Olivia's cry of ecstasy felt like it was a million miles away.
So consumed was Rafael by the feeling of her silken skin under him and the riotous explosion of colours that flashed through his mind as they found release that he collapsed on top of her in a lucid haze, completely overtaken by the immensity of her presence. Their strained moans quickly gave way to a placid silence, their quiet breaths the only sound in the room, and Rafael stared up into the pitch-black ceiling as the last of the tidal wave of rapturous pleasure washed over him.
And then it ceased.
He couldn't shake it; that countdown to Olivia's departure that automatically started in his head from the second her skin lost contact with his. Five minutes and she'd rise from the bed to pick her clothes off the floor; maybe eight and she'd plant a chaste kiss to his forehead as she fastened the buttons on her blouse. Ten minutes and he'd watch her shut the door to his bedroom and hear the lock of his front door click quietly as she exited into the New York streets, their covert affair nothing more than the Terre D'Hermes that lingered on her jacket.
He waited for her inevitable departure; the soft crinkle of his sheets as she untangled herself from the covers and ran a hand through her tousled hair. He waited for her eyes to meet his from the doorway. He waited for the burn that inevitably filled his lungs as he watched her walk away - a burn of fiery longing; the burn of words unspoken still trapped in his throat.
And so he forced his eyes shut, feeling the last of the adrenaline drain away and anticipating his limbs going numb - until he felt their fingers brush, and then their arms intertwining, and then her head coming to rest on his shoulder; her silent I'm staying.
Rafael gently brushed Olivia's hair from her face as he wrapped a protective arm around her, just making out her soft smile in the darkness of the room, and decided to let himself stop thinking for a while.
It took Olivia a few seconds to remember where she was.
She instinctively reached for her phone on the nightstand, mentally prepared to be jolted out of bed by news of yet another crisis or fire to fight somewhere, only to recall almost jarringly that she'd probably tossed it on the living room floor the night before.
Rafael's living room floor.
She rubbed her eyes and felt her surroundings come into increasing clarity - the slight chill of the silk sheets covering her bare skin, the way the morning sun cast a rainbow on the plaster wall through the partially shut blinds, and the figure of Rafael Barba next to her, his blazing green eyes now fluttered shut in a peaceful, languid slumber.
Olivia sank into the mattress underneath her, hesitant to move for fear of disrupting the peaceful air that had settled over the room. There were no blaring sirens or shouts of frazzled dog-walkers to remind her that she had a hasty morning routine and downtown rush-hour commute ahead of her. There was nowhere she had to be within the next two hours. It was just her - and him.
Did we really do this?
She craned her neck in the direction of the bedroom door they'd left ajar, feeling a warm buzz course through her as she recalled how he'd pressed them against it, his scorching lips meeting the sensitive skin of her neck as she dragged him in the direction of the bed. Their clothes lay in a crumpled heap on the living room floor, the navy blue fabric of her brand-new dress peeking out from below the jeans she'd vigorously tugged off.
Yes, they'd done this.
Her eyes raked over Rafael's sleeping figure next to her, the hands he'd traced her curves with now tucked under his pillow and his hair tousled from the way she'd grasped at it as he sent her right to the precipice of release.
Fuck me, Barba.
Olivia remembered exactly how his eyes had darkened with desire as that name - his real name - slid off her tongue; the sudden vigour he pumped into every caress like she'd flicked a switch in him.
She could enjoy a slow, tender seduction, but those three words alone had been enough to unlock the Rafael Barba she remembered from torrid nights in New York and craved for his return - the immense, insistent eyes that dared her to give in to her desire, yet silently caught her as she fell into him; the way his hands, equal parts scorching-hot and feather-soft, roamed her skin; the tortured yet reverent way her name escaped his lips.
Every strained, guttural moan that'd escaped his throat as she writhed under him summoned the ghost of Olivia Benson - the person who could glance at Rafael Barba from across the room and see no one but him; the simmering desire that a single look from him alone could command in her. Rafael Barba summoned a passion so raw and visceral that Olivia feared she'd forgotten how to feel. He'd swept up the latent and buried anxiety that Olivia Davis kept trapped just under her skin, and let Olivia Benson unshackle herself - a version of herself she liked better than the one she'd left behind three weeks ago.
Then Rafael stirred, his head tilting ever-so-slightly in her direction, and Olivia felt that fragile peace shatter.
They'd had sex.
And they soon were going to have to talk about it.
What had happened to the agreement that they'd take things slow; that they'd not let unchecked, torrid desire run wild in a life already so profoundly alienating and destabilising?
She squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly unable to look at him. Was this too much, too soon?
(It certainly felt like too much, too soon.)
She desperately needed to get her head straight before his eyes opened and she'd feel her rationality slip away looking into them - a rationality that clearly hadn't intervened to stop her from falling into bed with him, five days into their new lives. Olivia slid out of the bed, conscious of the way the mattress crumpled under her as she cautiously placed a foot on the carpeted floor and crept into Rafael's bathroom, wincing when the door hinges creaked as she pulled it shut behind her.
She twisted her hair into a messy updo, the cold ceramic tiles under her feet instantly taking her back to her tiny New York bathroom - the bathroom she'd stood in the first night she'd taken Rafael home. She'd washed her face and collapsed into bed within minutes of him slipping out her front door, neatly tucking away their secret and ready to face him again at work the next morning without as much as an uncomfortable smile at him; now she lingered awkwardly by his sink, every movement doubtful and tentative.
The first splash of ice-cold water on her face was a shock to her senses. He'd kissed her with the longing and passion that'd been swirling between them the last few days. She'd given into the feverish heat that had come over her. She'd enjoyed every moment of it.
The second splash was punishment. She was better than this; better than letting lust obliterate any semblance of the sense and rationality she so desperately needed to become Olivia Davis. There were too many things to worry about as there were, and she suddenly feared they'd irreparably fractured the comfortable rhythm they'd just settled into.
The third splash was ambivalence. Olivia inspected her reflection under the harsh fluorescent light, a world of difference from the soft and warm yellow of his Park Avenue palace, and aggressively rubbed the final traces of last night's eyeliner off her face.
No amount of lying to herself could convince her that she didn't want things to end up this way - not after the long week of smitten glances, easy intimacy, and simmering thirst. No amount of bargaining or persuasion could undo the way that Rafael consumed her. She recalled the seconds before they'd kissed on that Chelsea sidewalk, his wine-scented breath caressing her ear, and she felt the same heat from that night pool in her stomach. What was wrong with picking up exactly where they'd left off? Why was she admonishing herself for letting one of the few things Olivia Benson had going for her become a part of Olivia Davis?
