VIII:

"Hey," Rafael said, picking a package of chicken thighs before tossing it into his shopping cart. "I know you're working late tonight; I'm off the weekend, though, so… I thought you'd might like to come over when you're off shift? I'll make dinner and it can keep. And if not, it can save till tomorrow. Just text and let me know." He hung up and looked over the oxtails before grabbing one and chucking it into his basket as well; it would make a good stew.

Despite what people thought when they looked at him, he wasn't completely inept in every corner of his life. His abuelo and abuelita had made certain that he would be able to stand on his own two feet and carry himself through the world like a man, no matter how that looked. And when he had come out to them as bisexual in his late 20s after graduating law school, after having driven himself to a point beyond personal success, they had tried to understand what that meant to him personally and professionally. The stigma, the judgement, the failed relationships because men didn't understand and neither did women… But his mother judged. She judged harshly. And always, always wanted him to settle down with a nice Cuban girl who would give him fat babies and not talk back too much.

The irony being that wasn't what he wanted or needed at all.

For the longest time, the very idea of being confined in a relationship had chafed him. He remembered what it had done to his mother – not vividly, mostly impressions, nightmares that licked at the inside of his brain like taunting remnants of horrors lived – and didn't want even the most remote possibility of opening himself up to a love like that. And on the flip side, he saw his grandparents, laughing, loving, playfully squabbling about stupid things like who had hidden the bread knife in the drawer of all places when clearly it should be on the counter where it could be found, and he wanted that kind of love with every fiber of his being. And his unquiet heart, the part of him that he rarely listened to because it only spoke in riddles, whispered to him every time he was near Olivia Benson. He didn't want to hear it, but the voice was only going to get louder and more insistent.

He sauntered around the market, casually picking up things and putting them into the cart until he had enough ingredients to make arroz con pollo, a hearty oxtail stew, and a roasted vegetables and feta over polenta dish that Carmen had mentioned her husband had made a couple of weeks before that had sounded delightful. A couple of bottles of wine, vanilla ice cream, a bag of chopped salad, and some ripe peaches rounded out his purchase and he arranged to have his groceries delivered to the apartment in about an hour.

Rafael walked home, stopping briefly to grab a cup of coffee on the way. He got a text from Olivia while he was waiting for his Americano.

I should be off by 8. We have a new case. Interrogation and paperwork. Send me your address.

He couldn't keep the smile off his lips in the coffeeshop as he sent her his address; this felt real. This thing with Olivia didn't feel small or petty or like they were just playing around like his other relationships had always done. No, it felt so much more. Like playing with fire and on the borderline of being burned at any moment. Like handling the most fragile of Ming vases.

Rafael wasn't at all certain that he was up to the task of being the one entrusted with her emotional well-being or recovery when he couldn't even keep himself out of a hole of depression from day to day, but he was damn well going to try. She deserved so much more than he could possibly give her. But Olivia looked at him with such want, such desire, such fucking trust that he couldn't let her down. Not when he was already going and getting damn feelings for her. A few days in and he was already lost.

He hated himself for that. Because when she inevitably decided he wasn't enough for her and left, when his hours and his focus on the job over her became too much, when the shine of new affection wore off and it became patinaed and tarnished, it would rip his heart out by the roots.

He made another stop along the way at a florist, grabbed a bouquet of white daisies and pink carnations – nothing too showy or too much – to give to her, and headed home just in time to meet the delivery at the lobby. He greeted the doorman and let the kid in with his bags, and they headed up to his apartment.

He tipped the delivery man handsomely and sent him on his way, then put the groceries away and began the task of cooking dinner to impress his new lady love. Before he knew it, the doorman was buzzing his apartment and he was rushing to answer. "Yeah, Paulie?"

"You've got a Miss Benson here?"

Rafael smiled down the video line. "Yeah – Olivia. She might be coming over a bit, Paulie, so it's ok to put her on my approved list with mami."

"I'll send her up, Mr. Barba."

"Thanks, man. How's your ma?"

"She's good – wanted to know if you were going to make more of that stew any time soon."

"I'll have leftovers tonight," Rafael promised. "I'll leave some in the staff fridge for you tomorrow for her. Give her a hug for me."

"Will do." The feed went dead and he went to the main door to wait for Olivia's arrival off the elevator. He casually leaned in the doorway, smirking at her, as she approached. "Long day?"

She looked like she'd been run over by a truck, then the truck had backed up and run over her again. The exhaustion was clearly written on her features. "Yeah," Olivia murmured, immediately moving into his arms for a hug. He wasn't complaining, but he was a little startled by that. "Something smells good."

