A/N: So I definitely didn't observe Olivia's apartment as close as I'd have liked/should've, so we're just going to pretend I'm Olivia Benson's interior designer for the day. :) Hopefully I formed some coherent dialogue between two of my favorite SVU friendships.
Olivia backed into her—or Sgt. Dodd's, as she now supposed with bowed head— office door as she balanced the two evidence boxes in her arms, juggling them atop her knees as she gained enough leverage to open the door and back into the squad room. The door shut swiftly behind her, the loud click of the lock resonating with more permanence than she had desired. She lowered her head further as tears unwantedly pricked at her eyes, and she quickened her pace to the bullpen doors.
"Lieutenant!" Carisi called out, running from the breakroom, dodging desks and runners in an almost comical run of an obstacle course. He reached her halfway across the room, his longer legs quickly matching stride with her. "Listen, Lieu, I—"
"Now's not a good time, Carisi," she bit out, focused on the doorway. "And it's Olivia now." Her eyes finally raised to meet his, glassy with unshed tears she refused to spill in this building. A sad smile played on her lips.
Carisi's scowl deepened. He crossed in front of her, holding one of the double-doors open for her as they reached the threshold. The small token of respect twisted the knife an inch further. As she stepped through, he said, "I just wanted to let you know, ah—" he exhaled, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he leaned against the propped door, "we're here for you, whether you're here or not."
The knife was yanked out, and she was afraid of someone seeing her heart bleed onto the floor. The sincerity shining in his eyes crushed the wounded organ in a vice grip; his words both warming and chilling her heart in a troubling fluctuation of temperatures. She let the cold settle in furthest as she blew out a sad breath, pressing the down button for the elevator.
"We'll figure this out Lieu…v."
Carisi threw a lopsided grin her way, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck with a crudely-crafted air of nonchalance regarding his poorly-covered slip-up.
The corners of her mouth tipped ever so slightly, cracking the straight line that had so deeply established itself over the years. God, this kid had grown on her.
Turning around, she tried to return a smile in kind, which she's sure came out as an extremely unconvincing grimace. But the whispered response bore the same fervor as his concern: "I know."
But she didn't know. She had no idea if these boxes would purchase a round-trip, or if they would forever be stationed in the top shelf of her closet. She had no idea if that badge she had slammed so gracefully down on the captain of 1PP's desk would ever again find itself clipped to her side, if those numbers would ever coincide with her name. If Carisi's lapse in pronouncing her title would ever find appropriate intention again.
The smirk/grimace faded, and the mask she had so carefully constructed throughout her life was plastered back on, molding to her face effortlessly.
The elevator dinged, and her attention swung back around to her physical escape from this current hell. Her back to the precinct doors, she halted before stepping in. A piece of the mask crumbled. "Thank you, Sonny."
The doors quickly closed behind her, sealing her off from the 1-6 without a sound. A silent exit from a place she'd made so much noise.
Nodding to the good Samaritan who held the door open for him, Barba stepped into the apartment complex lobby, running a hand through his short hair to brush off the light afternoon drizzle. Folding his jacket over his forearm, he climbed his way up the lengthy three flights of stairs to the appropriate floor level. Slightly out of breath (he was more of an elevator man), Barba stepped up to the apartment door at the end of the hallway, exhaling loudly in preparation for whatever could transpire in the following minutes. He raised his knuckles to the wooden frame and knocked.
He heard shuffling inside, a stumble, a muffled curse, and then the sound of the lock unlatching. As the woman struggled with the lock, she crisply said, "I told you on the phone five times, Ed, I don't think we should discuss anything right now."
Barba's stomach churned at the ease with which the IAB captain's first name rolled off her tongue. He opened his mouth to interrupt her one-sided conversation with the absent man, but she continued as the door unlocked with a loud, metallic click.
"You'd think one text would be en—" The door creaked open.
Olivia's gaze lowered from the height of the assumed guest, recognition pulling like a weight on her eyelids as they narrowed into slits. A shadow of some indistinguishable emotion flitted across her face—panic?—but in a blink it was gone, flooding into what he hoped to be simply annoyance at his intrusion. The red he noticed rimming her eyes disappeared under the shadow of her glare.
Barba's brow furrowed. Shit.
