. He forces himself to slow down. "I'm going to see if my room is ready, and then I'm going to get my things and go there, and tomorrow the conference will start and we'll have plenty to talk about that isn't this. Okay?"
Olivia's lips are a thin line. "Never took you for a coward, Rafael," is all she says, and he turns on his heel and leaves.
The chipper woman at the front desk has been replaced with an equally chipper coworker. No one should be this happy at eight o'clock on a Sunday night, Rafael thinks pissily. Out loud, he asks for his room.
"Single room for a Mr. Barba," the person repeats, scanning their computer screen. "Hmmmmmm."
Jesus Christ, just give me my fucking room number and key and let me find some peace. "Is there a problem?" he inquires. Through his teeth. But politely.
"I'm not able to find a reservation under that name," the person says.
Rafael pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a breath, and drops his hand. "Yes, that's what your coworker said this afternoon, but she found a record of my assistant’s emails with the concierge and assured me that the room would be ready for me by now. The room that my office paid for. Over a month ago."
The person's smile doesn't falter in the slightest, which Rafael finds both obnoxious and impressive.
"Let me take another look," they say, and start tapping away again. "Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..."
"Maybe it's under Noble?" Rafael offers. "Carmen Noble, my assistant? She made the arrangements."
More tapping. "No, I'm not finding anything under that name either, Mr. Barba. In fact, we're all booked up for the night. I'm so sorry about that!" the person says brightly.
Rafael stares at them for a beat. "You don't have a single room available."
"There's a big conference in town," the person explains. "Thousands of people in from all over the country."
"Yes, I know, I'm a speaker," Rafael snaps. "Sorry. I'm just — I'm very tired, and I paid for this room, and I need it."
"There simply isn't a room," the person says with merciless cheer. "But I can provide you with the names and phone numbers of other hotels in town! Maybe one of them will have an opening."
"Fine. Yes. Thank you." Rafael pulls out his phone as he waits for the person to get the list. The battery is at 3%. His charger is in Liv's room. Goddamnit. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Here you go!" the person chirps, handing him a paper with a dozen or so hotels listed, along with their respective addresses and phone numbers. "Good luck!"
Rafael manages to thank them again before heading back to the elevators.
It takes Olivia a full minute to answer when he knocks at her door.
"Something tells me you're not back to finish our conversation," she says when she does. To Rafael's great relief, there's no sign that she's been crying.
"I need to use the phone," he says tightly, raising up his own to show her the low battery notification. "They don't have a room for me."
Surprise flits across her face before being replaced with that stonewalling look again. She steps back so he can enter, and gestures him silently to the phone on the desk across from the bed. He notices that her book is back on the bedside table, closed.
Rafael doesn't have any luck with the first hotel. Or the second. Or the third. "What about any later in the week?" he asks with increasing desperation. "I could check in tomorrow, or even — the whole week? Yes, I know about the conference, I — never mind. Thank you."
He hangs up and allows himself to put his head in his hands, only because if he doesn't he feels like he'll scream. He hasn't turned around once since sitting down, but he can feel Olivia's presence behind his back. Can feel the tension rising in the room with every phone call he makes.
After the fourth hotel declares itself booked for the week too, he excuses himself to the bathroom without looking at Olivia. Once the door is closed and locked, he sits down on the closed toilet seat and covers his face with his hands and tries to breathe. It's fine, he tells himself. It's fine. You're only trapped in a tiny room for a week with your best friend who basically just made you confess that you've been in love with her for years and then called you a coward because you don't want to ruin everything by acting on it. And you have to give a presentation with her to hundreds of people on Tuesday. And you have a migraine coming on. It's fine.
For some reason, this doesn’t help to calm him. He chooses a different strategy. You've been through worse. Suck it up, take a painkiller, and call the rest of the hotels.
Which is what he does.
They're all booked.
"This defies plausibility," Rafael says out loud after hanging up on the last one (the Watergate, he'd noted with distant amusement). It's almost ten. He's loopy on Vicodin and denial.
Olivia doesn't respond. She's really going to make me ask.
He turns around in his chair and faces her for the first time in hours. "Listen... can I just stay here tonight, and call all those places back tomorrow about last-minute cancellations or openings or something." He refuses to say it like a question because she owes him an apology and he doesn't have to be nice. It's not like she's going to kick him out onto the street.
"Sure." She says it without looking up from her book.
He forces out what feels like his one hundredth insincere "thank you" of the night, except this time he doesn't bother to pretend he's not pissed off. She wanted honesty, right?