"Stew," he said softly, brushing his fingertips over her back. "Come in and sit down?"

"If I sit down, I might not get up," she said.

"It's okay – I can bring you food," he teased. "And wine."

"No wine tonight," she said softly. "I had a pre-op check today."

"And? Are you still okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "They wanted to move the surgery forward to Sunday instead of Wednesday but couldn't get a bed in the OR." Liv hesitated. "You're… you're coming Tuesday night when I check in for pre-op, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it," he said gravely. "Do you want me to –"

"I just want you to be there," she said quietly. "You don't have to do anything. They're just holding me overnight before the surgery first thing."

"Okay," he agreed. "Whatever you need."

"I mean, if you need to –"

"Olivia, if I need to work, I can bring papers with me." He shrugged. "But I'm not going to let you sit by yourself all night before a major procedure. They'll have to kick me out."

She inhaled deeply and mumbled, "You're sweet, but –"

"Trying to get rid of me already?" Rafael teased.

"Nah," she murmured. "You're snuggly and smell good."

He chuckled. "Hungry?"

"Yeah. What kind of stew?" she asked, perking up a little bit. He led her back into the dining room, and carefully, gently, pushed her into a chair at the table.

"Oxtail," he replied. "Sit, relax, let me bring you some. But first…" He reached for the bouquet of flowers tied by wine colored ribbon that he'd left sitting on the sideboard. "Flowers because I thought you would like them."

"Thank you," she murmured, "but you didn't have to – I… no one's bought me flowers before."

"No one?" he asked.

"My old partner, once," she said. "On my birthday. When I turned 30."

He frowned. "What an ass."

She laughed. "I mean…"

"None of the men you've dated have –"

"I guess I'm just not the type of girl you buy flowers for," she said, shrugging.

He made a mental note to flood her life with flowers and chocolates and promises he intended to keep. Everything that made a life worth living so she would want to stay, want to hold onto him, want to invest in his broken pieces. "Your life is filled with men who don't appreciate you."

"I'm not sure that's true –"

"Olivia."

She hesitated, then sighed. "I don't need flowers and grand gestures, Rafael."

"What do you need?" he asked.

"Dinner." The answer was pointed and direct. "I'm tired and hungry. Sorry I'm cranky –"

"No, you're right – food," he agreed, heading into the kitchen to ladle up some stew for the both of them. He brought back the bowls and set them down, then went to get glasses of water. "You'll have to tell me what you think. It's my abuelita's recipe."

"Wait," she said, her spoon paused partway to her mouth, "you cooked this?"

"I'm not completely inept," he retorted. "I know my way around a kitchen." He shrugged and dug in, pausing thoughtfully before adding more pepper to his bowl. He reached for the bread in the middle of the table and added, "My neighbor down the hall made the bread. She owns Turner's over on 53rd, you know, the bakery? I help her out pro bono with legal advice, she slips me some sourdough a couple times a week."

Olivia was chewing thoughtfully, then looked up at him. "Why didn't you ask her out?" she asked softly.

"Well, for one thing, she's a lesbian," he joked. "For another… the one time she tried to teach me to make bread, she almost murdered me because I couldn't get the motions right and it came out all weird and gross. And because she's not you." The last was said softly, gravely, almost shyly. It felt like a physical hurt to say the words, like a betrayal of that piece of his heart that wanted to stay hidden for fear of being shattered.

"I burn water," Liv said, making a sad face.

"It's okay," he replied. "You're too busy being a superhero to learn to cook."

"Superhero?" she scoffed.

"What else would you call it?" he asked.

She dipped some bread in the ragout. "Anything but that," she sighed. "I haven't done anything special."

"You've dragged yourself up off the ground when you were at your lowest and kept going," he pointed out. "You help others even though you probably feel like you're trapped inside and screaming for help. I know: I feel it, too. I'm not a superhero, but you bet your damn ass I go into the courtroom and pretend I'm Matt Murdoch." He quirked a grin and picked up a bone. "Is that silly? Maybe. Does it get me through the day and win some verdicts? Definitely." He began unceremoniously chewing meat off the bone, watching her to see if she would eat delicately or go to town.

She was obviously hungry because Olivia chose violence. Once he'd opened the door on what was polite at the table, she attacked her food with abandon. Soon, her bowl was empty, aside from bones stripped of meat and marrow. "Is there more?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course," he said. "Can't let you starve."

"Your grandma taught you to cook?" she called through to the kitchen.