The attention he'd lavished on her and the way he'd traced her curves were identical to the last night they'd spent together. There was every reason to write this off in the same way they did back home - two people who needed to get out of their own heads and then return to work the next day without grand gestures of love or the tempestuous trappings of romance. They'd kept it up for months; then it'd actually blossomed into something promisingly more. She didn't know why she was catastrophizing this.
Except that she also had many reasons to do just that. There weren't their old jobs to return to, and there was no returning to the clinical, almost transactional way they'd first fallen into bed together - not when they now were each other's only lifelines, where the risk of losing each other was a possibility they couldn't and didn't want to fathom. This wasn't New York, and this wasn't a reality that either of them had navigated before. It was a new reality that could spin out of control rapidly with even the most minuscule of wrong moves.
It was happening too fast and too soon.
She dabbed at the faint pink stain her lipstick had left behind, recalling the way he'd engulfed them with yearning. She rubbed them raw.
The final splash was doubt. Did she really want this now - a heat that had risen so rapidly that she feared it'd burn them both? A relationship that was accelerating so quickly and overwhelming the self-control she once thought she'd had and now so desperately needed back? Yet another curveball in an existence that still felt like a hazy figment of her imagination?
What if she did? Could she trust herself with it? Could she trust him with it?
What if she didn't? What was she going to say when she left the safety of this bathroom and they'd both have to confront this?
But she'd stayed last night, hadn't she? She'd chosen to stay. That had to mean something.
Maybe what she really wanted was not having to think about it at all.
Rafael's arm instinctively searched for Olivia's as his eyes fluttered open to the warmth of the sun that was streaming in through the window, panicking when he found only crumpled silk and the cool surface of her now-empty pillow under his palm.
She'd left.
Why should he expect anything different, when this was the rhythm they'd fallen into? Why was disappointment creeping into his chest, when the very fact that she'd lingered for longer than ten minutes after sex was enough of a luxury in itself?
Then he heard the gush of running water and heaved a quiet sigh of relief. She hadn't crept out before dawn.
Five seconds or five minutes could have elapsed and Rafael wouldn't have known the difference. There was only one phrase ringing in his ears as the room came into clarity: fuck me, Barba, her voice so raspy and thick with longing.
Fuck me, Barba. It was intoxicating.
They'd actually had sex. That was the first thing he needed to wrap his head around.
He'd have lingered on that thought if not for Olivia emerging from the bathroom, her face scrubbed bare and brown eyes catching the light. God damn it, she still had her way of making all sense flee his mind - especially when she strolled across the room with an almost disarming familiarity, his eyes following her naked figure as she retrieved her now-crumpled dress from the parquet floor outside. She could easily have dressed herself there and slipped out the door without another word, but she moved back to the foot of Rafael's bed, their eyes meeting as she held the dress in her hands, the hem of the skirt tickling the carpet and sleeves bunched in her palms.
It was as though his gaze had physical weight. It wasn't the ferocious look that he wore during a brutal cross-examination, or the disappointed anguish of a trial loss. It was just… him, looking at her, with a riot of intense, inscrutable emotion.
She didn't know if she felt exposed, or vulnerable, or safe, or turned on.
(Maybe she didn't want to know.)
(Maybe she did.)
Five seconds or five minutes could have elapsed and Olivia wouldn't have known the difference. She carefully wrapped the thin fabric around her torso, shielding her exposed skin from the eviscerating intensity of his eyes, until she stuttered, "I think… I'm going to head home and take a shower."
"Of course."
His expression was inscrutable. So was hers.
Rafael's throat was thick with words unspoken. With a final glance over her shoulder, she slipped out the door as quietly as she always did, pausing in the hallway to pick the keys to the Ford Focus off the floor, and shut the front door behind her with a soft click.
He didn't move from his bed for at least half an hour after she left, or maybe longer. He didn't know for sure; time felt formless and indefinite against the disorienting fog that clouded his mind. He stared up into the stark white ceiling in a trance, the dull ache between his legs and sun warming his bare chest the silent traces she'd left behind.
They'd had sex.
Three weeks ago those words wouldn't have been this seismic. They'd complete that half-formed kiss on the sidewalk after that Chelsea dinner; get into an Uber to his place. He'd kiss her again in the darkened hallway of his apartment, his hands roaming down her back and circling her hips, and she'd pull him into the bedroom and gasp his name in that familiar strained tone until they were both spent. It'd be a natural progression; the simple unfolding of the inevitable in front of them.
Hadn't they just done exactly that - the inevitable? Hadn't they simply picked up where they'd left off in New York?
He'd instantly been transported back to the Upper East Side when his name - his real name - had rolled off Olivia's tongue with such intentionality; such familiarity. It'd unlocked a part of him he'd been trying so damn hard to bury, only to burst through the surface and taunt him each time he raised his pen to sign Rafael Marquez on his Whole Foods receipt. She'd summoned the ghost of Rafael Barba: a fire that his job, and the city, and Olivia had fed, and that he'd thought had already been extinguished permanently.
But this wasn't New York, and this wasn't just a guilty pleasure they could retreat to as an escape from their jobs. This felt like a situation so precarious and treacherous that they might very well have to end up escaping from - one that was threatening to completely rupture the fragile peace they'd just started creating for themselves (provided it hadn't already done that).
Five days. That was how long they'd lasted containing the simmering sexual tension between them - one that'd boiled over and was now threatening to scald them both. Things had been promising in New York, but even that last buoyant, mirthful evening they'd spent together hadn't guaranteed them a thing.
Now, they had even less to anchor them. Just because Olivia Benson and Rafael Barba had been on the right track didn't mean that Olivia Davis and Rafael Marquez were as well.
It was too much, too fast.
He didn't even know how to think about this anymore - the relentless stream of questions coursing through his mind, intermingled with the lingering heat and intentionality of every kiss they'd exchanged in this room, and the dimple in the mattress where she'd contentedly laid with her head on his shoulder. Rafael finally dragged himself into the shower and scrubbed his skin with a vengeance, every stroke his silent punishment for letting their relationship accelerate from zero to sixty before they even had a word for whatever this was.
Then he scrubbed even harder out of spite for just how much he'd enjoyed it.
He instantly noticed that she'd painstakingly folded and hung the hand towel he'd hastily flung onto the floor right before heading out the door to D.C. with her, and his heart swelled before he had a chance to catch himself.
No, he couldn't let himself be blinded by how badly he wanted her. His want couldn't exist in a vacuum. There were many far more important things they needed to focus on to survive.
The rest of the morning passed in an arduous trudge, the frantic tick-tick-tick of the wall clock a persistent reminder of Olivia's conspicuous absence. 9 and she'd arrive at his door with coffee; 10 and he'd slide into the driver's seat of the Ford while they debated how best to circle the block without looking like cops. Now the apartment was empty, devoid of the spirit and colour she brought to it. He missed having her around - even if he wasn't sure if, or how, he'd ever admit that to her.
