Part VIII: Green Monster

Jealousy is an awful feeling, but not always an easy one to will away.

Warnings: N/A

Associated episode: N/A


I saw him the minute I walked in the door, just as I had expected: at the bar, a drink beside him and a legal pad in front of him, jacket hanging on the back of his chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair lulling onto his forehead, a smile on his face…

And then I saw something I hadn't expected: Olivia Benson perched on the stool beside him.

My smile was curdling before I gave it permission to, and reinstalling it on my face was more difficult than reinstalling Windows on an elderly computer.

They were deep in conversation, and though it didn't appear to be a particularly happy topic, there was a certain intimacy in the picture that irked me. Elbows touching, perhaps knees. Her leaning into him to look at the file, reaching to point something out. The casual intimacy the scene projected, the unneeded reminder that moments like this happened in the eighty or so hours a week that I didn't get to spend with him.

My first instinct was to turn around and walk away. Okay, run away. Anything relationship-related that I found myself uncomfortable with, I always fought this urge. I didn't want to see the surprise of my arrival in his face - perhaps he thought I'd decided not to come after all, that I still hadn't gotten off work, that I'd gone straight home, well, straight to his home. I didn't want to see the uncomfortable-move-apart-shuffling my arrival might bring.

But then he turned and smiled at her, a smile so full of encouragement and goodness, and suddenly my feet were moving. Petty, yes, but I was not in control. The green monster gnashing at my cerebral cortex was.

I pasted on a tight sort of smile as I approached the bar. Their eyes were on the file, and Yep, knees touching. I slipped my arms around the back of both chairs, and said in a chirpy voice most unlike my own, with far too much countrified flair, "What's happenin', ya'll?"

And there it was. The big-eyed, turn-around, move-apart, almost-caught-doing-something-that-could-almost-be-considered-inappropriate spin.

I'd always hated those women in movies and television, in life, that felt the need to insinuate themselves between a woman and Their Man™, to ensure the other woman - inevitably an innocent bystander - knew just who he belonged to. As if a man was a belonging. As if something that didn't want to be stolen could be. And yet…

"Hey, babe," my fingers moved of their own accord. I certainly didn't give them permission to smooth his hair away from his face, an action I'd done tens of thousands of times in the privacy of our - his, or my - bedroom. In our - his, or my - home. But never out for God, everybody, and Olivia Benson to see.

"Hey," he took the offending hand, and kissed my knuckles. I realized then that his tie was loosened. It was the blue one I'd given him just for the hell of it a few weeks ago. This, and the pressure of his lips on my skin, loosened my smile, and my nerves. "Finally broke the shackles?" He asked with a grin.

"Nearly had to gnaw off my own leg," I told him, my fingers twining with his. I glanced sideways at Olivia, whose smile I thought now had a fixed sort of quality to it. "Hi, Miss Benson," I offered, praying my cheeks were neither bright red nor cartoonishly green.

"Hello," she nodded, and hurried on, "I was actually just heading out. I'll leave you to it," she motioned to the file, but also to me? Maybe? "Good night, Rafa," she rose and smiled, and offered me one as well. "Nice to see you again."

Rafa? I wondered, consciously turning my lip-curl into a smile. "You too. Good night!"

I took her place at the bar, slipping my purse over the back of the stool, waiting until she was out the door, then kissed him squarely on the mouth. "Hey," I said in a voice that sounded much more like my own, much less manic, less sing-songy.

"Hey," he grinned back, and pecked my lips again before turning towards the bartender. "Can we get a Pelegrino over here, please?"

I was slowly loosening, shaking off the frigid fingers of nervous jealousy, feeling vaguely petty, but also, overwhelmingly curious. "So, how's your night, Rafa?" I arched a brow at him, but kept the crooked smile on my face. He met me brow-for-brow, and chose to gloss over my sarcasm.

"Harrowing, actually… until now."

I smiled, reveling in the warm glow of that look… until I couldn't help myself any longer. "Do you prefer Rafa? Have I been calling you the wrong thing all these years?"

"Mi amor…" he sighed. "No. I don't prefer it. It's another derivative of my name, but…"

"It's not your preference."

"No," he said to me in a placating sort of way, and to the bar tender in an entirely different tone, wagging a finger at his own drink, "And another one of these, please."

"So what's wrong with Rafi at work? Actually, I thought she called you Barba?"

"She does-"

"So Rafa was just a stutter?"

"I- baby, what does it mat-"

"It doesn't! Just wondering." He fixed me in a look, all exasperation, all exhaustion. I wilted. "I'm driving you nuts, aren't I? Making a bad day worse?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second. Now let's get something to eat, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He waved for the bartender again, and after asking for a menu, turned back to me, and looked quite surprised by my taking his face in my hands and kissing him again. "What was that for?" He asked, dimple appearing in his cheek as he smiled crookedly.

"The beauty of being your girl, Rafi, is that I don't have to have a reason."


Translations:

mi amor - my love

A/N: I love the Barba / Benson relationship on the show, and have always kind of felt an undertone of intimacy there that the producers could have turned into a thing if they'd wanted to. I enjoyed playing around with how a significant other with some trust issues of her own might struggle with seeing that closeness. I hope you enjoy this little chapter, and if you can, take a moment to review. It feeds the beast. Wishing you all the happiest of holidays! -C