"Yeah, mostly abuelita, but my abuelo taught me how to roast in clay, and my mami taught me some things," he admitted, dishing up more stew for her. He refrained from giving himself more so there would be enough for Paulie's mom, instead focusing on dessert. He took the stew through to her and said, "Eat up – I've got to finish dessert."

"Dessert?" she questioned, raising a brow.

He winked and went back into the kitchen. He had bought six ripe peaches. He only needed one; he grabbed a knife and halved the fruit while he turned the gas on and warmed his cast iron grill. "You have plans for tomorrow?" Rafael asked.

Olivia groaned. "Laundry," she said through a mouthful of food. "Feels like every time I go out lately, I get blood or brains or vomit on me."

He cringed. "Well… you could always bring it over here and save yourself the money. I have a stacked set by the bathroom there. We could watch a movie, talk… whatever."

"Are you hitting on me, Barba?" she teased, deadpan.

He brushed oil onto both halves of the peach and rolled his eyes. "We've already had sex and I'm cooking for you: I think we've established a relationship here," he commented dryly. "Is it still considered hitting on you at this stage?"

"I put in my disclosure form this morning," Olivia said. "I think it's pretty real now."

He felt a sudden rush of tears in his eyes, choked them back, found his voice. "Yeah. Yeah, I… I put in my paperwork at both offices today, too," he said. "I got a call from Jack McCoy, asking if I had fallen and hit my head."

There was a long silence. "What did you tell him?"

"That there was no mistake and if he feels the need to punish me because of my extracurricular activities, that's fine: my best friend from law school is Rita Calhoun and her daughter is my godchild," he said, throwing the peaches onto the grill. "I know how to differentiate the law and my personal life."

"You know Rita Calhoun?" Liv asked.

He laughed. "Know her? Olivia, I'm the one that takes the turkey to her house for Thanksgiving," he said with an eye roll. "She dragged my ass so hard in law school –" He shook his head and smiled, flipping the peaches and wishing he had a time machine so he could show her some of what had happened. "I hated her and yet, we ended up in a study group together and made it through some of the worst of our shit together." He paused. "My father found out I was at Harvard and came up to drag me out and humiliate me. It was Rita who stood up to him and sent him packing, helped me file a restraining order against him… all of it." He pulled the peaches off onto dessert plates, drizzled honey on top, and put a scoop of vanilla ice cream and some granola on top of each.

Olivia was just finishing her stew when he came in with the desserts. "I'm sorry about your father," she said softly.

"He's dead now," Rafael replied. "Rita saved my life." He set her plate down in front of Olivia and smiled sadly. "I'm sorry to drag the vibe down –"

She smiled sadly. "I'd tell you my tragic backstory but it would leave us drowning," she murmured. "This looks amazing, Rafael – what the hell are you doing in a courtroom and not a fancy kitchen?"

"Acts of service," he said softly, leaning down to give her a kiss. "I would die in a kitchen, all the pressure to be perfect dish after dish… a case I can craft and mold to fit the needs of the room and when it's done, it's done." He gave her another peck on the lips, pulling back when she tried to deepen the kiss. "Eat up," he instructed, rounding to his seat to sit down and eat his dessert.

The noises of appreciation she made over her food went straight to the arousal centers of his brain, flipping the switch that made him practically salivate with need. But he held himself in check, eating his food slowly, savoring it.

"What are you making tomorrow?" Olivia inquired.

"Either arroz con pollo or this polenta and vegetables thing my assistant raved about," he replied. "What would you like?"

Her lips curled into a smile. "You're asking me?"

"If you wanted a Chinese delivery, I'd buy that," he replied. "I'm not worried about it. I just want to make sure that you're fed. I know how it is – skipping meals to meet deadlines and snacking on the go because you're out of the office."

"So you're going to spoil me?"

"Absolutely," he said.

She reached for his hand, pulled him out of his chair and whispered, "Where's your bedroom, Barba?"

He immediately got hard. "You don't have to have sex with me because I cooked," Rafael protested thinly, his voice sounding hollow to his ears. "We all have to eat, Olivia."

"I want to have sex with you because every time you say my name, it sounds like you're purring it," she breathed, pulling him close. "Like you're practically devouring the word; and I want you to devour me, Rafael. Please." Her plea was soft, hesitant.

As if she was afraid he would refuse such a request.

What she didn't realize was the superhuman effort it took to keep himself from giving in to the urge to smother her with all of the affection he could. It would destroy them both.

Instead, he gave himself the permission to be the man she needed him to be, not the man who was screaming inside him for release and to meet her soul for soul, desire for desire.

Love would surely be his undoing in her hands.

TBC...