Now he wondered if the routine they'd barely settled into had already seen its demise.
Rafael grabbed his copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude, its spine already looking worse for wear after he'd left it open to the first page for the last few days. It was such a Harvard thing for him to curl up on the couch with the book in one hand and a pencil in the other, but today, even those familiar actions felt alien to him. Was this something Rafael Barba or Rafael Marquez did? He wasn't sure anymore.
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice…
He still couldn't get past this first fucking page, even though he knew the novel like the back of his hand. Much like how he couldn't think his way out of this fucking enormous potential mess he was staring at with Oliv-
His phone buzzed and the book fell to the floor with a thunderous crash as he reached for it.
Hey. Want to grab lunch?
Those five words suddenly were imbued with far more power than they'd ever possessed, and his breath caught.
Sure.
One word that didn't quite do justice to the relief that was pouring over him.
Great. I'll swing by at 12.
He stared at his phone for a few seconds, contemplating what to say in response - looking forward to it? Was that too excited; too desperate? Thank you? No, too clinical. Not reply at all?
His fingers hovered awkwardly over the keyboard for at least a full minute. He hated that he knew exactly why he was hesitating like this.
Okay.
It was the only response that felt natural; that felt like them. That was the way things had always been between them. Easy. Seamless. Why should one night change that?
He downplayed the spring in his step that emerged as he got dressed and found Olivia waiting at the base of his apartment building, two cups of coffee in the console. "Stopped by for coffee on the way, since I didn't get you any this morning," she remarked casually as they drove off, hints of the breezy, relaxed expression she'd worn the morning before starting to return.
Rafael smiled gratefully and lifted the cup to his lips, the caffeine hit bringing his frantic mind back into clarity. The cup felt uncannily heavy in his hand - heavy as an emblem of the routine they'd carved out; one that they both (hopefully) wanted to return to. He wanted this to be a good sign.
He'd become so used to reading the tiniest of Olivia's cues; studying the ocean of emotion her azure eyes contained. Now he was even more alert to her every movement and word as she turned onto Rockville Pike - the way she held the steering wheel, how their eyes almost met when she leaned over to turn up the A/C. Once upon a time he'd searched her for even the smallest of hints that he wasn't alone in his feelings for her; now he frantically studied her for fragments of doubt.
(He hated himself for that.)
Then she turned up the radio and Bette Davis Eyes started to play, and those distinctive opening bars sent them right back to the relaxed, contented air they'd revelled in before that explosion of feeling. Rafael leaned back in his seat and allowed a laugh to bubble from his throat as Olivia deftly missed every single note in the first verse, an understated ecstasy cascading into that hint of normalcy.
Ten minutes later they were splitting a cauliflower crust pizza in the now-familiar garish plastic chairs of the mall food court, against a backdrop of raucous childish screams and a top 40 playlist blaring through the speakers. They ate unusually silently and quickly (perhaps to put off an awkward conversation about it), their knees touching under the table the only reminder of the events of the night before, and Rafael could feel the nervousness in his stomach fester as his eyes met hers over his slice.
"So - I thought I should pay a visit to Macy's since we're already here," he said abruptly, shattering the silence between them.
Olivia calmly looked up from her half-consumed slice. "What do you need?"
"I think I'm going to need another set of bedsheets."
He didn't know why he'd felt compelled to share that information. Bedsheets. Another reminder of the events of the night before.
(Intentional? A Freudian slip?) (He wasn't sure.)
She frowned quizzically. "What's wrong with the ones you have now?"
"They're too slippery. Cold," he stammered, words suddenly eluding him.
"Well, they felt fine to me," she replied, the corners of her lips curling into a shy - but telling - smile.
Something stirred in him in that instant.
Why was he choosing to make this mountain into a molehill? Why couldn't he just smile about it and fall back into their easy intimacy without letting this cloud of his own making hang over them? He didn't mind being in the same liminal space they'd been in in New York, where the guarantee of her company had been more than enough to quell that lingering desire for more.
Better to stick to 30 than race to 60 and crash and burn, right? Now he had the security of her presence across the table from him, so why was he overthinking things and holding her at arm's length? 30 was safe, 30 was assuring - and 30 was enough.
Whatever he had with Olivia was enough. It was good. He could be happy with it.
"First person to grab the last slice can have it," he managed to joke when he noticed Olivia eyeing the final piece.
"We're not animals, Rafael. We'll just split it," she said in mock annoyance, and halved the slice down the centre. "Come on, let's finish up and get going."
He stared at his half of the slice, ripped clean down the centre by Olivia, and almost couldn't believe that a fucking pizza slice was helping him reach the epiphany he needed.
This wasn't a case of unrequited love or unreciprocated feelings. They'd both wanted this to happen in New York; they'd both exchanged those smouldering looks all through their excursion to D.C. That old saying, it takes two to tango - wasn't that exactly how things had ended up between them last night?
They'd both wanted it.
He had to get out of his own head and focus on the Olivia of the present - the one who didn't recoil when their knees bumped, and still looked at him from across the table with warm, deep affection piercing enough to make his pulse accelerate. The one who still wanted to spend her afternoon window-shopping in a suburban mall with him.
"Macy's, then?"
"Only if you follow me to Ann Taylor after," she retorted playfully.
"Alright, then," he smiled back, and gleefully shoved the rest of the pizza into his mouth.
Rafael honestly didn't remember what they talked about the rest of the afternoon as they wandered aimlessly between stores. She'd baulked at the J Crew prices and he'd left Macy's with a set of Egyptian cotton sheets, but the thing that stood out most clearly in his mind was how easy things were. There was no guilt or shame in her eyes when she cast a glance in her direction, and the small spring in her step was more than enough to convince him that she'd put that morning's awkwardness behind her.
He didn't know how she did it, but if Olivia had no reason to be perturbed, he certainly didn't either.
They'd reached Banana Republic when it finally hit him that they'd fallen right back into the routine he'd feared they'd lost overnight. He was falling back into her life; she was sliding right back into his with remarkable ease. This wasn't a chance meeting or even mindless repetition of that routine - she'd wanted to spend time with him; to pick up where they left off.
It was time he stopped desperately searching for answers and labels and explanations and simply let himself be with Olivia - a luxury that he'd denied himself for months.
That was the way things had always been between them. Easy. Seamless. Why should one night change that?
"Melinda!"
A confused and visibly surprised Melinda Warner looked up from the park bench she'd just made herself comfortable on. "Brian?"
"Hey, am I interrupting anything?" he asked when he caught sight of her still-unwrapped Subway sandwich, his gaze shifty and apprehensive.
