From her position in Barba's living room, Olivia listened half-heartedly to his conversation with his assistant. She felt a moment of guilt, knowing that he was completely upending his life to take care of her. But she also recognized that she didn't want to be alone just now. She was scared, honestly, and more than a little anxious about how she was going to survive this ordeal.

And horny. Her system refused to let her forget that not-so-little detail.

She made a quick circuit of his living room, then a slower loop, hoping to distract herself. Whatever painkillers they'd given her at the ER were already wearing off, and she could feel the compulsion to have sex rearing its ugly head. She wanted to ignore the impulse while she was still capable of doing so.

His living space was spartan in the extreme. No family photos, no knick-knacks. Hardly even any artwork or décor to speak of. And yet the smooth lines and deep leather furniture suited him. She could imagine him sitting on his sofa late at night, sleeves rolled up and jacket off as he worked. She stroked her hand over the back of his couch and wondered if he ever set down his papers, undid his slacks, and pleasured himself right here—

"Can I get you anything?"

Olivia jumped and yanked her hand away from the furniture.

"Water? Coffee? ...Scotch?" He held up the small glass tumbler in his hand and the gold liquid shimmered in the light.

"I'm fine." She returned to circling his living room, being careful to avoid the area where he was standing. Being trapped in the cab with him had been torture—smelling him, feeling his knee bump against hers when they'd made a turn, knowing that she was coming home with him to be 'taken care of'... When they'd pulled up at his block, she'd catapulted from the back of that car faster than a cat from a bath.

"We both know you aren't 'fine'," he pointed out. Calmly. Rationally. Standing there with his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the watch glinting on his wrist highlighting the sensual manliness of the hair on his arms—

Olivia scowled and pointed her finger at him. "You don't have to be so—so—"

"So right?" he offered, smiling slightly.

"So unbearably smug," she finished.

"Liv—"

"No! You don't understand. I don't—I'm not—I can't control this, Barba. And it's killing me. The helplessness." She paced some more. "They gave me some painkillers at the hospital but it's no match for this. I keep thinking—things; and every time my arm so much as brushes my side, I get all—tingly." She shuddered.

Rafael wanted to smile—she was the only person who could make the word 'tingly' sound like an epithet. But she was frantic now, angrily pacing, and he didn't want her to think he was laughing at her. While she continued to rant about losing control and hating the situation they found themselves in, he downed the rest of his scotch. He wondered if he really would need to stimulate her...and how to even go about it. Should he just come out and offer it? Should he wait for her to ask? He had no clue.

She had slumped into his armchair and gone quiet, so Rafael went back into the kitchen to pour another scotch. He figured he might need the courage.

He turned around and nearly fell backwards, surprised to find she had followed him in. "Could I have some water?" she asked politely.

Too politely.

Rafael sighed again. This would never work if they continued to dance around each other. Silently he poured her a glass of water and handed it over. He noticed that she took care not to let their fingers brush.

"Olivia."

She raised her eyes to his for a moment and then glanced away again.

"Liv. Please tell me what to do, how to help. You know I'd do anything for you." He leant back against his counter and waited.

She seemed to be struggling for a reply, and then she too huffed out a breath. Finally she met and held his gaze. "I'm trying not to make this your problem."

"Because?" he prodded.

"Because...because, god, Barba! It's so—I'm so embarrassed. I feel like I'm going to claw my way out of my skin if I don't—if I don't—argh!" She slammed her water glass down on the counter and resumed pacing in his tiny kitchen. "I'm really struggling, here, Barba. There are things I want—that I need—but I can't—" She inhaled deeply. Stopped pacing. Faced him. "I can't ask them of you," she finished brokenly.

He hated seeing her in distress. The nature of their jobs meant that she was often in distress, but usually, there was very little he could do about it. This particular issue, though? He could help her feel better, at least for a while. But he was afraid, too, that once they crossed that line...there would be no going back. No more easy camaraderie, no more shared glances of commiseration across the squad room, no more drinks at Forlini's after tough cases.

He looked at her again, noticing her eyeing him speculatively. She seemed unable to look away from his arms, and then she licked her lips. Barely, but enough. He put voice to the thing they both knew was coming.

"So don't ask," he told her. "Use me."

They were the wrong words. Her openly hungry gaze shuttered and she stepped away from him, back into the living room. She resumed pacing, muttering to herself and occasionally stopping to close her eyes and breathe deeply. He followed her, refusing to let her run away from this.

"Did the doctor explain all the side effects to you? I know it sucks, Olivia, but it's not going to just go away."

She waved a hand dismissively. "He yammered on about it but I mostly tuned him out. I figured, I'm going to live through it, right? I shouldn't have to listen to a complete stranger explain it to me in all its gory detail."

"Well, I did listen. And yes, it was awful. But I think you might feel better if you'll only let me...help."

She glared at him. "You want to spend the next twenty-four hours fucking my brains out, you mean?"

The obscene words fell into the charged silence like rocks into a pond. Rafael fought the urge to throw up his hands and leave her to her own devices. He would have, except he could see the strain at the corners of her eyes. Could see the way she was biting her tongue and clenching her fists as though she could will away the powerful effects of the drug. He knew she was stubborn and willful and very, very rightfully angry... But he also knew she was drowning here.

And so he stood his ground. "Ten to fourteen hours."

