Setting: Sometime before Barba's exit.
It's not that they didn't touch or weren't comfortable touching. They did and they were. Even while working, even in public, it was nothing for a hand to brush or clasp a shoulder, an arm, to guide from the small of a back, to wrap around an elbow to redirect. And in private they were always in and out of each other's personal space without thought. Casual. Comfortable.
It was just that up until this point and accepting that the night where things had nearly gotten "sensational" between them was statistically aberrant, any major and certainly any prolonged body contact had always been functional: an act of comfort or thanks or congratulations, a way to bring closure to a particularly heavy moment between them, or in their first such interaction literally trying to keep warm during a winter power outage.
When Olivia had laughed at a video she was watching on her phone, and rather than taking it from her to see what the fuss was about Barba had slid closer so they could view it together, that wasn't new. When she brought her knees toward her chest and leaned back against him so he could watch over her shoulder, his arm along the couch behind her, that could be considered comparable to past actions.
But when the video ended and she swiped to her Twitter feed while he clicked on the TV to watch the news, and she slouched so that the back of her head came to rest against his temple and his hand came to rest against the outside of her thigh and they weren't moving, weren't retreating, THAT was new.
Also new was the consciousness of it. She was making a choice not to move away. He was making a choice to hold her there. But not because they were reacting to any stirrings, not because they were trying to make a statement. It just felt nice.
It felt so nice that when she had caught up on social media she tossed her phone aside and turned to extend her legs so that her feet were pressed against his on the coffee table. His arm was no longer around her, but they sat shoulder to shoulder. And when his fingers found tentative purchase just above her knee, she covered his hand to keep it there.
Yes, very nice. But very new.
Minutes passed before Barba, being Barba, couldn't resist the urge to mute the TV and talk about it. "Not that I'm in any way suggesting we stop what we're doing, but does this seem kinda close to entering "friends-with-benefits" territory to you?"
"Are you asking if I'm one couch-cuddle away from trying to rip your clothes off?"
"Uh - no. Which is in and of itself enough to warrant my question, don't you think?"
"What I think is that we've already had this conversation." Releasing his hand, Olivia tucked her legs under her so she could face him. "You said you were fine with me 'using' you. You were all for it if I remember correctly."
His feet left the coffee table and he too turned in, sitting Indian-style casually as though this was the most normal discussion two friends could be having.
"Those were simpler times," he told her, his voice and expression neutral, just stating a fact.
The neutrality made it difficult for Olivia to discern exactly what he was trying to say, to lead them to. And since they were apparently beyond any coyness this type of conversation might normally engender, she decided to simply ask. "So does that mean you're NOT okay with me 'using' you anymore? Because I could point out that you were the one that just put your hand on my leg all smooth and nonchalant-like. You could have kept your mouth shut and let me assume you were making a move on me if that would have made you feel better."
"Would you have assumed that?"
"Well... actually no."
"And we're back to the reason for my original question."
She found it frustrating when he tried to talk about personal subjects with the air of a professional litigator. "Okay, Counselor," she stressed. "I concede your point. Maybe we're acting a little high school cuddle-buddy or GBF for two middle aged straight people. But let's face it - "friends-with-benefits" would be entirely inaccurate considering you picked my kid up from a play date today, cooked us dinner, did the dishes, and if I'm not mistaken fit in at least two loads of laundry. We're more like "married-people-withOUT-benefits"."
"So just "married people", then," Barba joked, and they both chuckled. "Anyway, that reminds me that I need to fold the sheets before they get wrinkled. I'm sorry I brought this all up."
He tried to stand but she stopped him. "No you're not. So why don't we just skip the verbal gymnastics like good married people and you can get to your point."
"Have you always been this much of a nag?"
She slapped his arm playfully. "Don't deflect."
"Fine. You win." He reached for the glass of Scotch on the end table and downed what remained, as liquid courage and to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts. "I guess I was just trying to process and reflect on how far we let this go without acknowledging the fact that we ARE middle aged straight people playing house and being oddly okay with it."
"Well, apparently exactly THIS far, since you just did." She soothed his obvious sheepishness by leaning into his side. Perhaps proving whatever point he was dancing around, but she was tired from her long day and from the second glass of wine she'd allowed herself after dinner and he was solid and warm and smelled good and who the hell even cared anyway.
Not him, apparently. At least not enough to keep him from resting his chin on the top of her head and settling his hand low on her hip. And he hadn't had enough Scotch to use it as an excuse.
"So. Named, acknowledged, oddly okay. That covers everything, I'd say. We good, Rafa?"
He couldn't quite hold in the laugh that her no-nonsense summation prompted. "Yeah, Liv. I guess we are."
She sat up, pulled away, looked at him thoughtfully as though she had something insightful to add, something tender to assure him with. Instead: "Good. Because the laundry isn't going to fold itself."
They both laughed, and then they folded the sheets together.
(Much later they would point to this night, this conversation, as what opened the floodgates, as what ushered in the inevitable. And they would tease each other fondly about just how oblivious they had both been for so long about where it all was heading.)