She shook her head and motioned for him to sit down, taking in his dishevelled appearance as he did. Bloodshot eyes, clenched jaw, flushed cheeks… he definitely was under stress. Melinda didn't expect anything different. The last time she'd seen the obstinate detective was at his and Olivia's place, seemingly a lifetime ago when her uncannily ebullient friend had a promotion and gorgeous new apartment to celebrate. Now she was gone - and judging from the lifelessness in Brian's eyes, he'd taken that loss hard.
"Sorry for ambushing you like this," he started apologetically, his fingers nervously laced. "With all that's been going on… I just didn't know who else to talk to."
Truthfully, she'd been looking forward to a leisurely, non-death-related lunch break after a morning of automobile accident autopsies, but the way Brian's voice cracked as he spoke to her, his eyes peeled to the ground, stirred something in her. "I'm sorry, Brian. I can't imagine how hard this has been for you."
Her mind wandered back to that housewarming party, where they'd emptied Eileen and Olivia's wine bottles ("a Merlot/Cab-Franc blend from biodynamically grown grapes" - what a mouthful) and chatted over hot soppressata from one of the best delis in Little Italy; but more significantly, she'd finally had a chance to see Olivia and Brian in the same room. At first she'd been sceptical about Olivia's feelings for the hot-headed, infamously brash detective, but seeing them together had quashed any residual doubt: Brian was head over heels in love with Olivia, and the way he looked at her alone would be enough to win over even the most stubborn of cynics.
That light she'd seen in his eyes that day had been completely extinguished. She could just make out the detective shield on his hip - a hard-fought one, but the victory of job security certainly didn't compensate for the enormity of Olivia's disappearance, judging from the fact that he'd come to seek her out on a Tuesday afternoon. How many times had they even talked before this? The sandwich she was holding remained untouched as a mournful silence hung over them.
"Did she suffer, Melinda?" he finally asked after a long pause.
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Liv… did she suffer?" He grimaced and tried his best to forget the smell of blood - one that seemed to linger in the air at just the thought of Olivia.
It took her a few seconds to register what exactly he was talking about.
"Brian…" she began with an apologetic sigh, "I don't know if she did."
He clearly wasn't satisfied with that answer. "What did the autopsy report say?"
"I haven't seen Liv's autopsy report. Or Barba's, in fact. They didn't come through my office," she said matter-of-factly, although her discomfort was becoming apparent. Brian Cassidy, ambushing her like this to probe into Olivia's death? Surely he had an ulterior motive.
"How is that possible?" he asked incredulously. "Don't all these deaths come through you?"
"Believe me, I asked about it when I got the news. Was dreading having to do the autopsies, in fact. But I was told by a federal judge that the Feds took the case, because the hit was ordered on them by a sex trafficking ring that Interpol and the FBI are investigating." She didn't know how much she believed that, but deduced that divulging that doubt to him would be of no help.
"That doesn't make sense," Brian protested.
"I know it doesn't, but it's out of my hands. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
"It's fine, Melinda," he replied, although it was clear that his mind was a million miles away. "Sorry for bothering you."
Before she could get another word in, Brian had risen from the bench and was heading in the direction of the nearest subway station. A muggy spring heat was starting to settle over New York, and he walked the few blocks to the 28th St station in a trance.
I don't know if she did.
It didn't make sense. How did the Chief Medical Examiner not have a chance to even look at the autopsy report of one of her oldest friends?
I was told by a federal judge that the Feds took the case.
He didn't know whether or not to believe her - but then again, why would Melinda have any reason to lie to him? Federal judge? Heck, the Feds? Whatever was brewing behind the scenes, it had to be serious. But it didn't make sense, and he had no clue what to do about that hunch.
Brian chewed on his lower lip in a half-hearted attempt to curb the hot tears that'd been welling in his eyes since leaving Melinda on that park bench, and lingered awkwardly by the steps to the subway station, one hand on his cell phone in his pocket.
He knew that he'd have to stop doing this at some point; that he was going to have to toughen up and move on if he wanted to wake up and report to IAB instead of the Bronx courthouse each morning (a job that Olivia had gone to bat with Ed Tucker for him to help him earn back). He couldn't keep hanging on to every relic of the life he once shared with her, when every other thing in his life mandated that he be here, doing his job, now.
Still, he couldn't help himself and dialled the number he'd long memorised and never allowed himself to forget.
You've reached Olivia Benson. If this is a police emergency, please hang up and dial 911, or call the 16th Precinct at… he prepared to recite under his breath, every little cadence of her voice vivid in his mind and a shockwave to his heart.
Welcome to Verizon Wireless. The number you have dialled has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in service…
Brian cursed audibly. Surely he'd dialled the wrong number by accident, but then he tried again and got the same robotic, emotionless voice.
Welcome to Verizon Wireless. The number you have dialled has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in service…
It'd been less than three hours since he last called the number and had been greeted by Olivia's voice - and now the line was dead?
Of course, there had to be a logical explanation for this. Surely the NYPD could have disconnected her department-issued cell number after her passing; maybe Verizon had done it when she didn't pay her latest bill. But with the mysterious disappearance of Olivia's things from her apartment, and then the lack of an autopsy, and the suddenness of this… he definitely couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Brian trudged down the stairs to the subway platform, the profound loneliness of his confusion making his footsteps especially heavy. Who the fuck was he going to talk to about this? Walk up to his new partner at IAB and tell him hey, I think my ex-girlfriend who was murdered by a sex trafficking ring isn't dead?
He'd get sent right back to the Bronx.
Welcome to Verizon Wireless. The number you have dialled has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in service…
Was that what he really thought? That Olivia wasn't actually dead?
Maybe there was one person who would at least entertain this theory, and even his earlier animosity with the Cuban-American detective wasn't enough to quell the burning curiosity that was brewing.
Now he just had to find the courage to actually put this absurd theory into words.
It wasn't Fin's first trip to Rita Calhoun's palatial Upper East Side townhouse, but given the circumstances of his first visit, he certainly still felt like a fish out of water in her opulent living room, which she'd adorned with pottery on the credenza and a gigantic, ornate tapestry on the wall behind the 50-inch flatscreen TV.
So this is what defence attorneys can afford, he thought to himself, as Rita handed him a glass of bourbon, the crystal heavy in his palm. He didn't like defence attorneys; in fact, he avoided them like the plague. But fate had a funny way of intervening in matters like these.
They'd crossed paths with increasing frequency over the last year, especially after a New York Times profile of Calhoun & Berkeley had driven half of the city's white-collar criminals to the firm, but it was quickly dawning on him just how little he knew about her. A marble spiral staircase formed the centrepiece of the entryway to the house, and he wondered if she had all this space to herself. No ring - she probably wasn't married (and Barba had never broached the topic). But children? A live-in partner?