For a moment he feared she was going to leap forward and pummel him. Then she shook her head and laughed. "God, Barba. What are we going to do?"

"Do you want to know what Dodds suggested?" She shook her head vigorously and her face turned bright red. "Probably for the best," he muttered. He glanced over to his desk. "I have some files here; we could work?"

She snorted but moved to sit in his armchair. "Fine. What case do we have?"

"Mulroney."

"Delightful."

He set the files down on the coffee table and then left her alone for a moment while he returned to the kitchen for their drinks. Then, thinking ahead, he flipped on the coffeemaker. They were in for a long night.

When he returned to the living area, Olivia had her nose buried in his case files, so Rafael pulled up his email and began composing one to the detectives in charge of tracking down Olivia's assailant. He debated checking himself, scaling back his antipathy—but then he heard Olivia growl under her breath and he let the email fly, curse words and all. Before he could start the next one, however, Olivia threw the papers down on the table.

"I can't do this," she muttered, standing up and pacing again. "I can't...my mind wanders." She twirled her hand in the air and frowned.

"Do you want to tell me about the attack?" he asked, wondering if anger would help alleviate the lust, even if only for a moment.

She laughed once, darkly. She shot him a look as she paced past him. "I know what you're doing. But, fine, I'll play. I caught a call for backup on my way in and I stopped. I almost didn't...I was already running late..."

He could practically see the wheels turning in her head. "You can't change it now, Olivia," he said, not unkindly.

"Right. Well. I helped Vasquez pin his guy on the ground, and then the next thing I know, someone's pulled me up and off, shouting about 'that sex cop'. Next thing I know, this guy's running up, wild look on his face. I kicked out at him but that only made them laugh. The one holding me said, 'Don't you have a score to settle with her?' Then this guy—he gets real close to my face. His breath smelled like stale tequila and he snarls, 'Tell your partner Mel said you're welcome', and then I felt him stab my thigh. I thought he'd used a knife, you know? And I was trying to assess the damage while they ran off, but I couldn't see where the fabric had even ripped." She looked down at her leg, only seeming to just now realize she was still wearing the same torn slacks. "I ripped them open myself, looking for a wound. I expected blood. But there was nothing, nothing to explain why I started feeling so...fuzzy."

Rafael sat in silence while Olivia seemed to be lost in memory. He noted the name—Mel—and then set his phone aside. "Do you still feel fuzzy?" he questioned.

Her head snapped up. "Fuzzy? No. I feel..." She chewed on her lip a moment. "I feel hot. Bothered. Over-sensitized. Desperate. I want to climb up the damn wall. And I feel powerless to stop it, and I hate that."

"No, you can't stop it," Rafael said slowly. "But you can choose how to deal with it in your own way, and there's no shame in that, Liv," he finished quietly.

"Just hearing you say my name has me feeling so—" she paused and closed her eyes, "needy."

"So what's holding you back?" he asked, his voice rasping over the last few words.

Her eyes flew open and landed unerringly on his. "I don't know how to ask you for your consent in a way that won't ruin our friendship," she answered honestly.

"You have my consent. If anything, I'm taking advantage of you."

She let out a frustrated growl. Then she marched over to the file folder on his table and practically flung it at him. "Did you even read that?" she asked.

"The file from Dodds? No," he answered.

"Do it," she ordered. She stripped off her jacket, whimpering as she did so, and resumed her pacing.

Rafael pulled out the sheaf of papers and a small brown paper package. Setting the package aside, he began to read the first page.

Then he had to stop, look at her in disbelief, and re-read the first few sentences again. "What—"

"Contingency plans," she said darkly.

Rafael focused on what he was reading. Apparently Chief Dodds hadn't been kidding—Olivia had very clearly lined out what was to happen to her in any number of scenarios that she might find herself in. Kidnapping, torture, and—yes, even drugging. Those, and a dozen other situations. "Who would—why?" he finally managed.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Planning keeps me sane."

"Olivia, I... This is extensive. I'm not sure whether to be awed or humbled. Who makes a plan for the unlikely possibility that they—" he glanced on the next page, "are 'subjected to involuntary sexual acts with a colleague or a stranger in a hostage-type situation'?" He stared at her, aghast.

"I never wanted there to be any question about how to handle me if the worst were to happen," she tried to explain. "I mean, I know at the moment you're wondering if I can really 'consent' to anything, but I already have. I'm here with you because I want to be, given my situation." She pointed at the documents in his hands. "I've outlined every scenario where I might be incapacitated, and I've trusted myself to you in every single one. So if anything, Barba, I'm trying valiantly not to assault you."

They stared at one another for a moment and then Rafael looked away. "You could at least call me Rafael," he pointed out mildly.

She laughed, genuine amusement on her face. "You don't have any desire for me to call you Counselor while you get me off?"

"Ah, no," he answered, chuckling slightly himself. As bizarrely intimate as this conversation was, he was pleased to know that their friendship and shared sense of humor was still there. He suspected they would need that solid foundation more than ever when this was over. "So what's this, then? A gift?" He picked up the brown bag.

"I don't know, I didn't put it in there," Olivia answered, her voice drifting as she moved closer to his windows. Her concentration seemed to have vanished again.

Rafael shook out the contents of the package and laughed morbidly. Apparently Chief Dodds had managed to procure two doses of Viagra for him.

How thoughtful.