The small gap in the doorway narrowed as Olivia's head disappeared from view. Barba quickly shot his foot out into the doorjamb, catching his toe in a sliver of space between the obstacle of their confrontation. He felt a pinch as Olivia's haste to shut him off physically and emotionally didn't waver, but she soon noticed the leather doorstop to her need for privacy or solitude or whatever the hell she thought she needed right now. She froze, her hand resting on the door.
"Can we talk?"
Her blank expression urged him to continue this childish tug of war. Rolling his eyes, he sighed in exasperation, leaning his head against the doorframe.
"I'd love to keep this game up, but you're ruining my new shoes."
She rolled her eyes in the like, stepping away from the door and retreating back into her apartment, which he took as an invitation inside. As he stepped into the living area, reaching to hang his rain jacket on the coat rack, he caught a glimpse of Olivia quickly stowing an item away behind her side table. She sat on the end of her couch stiffly, picking up a half-empty glass of wine from the coffee table in front of her.
Barba set his briefcase down, leaning it against one of the table legs. "You started without me," he pouted jokingly, nodding at the drink she was turning in her hands.
That same unidentifiable expression passed over her face, quickly crawling back underneath her practiced mask of stoicism.
"Yeah, well," she took a large sip, "it's been a pretty long day." Her eyes shot to him as if pointy a dirty finger his way. "And I didn't really expect you to be the one knocking on my door, Counselor." Another sip. "After you've been knocking on certain others," she mumbled his direction.
Ignoring the stinging formality of her reference to him, the confusion was clearly etched on his face as he returned her with a blank stare, eyes unblinking.
She stared at him, slack-jawed at his poor act of ignorance. "Don't tell me you didn't know," she bit out, her voice sharpening in a low growl, laced in provocation.
"Know what?" His voice rose in offense. "I'm here on a courtesy call, I shouldn't even be discussing—"
"Courtesy," she scoffed. Olivia sprung from her coiled position on the couch, clutching her glass. "Did you want to throw my life down the drain?" She stumbled towards him, her eyes glowing with barely suppressed anger. It's as if the wine beneath her chin were reflected in her eyes, a swirl of amber finding hypnotic rhythm in her irises.
She looked down. Her hand was shaking furiously, the tipped glass sloshing onto the carpet.
Barba reached towards the cup, his voice low. "Liv."
As he stepped towards her, his eyes detected the former object in question—an empty wine bottle—lying behind the table. Her eyes followed his, which quickly returned to her, his face revealing no trace of his discovery. His indignant tone soon found one of concern as he again reached towards her. "I think you need to sit down."
The rubber band snapped. She moved the glass towards herself, spilling drops onto her front, and the amber fire extinguished into a smoky black, small flecks of gold dancing violently in her eyes. For the entire bottle of wine he now knew she'd consumed, her eyes bore into his with surprising accuracy. That's what scared him the most.
"I think you need to decide whose side you're on." She jabbed her pointer finger into his chest, leaning into her searing implication. Barba cringed at the wine-infused breath that assaulted his senses, choking him in sweet tang. He grabbed her wrist, moving her accusing hand to the side and extracting himself from their close proximity. She ripped her hand from his grip as if burned. Hurt flashed across his face for the slightest second as he stepped back, like a distant crack of lightning. But immediately the shutter slammed closed. However, there was no denying the storm hadn't blown its way through.
His eyes narrowed, clouding over in a dark swirl of betrayal and anger. "I would never rat you to 1PP, Liv. I'd like to think you know me better than that."
She chuckled bitterly, swirling the remaining liquid in her glass. "Yeah, me too." She quickly tossed back the wine, then slammed the glass onto the table. It shattered beneath her fingertips, slicing a nicely-sized shard across her palm.
"Shit," she hissed, cradling the injured hand by her chest. She stared at the offending cut dumbly, hypnotized by the red sea sluggishly collecting in her palm.
Barba gently nudged her knee, encouraging the back of her knees to knock into the couch so that she all but fell into the cushions behind her.
"Stay put," he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm going to grab a rag and then we can take my car to the closest clinic."
"It's fine," Olivia replied into her stinging palm.
Barba returned a few seconds later with two dishrags, prodding one into her hands. The other he laid on top of the spill, carefully collecting the broken glass in the fabric saturated with wine drops. On his way to the trash bin, Barba stooped to collect the empty wine bottle. Shivering as the cooler air Barba stirred as he carried her secret to the waste ghosted over her skin, her heart clenched painfully, eyes screwed shut in shame.