(Maybe he ought to have done a background check on her before he'd come to her with quite possibly the biggest and most high-stakes secret of his career, but alas, it was too late now.)
"I have beer and wine if you're not a fan of bourbon," Rita suggested when she saw him wrinkle his nose, her Louboutins click-clacking against the parquet floor. Shit, he hadn't meant to be rude - not when she'd offered to host him in a heartbeat when he called her.
"No, I'm good. Thanks." He managed a polite smile, and waited for Rita to take a seat on the sparkling clean white couch (did anyone ever sit on it?) before shedding his jacket with some trepidation. "Sorry we have to talk here. The super's fixing my A/C, and I don't think we can talk about this in a bar…" He was willing to bet that she rarely, if ever, had guests like him over at her place.
She waved his remark off casually. "It's fine, Fin," she remarked, her effortless use of his first name instantly dissipating some of the awkwardness. "Whatever we need to do to keep this under wraps."
Fin knew from her uncomfortable expression that she'd probably had - or was having - a hard time. "How are Mrs. Barba and Rafael's grandma?"
Rita sighed into her glass of red wine - Fin certainly didn't waste a minute. "Lucia's had it tough. Rafael was all she had, and now he's disappeared from her life. You have no idea how much I wished I could have told her that he's alive - and hopefully well - somewhere. Do we really have to keep this from her?"
"The marshals don't even know that you know about Barba and Liv. And they were pretty clear with me that I'm supposed to be the only person who knows a thing," he frowned.
"I guess that's a yes, then," she said defeatedly. "Any clue where they could have been relocated to?"
He shook his head. "The marshals gave me their cards in case of an emergency, but definitely not to ask about that." Fin hadn't been able to resist the temptation to Google Edward Blake and Michelle Nguyen and maybe find out which district office they worked for, but predictably, he found nothing. "How's Lucia doing now?"
"Better, I suppose. She has work to keep her busy. She's a strong woman; I'm sure she'll find a way to get through this. But Catalina's crushed - she's not sleeping well, not eating as well as she usually does," she gulped. "We're hoping her health doesn't take a turn for the worse. Other than that, they're… fine, I suppose. Fine as they can be under these circumstances. I go and visit them whenever I can. How's everything at SVU?"
"As fine as we can be under these circumstances," he echoed. "Cragen's back as interim captain, Amaro's preparing for the sergeant's exam, we're back to a string of random ADAs… We're just trying to get by."
"I wonder how Rafael and Olivia are doing wherever they are."
"Me too."
Occasionally when they got a quiet moment in the precinct Fin couldn't help but wonder which one of the 49 states they'd been sent to. (Probably not New Jersey or Connecticut, but that certainly didn't narrow the possibilities much.) God forbid Olivia end up in rural America by a cornfield where people listened to country music, Barba's loud mouth her only source of entertainment.
"I'm worried about him," Rita admitted. "He's always single-mindedly pursued a law career - and if that's taken away from him, I honestly don't know what he's going to do with himself. And he's stubborn as hell, which isn't good when he needs a new job..."
Fin resisted the urge to question that statement. Barba, not knowing what to do with himself? He seemed far too shark-like for that - but surely Rita had a much better idea of who the former ADA really was. "I don't know what Liv's going to do either. SVU's been her life since she joined the unit." It was easy to dismiss as hyperbole, but Fin knew better than anyone that it was painfully true.
"Well, at least they have each other."
At least they have each other. It was surprisingly comforting knowledge. The duo had definitely smoothed over their early tension - and from the looks from it, had been moving towards something enticingly more before disappearing into obscurity.
"Sometimes, this just feels so unfair," Rita lamented. "We're sitting here drinking, knowing that our friends are alive, while we watch everyone else around us suffer."
"It hasn't even been a month since the funerals. Maybe things will get better over time," he offered, although it felt like little more than a half-hearted platitude. So new and unbelievable was this entire situation that he felt like he had nothing else to offer.
He wished he had something else to offer to her - his unexpected, and only, lifeline.
"Well, at least we have each other," she added jokingly, although the smile that accompanied it was genuine.
"True." Fin clinked his glass against hers. Were they actually friends now? He didn't know - and he certainly hadn't expected to end up in the townhouse of a formidable defence attorney after a 14-hour shift - but she had a good point. At least they had each other.
He hoped that Olivia and Barba were finding the same solace in each other, wherever they were.
"Honda Civic - great choice. Let's head inside and get the paperwork done. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes."
The same sales clerk who'd sold Olivia that Ford Focus looked especially delighted to see them return for yet another vehicle in a two-week window, and gleefully took Rafael's driver license from his outstretched palm. "Great, Mr Marquez. I'll be back in just a minute."
Mr Marquez. He hoped he hadn't grimaced when the clerk had addressed him. Was he ever going to get used to that?
(It didn't help that the sensuous, strained fuck me, Barba that Olivia had growled that night still played in his head on loop after a week.)
"I'm going to miss yelling at you about your driving, Rafael," Olivia remarked with a wistful smile next to him as the clerk disappeared into the office with his license.
"Strangely, I think I'm going to miss that too," he chuckled.
Of course Rafael wanted a vehicle of his own after seeing how limp the public transport network was in this part of town. Of course he finally wanted to be able to drive out to the store and return with more than two small bags' worth of shopping (and without the sweat that dripped from his forehead stepping out into the increasingly humid spring air). And of course he wanted to free Olivia from her self-imposed chauffeur duty after two weeks of her ferrying him to and from virtually every errand he had to run - CVS, Whole Foods, the tiny independent coffee shop that sold the only acceptable Cuban blend in the area.
But he wasn't joking when he said it: he was going to miss Olivia's scathing comments on his driving. And he wasn't about to lie to himself even further - he hadn't exactly been looking forward to this day. The two weeks that'd passed since their arrival in Bethesda were passing by in an increasingly indistinct haze, each day marked by mundane errands or aimless strolls from store to store in the mall, but there certainly had been one defining feature in common: Olivia's car.
He'd become so used to spending each morning in the driver's seat of the Ford Focus, feeling his confidence grow by the day, and afternoons in the shotgun seat cruising around Bethesda and Rockville, sometimes without a destination in mind, the balmy afternoon breeze flowing in through the open windows. Maybe he'd enjoyed those drives so much because he got to see a side to her so carefree and free-spirited - or maybe he did because they afforded him the luxury of uninterrupted time with her that'd been such a rare commodity back in New York. They talked at length about their childhoods or college days or anecdotes from work - their real ones, not the identities created for them - and laughed probably more times in a week than they had in the year they'd known each other.