Following her lead on the silent treatment, Rafael rummages around in the closet for spare bedding. There's only a pillow and a thin blanket, but it'll have to do. He can get a massage at whatever hotel he ends up at tomorrow and his back will be fine.
"You can sleep on the bed," Olivia sighs.
"Don't be ridiculous," he says as he gets out his dopp kit. "I'm not making you sleep on the floor."
"I meant we can share."
Rafael raises his head to stare at her. The movement seems to take a lot of effort. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t have had that Vicodin.
"Not like that," she snaps, flushing slightly. "I'm not trying to — it's a California King, Rafael, it's practically a mile across. We can make a pillow wall in the middle if that makes you feel better."
He rolls his eyes, but thinks of his back. The bed really is very big. "Fine," he concedes, and immediately wishes he'd at least pretended to take a little longer to consider it. When he starts to actually build a pillow wall, she laughs out loud at him.
"What."
"I didn't think you'd take that seriously," she teases, not particularly kindly.
"Well, after that conversation you just tried to have, excuse me if I want to keep some distance.” He immediately regrets saying it.
"I'm sorry," she says sarcastically. "Are you worried I'm going to assault you in your sleep?"
"That's not what I meant. And it’s not funny." As if I need to tell you that.
"So I'm just so repulsive you can't stand to be close to me."
"You're being ridiculous again," he tells her.
"Am I?" She lifts her chin and gives him a challenging stare.
To his horror, Rafael sees real pain in her eyes. I put that there, he thinks.
"Olivia..." His voice has gone soft almost against his will. He can't help it, though, not with her eyes like that. He can't even look away from her. "You know I — you know I don't find you repulsive, Jesus, that's the problem. You're — I mean, even right now without any makeup or anything — I mean — listen."
She raises an eyebrow. "To what?"
He laughs despite himself. "Never mind. You know." He focuses back on the pillows, feeling silly.
"Yeah." Her voice is soft. Almost angry, almost sad, but not quite either. "I do."
Maybe I would have slept better on the floor after all. It's almost midnight and Rafael is still staring at the ceiling, wide awake despite the Vicodin and the late hour. He supposes he should be grateful that he’s too uncomfortable (and angry, and tired, and a little bit high) to get hard, because wouldn’t that just be the icing on the cake. He’s never once allowed himself to get off on fantasies of Olivia; the very thought of doing so filled him with shame. It felt disrespectful. Dishonest. A secret violation. He couldn’t do that to her.
Which meant it wasn’t uncommon that Rafael would have to take a cold shower because his mind had betrayed him by sneaking in fantasies he shouldn’t ever entertain. Olivia jerking him off slow and hard, or making him jerk off for her, put on a show. Olivia pushing him to his knees and lifting her dress. Olivia riding him, or under him, or him behind her; Olivia holding his hips down as she sucks him off; Olivia telling him in a low, hot voice just exactly how she wants him —
Jesus. He’s doing it again.
Rafael rolls onto his side, facing away from her oblivious, sleeping body, and forces his mind to focus on the acceptable and appropriate topic of their presentation on Tuesday. Comprehensive Criminal Justice: how to facilitate communication between police and prosecutors to ensure convictions and serve victims.
A mouthful of a title, but it gets the point across. Rafael will open with a lecture on giving police precincts in-depth training on relevant legal standards as a strategy to prevent cases getting thrown out for mishandling of evidence, abusive interrogations, and so on. He’ll also discuss how building trust between cops and the DA’s office can help the latter make better decisions regarding which cases to prosecute, and how. Then he’ll introduce Olivia, who will go over things from the perspective of the police and the victims, keeping things general so they apply to Homicide and other major crimes as much as SVU.
They’ve rehearsed it a couple times before, and presented an earlier, abbreviated version at a smaller conference in New York a few months ago. They’ve really got it down well, Rafael thinks, but he goes through his lecture in his mind anyway. The familiar path of reasoning oddly comforts him despite the horror and trauma of the case studies. Maybe I should see a therapist, he thinks vaguely as he starts to drift off.
Even half-asleep, he laughs at the idea. He’s glad it works for Liv, but he could never. He keeps his best friend at a safe distance and builds walls out of whatever he can get his hands on when she gets too close. A therapist wouldn’t stand a chance, Rafael tells himself.
He can’t fall asleep quickly enough to avoid the thought that a therapist stood a chance with the woman sleeping beside him, who has walls of her own. But she has the strength to let people in despite them. She’s stronger than me. Maybe it’s the Vicodin, but the realization doesn’t make him sad. Just a little floaty and so very fond of her.
He wants to reach over and take her hand, but he won’t. That’s the whole point.