The sound of glass crashing into the trash bin was the only noise that broke the tense few seconds of silence as Olivia wound the now-red rag tightly around her right palm. The tinkling of slivers and shards as they settled at the bottom of the bin seemed to drain the alcohol from her veins, leaving her exposed in sobering recognition.
Blowing out a breath, she said, "I'm out of SVU. Pending investigation."
Barba stopped as the lid of the trash can closed. Well. If he hadn't had such an intimate front seat to the gut-wrenching show that played a few minutes ago, he'd ask her for a drink, too.
"The sex-trafficking ring?" Barba prodded gently, circling back around to the seating area, pulling a dining chair with him.
"Yeah," she whispered, wincing as she placed pressure on the wound.
"Who else would know?" Barba asked as he perched on the end of the chair, referring to the subject involving both of their less-than-understanding conversations today.
Olivia sighed, picking at the frayed edges of the rag. "That's the thing. You were the only one I disclosed to."
Barba snorted. "I would hardly call that a disclosure."
Olivia glared at him, but the piercing stare soon softened. She shifted so that she too perched on the end of the cushion.
"About that," she started, clasping her hands together in front of her, steadied gaze tracing the wooden grain in the coffee table, "I…I should have told you." She looked over to the side, her eyes seeking his.
Barba's head tilted toward her in acknowledgement of her indirect apology. "Yeah, you should've." There was no fire behind his response; just calm acceptance.
Crossing a leg over, he quipped, "Seriously, Olivia. Tucker?"
Olivia smirked, sinking back into the couch. "Sleeping with the enemy, I know," she reflected. "It took me a long time to realize that we were both fighting for the same thing. The truth." She turned to meet Barba's resolved gaze.
Barba's intent stare remained unwavering. "I fight for the same."
Olivia's lips parted to respond, but she quickly shut them, glancing away.
Barba uncrossed his legs, leaning forward until he was hovering on the edge of the seat. "I can't just go by your word."
"I know," she whispered, gaze drawn downward.
She refused to catch his eye, so he continued, staring at the top of her head. "All of 1PP's breathing down my neck." He sighed. "He's going to go through the wringer, regardless of the outcome."
"I know," she echoed, staring at the faint stain on the carpet. A stain that made her question how it'd come to this. How her life had become a mess she couldn't sweep aside any longer. Hiding behind the bottle left a shattering reality in its wake.
"I left a mentally-handicapped adult with my child," she whispered, voice thick with tears. "I shared personal case information with her, with a suspect. I—I don't know who I am without this job," she cried, pushing the back of her knuckles into her forehead. "How sad is that?"
Barba watched the woman beside him slowly unravel, the gravity of her decisions cutting a harsh beam of light through her fogged mind that left her exposed in a raging storm.
"You are a mother to a wonderful little boy, or have you forgotten that? And who said this was permanent?"
"The last time I thought something was temporary my partner put his papers in." Olivia looked back at him over her shoulder, expression blank.
"So how full was that bottle when you decided to drown your sorrows away?"
The bluntness of his question caught her off-guard, and she visibly flinched at the unwanted interrogation. She'd rather shatter another glass beneath her hand than face reopened wounds.
"I'm…dealing," she blew out, maintaining a steady gaze.
His eyebrows flipped in silent question. But whatever response that had been hanging on his tongue, he didn't voice it.
The baby monitor resting on the side table crackled to life, diverting their eye contact, and a soft crying rose from the small machine that eventually seeped through the closed door in the back of the apartment.
They both rose from their respective chairs, Olivia a tad slower as she cradled her hand to her chest.
"I should probably…" She motioned towards the back room as she stepped around the couch, tripping slightly over Barba's briefcase.
Ignoring Olivia's stumble, Barba bent to collect his things, supplying, "Me too."
Before she could round the hallway, Barba spoke up from behind: "Liv."
Placing her left hand on the doorway, she turned around as Barba slipped his yellow rain jacket over his shoulders.
"Find your identity in those kinds of things," he said, nodded towards her destination. "That's permanent."
A soft smile played on her lips. "Yeah."
"And for God's sake, get some stitches."