A car of his own meant independence. And independence was quickly proving scary as fuck - especially when it also came with the impending loss of the routine he'd come to savour so much. The quiet certainty of Olivia's arrival at his doorstep each morning was on the precipice of vanishing, and he couldn't bring himself to open his mouth and ask her what this meant for them, because who the hell wanted to sound that desperate?
"Looks like we're done here. Here are your keys, Mr. Marquez. Enjoy the car!"
The clerk slid the fob across the table with a friendly grin, and Rafael took it in his palm, the plastic piece heavy and almost intimidating. He'd never owned a car before, and when he occasionally wondered what it'd be like to own one, he certainly hadn't imagined that it'd be a used Honda Civic. But that was what he'd chosen, and what he soon was going to have to rely on if he wanted to expand his life beyond a two-mile radius of his apartment building.
"Lunch?" Olivia suggested cheerfully. "On me, of course. We ought to celebrate."
Rafael wasn't sure how much there really was to celebrate, but he agreed with a cursory smile, and trailed her car onto Rockville Pike. The last time he'd driven a Honda Civic was in college, although his jitters quickly dissipated when he got the hang of the controls, and he focussed his attention on Olivia's car a few feet ahead of him.
He owned this vehicle now. It unlocked a world of possibilities in a suburban life so dependent on a car - supermarket trips, errands, even excursions to D.C. without waiting for Olivia to knock on his door. But the newness of all of this; the newness of a routine that didn't necessarily include her in it, made his stomach lurch.
Olivia could see Rafael's new car in the rear-view mirror, his driving far more assured and confident than it'd been the first few days. She was proud of him. She was happy for him; she really was, especially when she recalled the sheer embarrassment with which he'd admitted to her on their first day here that he couldn't drive. There was no reason for her to dampen the pride and relief that probably came with this milestone he'd reached, but the empty shotgun seat and clammy silence now seemed to be taunting her.
The last week had gone so unusually well that it only made each other's sudden absences even more glaring. Rafael and Olivia had fallen right back into their easy, laid-back intimacy, running errands and cruising around Bethesda without crashing right into his bed at the end of the day. Perhaps they were treading cautiously after the heat of that fateful night had almost scorched them both, the small but telling signs peppered throughout the week - she'd turned up the radio just a notch louder than usual to curb the intoxicating, hypnotising tension she knew would swell if they sat in silence; he'd sat just a few inches further away from her on his couch, the living room carpet enough of a reminder of the clothes they'd flung to the floor with wild abandon. That'd worked. They hadn't crashed back into his bed.
Or maybe it was just the sheer amount of time they'd spent together, so comfortable and effortless, that had kept them from sliding back into that lustful, impulsive fever. They were the most content they'd ever been - and there was no reason to puncture that, especially when even the smallest and seemingly insignificant changes had a way of getting magnified in a new life that didn't bring them any other competing crises.
She wondered if this hurdle ahead of them, tiny as it seemed relative to the heinous cases they worked on back in New York, was going to send shockwaves through their peaceful new existence - and if those shockwaves were going to be ones they could come back from.
And so Olivia ended up being the first one to broach the subject over a large pepperoni pizza at Matchbox. "So… I suppose you can sleep past 9 am tomorrow, since we don't have a driving lesson in the morning," she joked lightly, although there was nothing humorous or light about the pang of sadness that stabbed her chest.
"I suppose I can," he chuckled back, although it was as inauthentic as the smile with which he'd accepted the keys to the Honda.
That was the last they discussed of it before they went their separate ways for the first afternoon in a fortnight, both convincing themselves that they were problematising something so insignificant and minor. This was something to celebrate. They weren't going their separate ways forever. They'd always be a phone call - and five-minute drive - away from each other.
Easy. Seamless. That was the way things had always been between them, and they hoped it would prove true yet again, because they didn't know what to expect otherwise.
When Rafael realised six hours later that his tray of eggs was empty, he instinctively reached for his phone and mentally prepared an apologetic is it possible to get a ride to Whole Foods message for Olivia, only to be reminded by the key to the Honda Civic lying next to it that he wasn't going have to ask her.
And so he hopped in the car, still awaiting Olivia's silent confirmation at every intersection he passed, only to be met by a stale silence. He found the eggs and walked to the self-checkout machine without pausing to let Olivia inspect the ice-cream aisle. He hopped back in the car and drove the mile home in that same stale silence, the eggs in a paper bag on the shotgun seat that Olivia once filled.
When Olivia's brand new bottle of hand soap slipped from her palm and she watched the pink liquid leave a sticky film on the ceramic tiles, she found herself in the nearest CVS ten minutes later, filling a basket with much more than just a replacement bottle of soap. Maybe it was her way of pretending that she didn't miss when she had an occupied shotgun seat and his voice ringing her ears all day.
The bottle quickly got replaced when she got home; the mess got cleaned. The pints of ice cream she'd picked up on impulse went right into the freezer. She swept and vacuumed the carpets and dusted the shelves and changed her sheets with zeal, her futile attempts to run - run from a chilling and all-consuming fear she couldn't pinpoint or confront.
It came over her like a spell, the way she reached for her phone on the nightstand when the silence was too oppressive and the empty side of the bed too cold and desolate for her to fall into slumber. She didn't know if it was hunger or desperation or loneliness or all of them amalgamating into one feverish and overwhelming mass - but she did know that there was only one thing that would sate it, and no amount of rationalisation was going to be enough to curb the tidal wave of emotion that was crashing over her.
"Rafael?"
"Liv?"
His voice was a soothing, lilting whisper, yet it made her hair stand on end.
"I can't sleep."
There was a long pause, and then the soft rustle of sheets.
"I'll be there in ten."
That was all it took for them to fall right back into bed.
The ten minutes Rafael promised had become fifteen after making an extremely hasty stop at CVS for a new box of condoms. One part of him admonished himself for racing to make that assumption the instant he heard her voice on the phone; the other part only needed three words from Olivia to be struck by the choked, almost anguished longing in them. Olivia Benson or Olivia Davis, he knew that voice, and exactly what every little cadence was urging him to do.
He was proven right when she opened the door and his eyes raked over her figure, Olivia's gaze wild with craving and breath laboured with expectant ardour. She'd dimmed the lights, leaving only the lavender candles on her kitchen counter that bathed them both in a warm, alluring glow, and Rafael followed in an anticipatory silence as she led him into her darkened bedroom, his erection throbbing almost painfully as their parched lips connected.
It started as a slow, tender seduction once more. He gingerly unbuttoned her blouse, their lips never parting; her hands wandered slowly up his back under the thin fabric of his T-shirt. She lowered him onto her bed, their faces so close that he could feel her warm breath tickle his skin and their bodies quivering with arousal.
She didn't have to choke out "Barba" for him to be taken right back to Park Avenue, where he wasn't living a double life and hadn't been robbed of the career that'd come to define his entire being. She lavished attention on his body, every caress gentle and soothing; she wrapped Rafael Barba and Rafael Marquez in her immense embrace, patching the emotional wounds of the present and sating the long-simmering desire that'd followed them from New York.
Then the tender affection had melted, and she was pulling him against her and his hips were bucking erratically against hers, the quiet longing of the day exploding into fiery lust. Rafael brought a hand to her soaking core, gasping quietly as his fingers plunged into her wetness, and before he could form another lucid thought Olivia ground down on him, engulfing both their guttural moans with a heated, ferocious kiss.
This time, her cry of ecstasy rang clear in his ears, and he stared up into her brown eyes, transfixed by the heat and intensity that coursed through them, blazing even in the darkness of the room. He was consumed by her - completely taken by her scent, her soft skin, the way his name breathlessly rolled off her tongue like a prayer.
Then he leaned up to plant a soft kiss on her lips, his tongue lightly tracing the curve of her chin, and that fiery desire melted back into quiet intimacy, their breaths slowing in time and chests rising and falling against the other.
They both slept soundly that night.
Then they were falling back into bed over and over again.
It didn't matter who made the first call - fifteen, sometimes ten, minutes and they'd be at the other's door, and they'd feel any semblances of tension or stress or melancholy flee them as they lost themselves in the other. It was the way their relationship had been in New York; only it'd evolved into something far more rapturous and all-consuming, every strained "Barba" that Olivia growled under her breath summoning and resurrecting the ghosts of Rafael Barba and Olivia Benson, their old lives converging with the new in an electrifying, earth-shattering explosion of desire.
It was easy. There were no trappings of a grand romance, no elaborate bouquets, no self-conscious, contrived dates in a restaurant where even a too-loud clink of silverware would attract death glares from the neighbouring tables. They didn't hesitate to bare their bodies - and their souls - to the other; the safety they found in each other was a quiet and powerful constant.
It was seamless. They'd fall asleep with legs intertwined and chests just grazing, and wake up to the warm glow of the morning sun, sometimes lying there in a tranquil silence without paying heed to the clock on the wall.
It was comforting - a far cry from the transactional, almost ruthless efficiency of their Manhattan affair. It was slow, caring, tender; until she gasped out a passionate "Barba" or he shot her that look he saved for Benson and the heat would instantly reach a fever pitch. There was no rush to catch the subway home or call an Uber, the once-omnipresent anxiety now replaced with an unhurried, relaxed tempo only they shared.
Easy was exactly what they needed - not complicating things where they didn't have to be complicated; not letting a cloud of anxiety hang heavy over the only time they truly had to unshackle themselves from the harsh, inescapable reality of the present and retreat into Olivia Benson and Rafael Barba once more. All this was exactly what they needed: a constant that was removed from the double lives they'd been forced into living, where all they needed was to lavish attention on the other until the dull ache of melancholy and mourning for their old lives vanished into the privacy of the bedroom.
And soon they fell into a new routine. Sometimes they didn't have sex, instead opting for a quiet afternoon on her couch, watching re-runs of The Voice or Nora Ephron movies or whatever Netflix documentary caught their eye. Or they cooked dinner and he'd read One Hundred Years of Solitude aloud to her, the bookmark he'd tucked into it a quietly comforting reminder of how he'd finally been able to pass the damned first page. On other days they'd leave one of their cars behind and drive the ten miles into D.C. to lose themselves in one of the Smithsonian museums, stopping by Chinatown for take-out on the way back, and then fall asleep skin-to-skin by the end of the night.
He was consumed by her; she was consumed by him. They poured themselves into the simplest and most mundane of tasks, ensconced in the safety of the lives they'd once led. And they quickly realised that they wouldn't have it any other way.
By the time Rafael finally caught up with Olivia at the intersection, he wasn't sure if his red face and laboured breaths were the result of sheer physical exhaustion, or embarrassment over the way even her slowest jog left him in the wind.
This new ritual had started when Rafael made an off-handed comment about the enormity of the Georgetown Prep sporting facilities outside his window and those obscenely lucky prep school bastards who enjoyed them, to which Olivia had remarked in passing that they ought to take advantage of the balmy spring weather to finally start exercising again.
"It's been a while since I last jogged outdoors. Maybe I ought to get moving again after driving around all day. Want to join me?" she'd asked off-handedly when they were watching You've Got Mail on his laptop after a dinner of Korean take-out.
Rafael paused in a stunned silence. Exercising with Olivia?
He'd eyed her toned, muscular calves that were peeking out from under his sheets and was quickly reminded of the Equinox membership he'd bought a year ago that became a white elephant. It wasn't that he was opposed to the idea of exercising; he'd just never found the time between a new borough, and his mother, and Olivia, to make trips there. When even was the last time he'd willingly run for something that wasn't the downtown 4 train? But Olivia's eager expression - and the fact that it could be an interesting addition to their new routine - made him nod in agreement before he could contemplate the idea further.
Now, his shirt dripping with sweat and left calf muscle cramping, he wished he'd thought this through for a second longer.
Olivia was looking at him sympathetically as he struggled to catch his breath, the few drops of sweat that beaded her forehead the only evidence of the mile she'd effortlessly breezed through. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Rafael lied through his teeth. "You know, you should just go ahead without me. I don't want to hold you back," he panted as he limply waved an arm towards the long stretch of road ahead of them.
"Are you sure?" she asked concernedly, "I can slow down and keep you company, you know."
"It's alright, Liv - you go ahead. I'll meet you at the park?" He managed a semi-confident smile through the searing pain in his left leg.
A wave of white-hot guilt rippled up his spine. She'd practically become his chauffeur for the first two weeks they'd been here; she'd followed him through the mall without a word of complaint and even helped him load the sheets they'd dirtied into his washer. She'd already slowed her relentless jogging pace to narrow the fifty-foot gap between them. So many concessions, all for him. He couldn't make her slow down for him - not again.
She gestured at the cell phone she'd tucked into her armband. "Alright, I'll see you there in a bit. Call me if anything happens."
Rafael gave her a thumbs-up and she took off, the way her leggings hugged her toned calves momentarily distracting him. He'd never have been able to tell that she'd been shot in the thigh just a month ago - thankfully, it'd ended up a surprisingly superficial wound, but he'd probably have used that as an excuse not to run anywhere for at least a month longer if he were her. And here she was, pounding the pavement, every footstep charged with the same sense of purpose and intentionality he saw when she led perps through the squad room.
You should just go ahead without me. I don't want to hold you back.
He didn't want to hold her back, he thought, as she disappeared around the bend at a speed even faster than the one she'd originally started at.
She'd been one step ahead of him since they'd arrived in Bethesda. Running errands, driving, even sex - he looked at the way she dashed off and all he saw was a woman so profoundly in control of her new life that any of the traces of anxiety he'd seen in the clearinghouse nearly a month ago had seemingly disappeared. This Olivia was no exception: she called the shots, and he obediently took cues from her.
He'd always liked - and maybe even loved - this Olivia. There was an assuring self-possession to her that he'd come to lean on, whether for silent affirmation that he'd made the right call in court or chosen the best second-hand car at the dealership. He liked seeing her in control; he liked having someone with rock-solid planning and decision-making skills to make a coherent whole of the minutiae in his life that he hated thinking through, especially when they were staring down a future still so profoundly alienating. Maybe he liked having someone else lead the way, after the almost obsessive control he'd had over his life in New York - a control that'd seemed to disappear with the loss of almost everything that once made him the person he was.
Except that there now was an unsettling, irrational worry that was starting to fester in his mind, and he couldn't put a finger on it.
Rafael forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, fighting the stabbing pain of the stitch that'd formed in his left side. In the distance he could just make out the sign that read Timberlawn Park, his light at the end of this profoundly exhausting tunnel, but then he caught sight of Olivia's figure leaning against one of the signposts, casually stretching her right leg with an intimidating, almost cruel effortlessness.
His feelings came into increasing clarity with every step he took. She quickly dabbed at her forehead with the towel she'd thought to hang around her neck, while he lumbered towards her, perspiration coating his entire back (from the towel he hadn't thought to bring along) and an excruciatingly painful blister forming on his right heel.
He now knew what it was. He felt incompetent. Inferior. Lagging behind her.
Rafael had never once felt like this - especially not with Olivia. He had always held his own in New York: smooth-sailing career, unconditional support from his family, a boss who respected him, a stunning conviction rate, the news clippings and press interviews to back it all up. So accustomed had he become to success that even the smallest of setbacks now felt bitter and cutting, and Rafael realised with a sinking feeling that the bitterness that now was pooling at the back of his throat… was because of Olivia.
For a second he couldn't comprehend how the person who'd brought him so much solace and joy since their arrival in Bethesda could also be the source of the nagging insecurity that was starting to eat away at him. He'd always liked this Olivia, hadn't he? She was the same Olivia he'd fallen in love with all those months ago, whether or not her last name was Benson or Davis. Maybe he was the one who'd changed.
Was he feeling admiration? Respect? Jealousy? Intimidation?
Was he feeling threatened by Olivia?
You should just go ahead without me. I don't want to hold you back.
He hadn't intended for that line to sound like surrender, but he was starting to wonder if he'd already held up a white flag.
CASE NOTES: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
Rafael Marquez (Barba) [Deputy US Marshal Edward Blake]
22/5/2014, Friday, 3-4pm
Rafael's earlier resistance to creating a new alias made his progress surprising. He has recently acquired a vehicle and appears to be somewhat comfortable with the area, although I noticed some hesitance when he was asked to sign some paperwork with his new signature - perhaps a sign of his difficulty assuming his new alias. While he did not mention any significant issues assimilating into the area, he was generally reticent about his experience and seemed reluctant to discuss more specific details, which I will follow up with him on in the weeks to come. It appears, however, that Olivia is an important source of support for him, and has helped him significantly with the transition.
He has not yet considered career options, as his strong passion for the legal industry has unfortunately proven difficult to overcome. Although it is not a matter of grave importance at the moment, I have reminded him that he will no longer receive federal funding from November, and hence will need to save himself adequate time to undertake a thorough job search, with the goal of financial independence (especially as he has been spending his monthly allowance rather quickly).
We will speak again in a fortnight. My hope is that he will be more forthcoming with his specific administrative and logistical needs, so that we can address them in a timely manner.
CASE NOTES: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
Olivia Davis (Benson) [Deputy US Marshal Michelle Nguyen]
22/5/2014, Friday, 3-4pm
Olivia's adjustment process has been smooth-sailing thus far. Her undercover experience in Oregon has proved an invaluable asset to her transition to life in Maryland. Her home is well-furnished and she also owns a vehicle, which she has used extensively to explore the area. She mentioned that her close relationship with Rafael has been a key source of support for her; the positive impact of this is clear. Throughout our meeting, she was in good spirits, and appeared to be at ease in her new residence; she also was forthcoming and honest about her experiences.
Her attitude towards the various changes has been positive, and she has demonstrated remarkable proactiveness in assimilating into Bethesda, including expressing a strong interest in applying for a new job even before I broached the subject. She is particularly interested in pursuing a career in the realm of advocacy or social justice. I will maintain contact with her and track her job application progress, although I do not anticipate any significant issues ahead.
We will speak again in a fortnight. I look forward to hearing more about her progress.
There was something different about Olivia that Rafael couldn't quite put a finger on, and it wasn't the sex.
"What should we do tomorrow?" he asked casually, as he lazily extracted his boxers from the tangled sheets and slipped them back on. "Liv?"
She'd hugged a pillow to her chest, her mind a million miles away, until Rafael gently tapped her on the shoulder.
Olivia looked up, startled. "Sorry, what?"
"Penny for your thoughts?"
She shifted onto her side, her arm coming to rest beside his torso. "Just thinking about the chat I had with Nguyen today," she remarked with a contemplative smile.
Rafael couldn't help but frown. He certainly had nothing against Blake, but he also didn't want to be thinking about their awkward and stilted hour-long chat, especially as the last of his rapturous high hadn't yet left his system. He allowed himself to sink into the mattress below him, any traces of adrenaline immediately fleeing his body, wondering what Olivia could possibly have to say - or smile - about her chat with Nguyen.
"I think… I'm going to start looking for a job," she said with a quiet, but confident, smile, as she stared up into the ceiling with an eager determination in her eyes.
That certainly wasn't what he'd been expecting to hear.
"That's great, Liv," he uttered with a forced smile, although he knew instantly from the discomfort that was starting to form in his mind that something was amiss. "I'm excited for you."
Was he really, though?
Olivia moved to nuzzle against Rafael, the soft kiss she planted on his cheek her wordless thank you, and her eyes quickly fluttered shut while he lay awake next to her, his mind restless and panicked.
She'd been one step ahead of him since they'd arrived in Bethesda, and it was happening again. A job? That was the last thing he wanted to devote his energy to now - not when the loss of his legal career was still so raw. But she was forging ahead, and he couldn't possibly stand in her way.
Rafael knew he had two options. He could let Olivia inspire him and rouse him into action, like she always did. Or he could let himself be intimidated by the resilience and steely ambition she had in abundance but he suddenly felt devoid of (and he didn't even know why).
It was obvious which option was better; which option he ought to be feeling.
Still, he couldn't decide.
