Monday, 3pm

Hey. Great seeing you today.

(Olivia Davis is typing…)

I know this is sudden, but -

I have the afternoon off tomorrow. Want to get coffee?

(Rafael Marquez is typing…)

(Rafael Marquez is offline.)

(Rafael Marquez is typing…)

Sure, tomorrow's good.


Tuesday, 3pm

He thought that he'd have more time for this.

It all made sense in Rafael's mind. Olivia was working a 9-5 now; surely she couldn't carve out time in the middle of the work week to meet him for coffee and reopen all the wounds from the night of July 2nd. She'd probably suggest the weekend, giving him at least four whole days to mull over where to begin - or more specifically, how to begin to apologise for just how awful he'd been to her for the whole month before that. Time was on his side - surely he'd have himself together by the time he saw her?

Then he'd received that text from her, so innocuous yet powerful enough to make his pulse accelerate unconsciously, and he couldn't bring himself to turn her down.

Want to get coffee?

How could he say no to that without admitting that he'd spent the last two weeks agonising over what he would say to her when they finally spoke again? Or that the prospect of sitting across from her after so many weeks of radio silence actually terrified him more than it excited him?

So he'd fired off a quick "sure, tomorrow's good" before he could let his nerves overtake him completely, and watched a thumbs up from Olivia appear on the screen to confirm that he didn't have until the weekend to mull over this.

Then he'd spent the rest of Monday afternoon alternating between the half-finished resume on his laptop screen and conspicuously turning his focus away from what awaited him the following afternoon, only for it to re-emerge when he caught sight of even the tiniest thing relating to Olivia: his spare and long-unused coffee cup, an Ann Taylor pop-up in the corner of an online job portal, and heck, even the Nordstrom paper bag in his recycling bin that reminded him of the serendipitous afternoon they'd locked eyes in the mall parking lot.

He'd seen the way her eyes lit up when she looked up from the bags she was loading into her trunk and caught sight of him a few parking spaces away; he'd heard the relief in her voice the afternoon before when he'd finally mustered the courage to look her in the eye and tell her I've missed you. Why couldn't he just hold on to that - that modicum of hope that assured him that things between them had a chance of going back to normal?

But what even was "normal" anymore, when they were straying further from the Olivia Benson and Rafael Barba they'd been in New York by the day? Could he even hang onto that hope when there was no guarantee they'd bounce back from a cold war so acrimonious that it easily outstripped any petty workplace conflict they'd once butted heads over?

In any case, there were two things he knew for certain: that he'd absolutely shattered her - and their relationship - that night, and that the conversation they were about to have would decide if things had been irrevocably shattered.

Now Rafael was in his usual corner table at the coffee shop, his eyes darting between his half-finished latte (he'd decided at the last minute not to make it a double, which would only make his shaking hands even more jittery than they already were) and the entrance a few feet away, despite his glaring awareness that he'd shown up a full twenty minutes early.

When was the last time he'd been early for something? After spending years of his career carving out a larger-than-life, almost mythical presence, Rafael Barba the prosecutor only ever showed up right on time or fashionably late, the room immediately falling into a hushed silence whenever he emerged through the door. Why sit in an empty meeting room with only his files and legal pad for company when he could stride in five minutes later and look a perp - and whichever slimy defence attorney had agreed to represent them - in the eye and watch the life drain from them as he outlined how exactly he'd nail them to the wall?

Except he'd now lost the job and the armour he'd cloaked himself in each morning - along with the invincibility that came with them. He'd always been more than confident that he could salvage a rapidly crumbling case, but this? This was another monster altogether.

Especially when he'd injected the lethal dose of poison into their relationship.

Alison wordlessly set a cup on Rafael's table five minutes before their designated meeting time, emblazoned with "Olivia" in black Sharpie, and his stomach lurched. Fifteen minutes ago this had seemed like a brilliant idea; why not have her coffee waiting for her when she arrived and beat the growing afternoon rush? And so he'd asked the young barista, whose knowing glance made it clear that she'd accurately guessed that things between Rafael and Olivia had soured of late, for two lattes - no bells and whistles.

The tauntingly cheerful 90s playlist that piped through the speakers made him nauseous. Had he been presumptuous, assuming that this was what she wanted him to order? Had her taste changed in the month they'd spent apart? Would this be enough of a sign that they'd fallen out of sync, even before they exchanged a word?

Perhaps it wasn't so much the irrational worry that was getting to him - how could he possibly be wrong about Olivia's choice of coffee after all the time they'd spent together the last two years? - but more the very fact that he was fretting about this. Fretting about her.

Maybe agreeing to meet today was a mistake. He'd lost his old job and the armour he'd cloaked himself in each morning - and now he was realising he'd lost his eloquence, too.

So used was he to just winging a closing argument or tough cross-examination on little sleep and just a few barely legible notes on his legal pad that his Harvard oratory kicked in effortlessly when push came to shove, but now his tongue felt like lead and his mind a whirl of opening lines that never seemed like enough - because highfalutin, pretentious Harvard oratory was the last thing he wanted to fall back on when talking to Olivia. Maybe nothing would be enough to fully close the wound he'd left the night he callously ejected her from his life, but he owed it to her - and himself - to at least try, and God, he hoped that he could, because the devastation in Olivia's eyes that he'd put there that night, so haunting and penetrating, had never left him.

Three times he'd bumped into her in the last fortnight - at Whole Foods, the mall, this very cafe - and words had eluded him each time, perhaps because he knew deep down that they'd find some time or place far more conducive for excavating all the residual hurt, anger and disappointment that'd had a whole month to percolate. And so when Rafael glanced at his watch and he realised he had two minutes until her Ford pulled up in the parking lot on the other side of this glass window, it hit him in full force that this was it - this was a long-awaited reunion that could end in abject heartbreak if he didn't get his act together now.

How did he want to play this? Ease their way into the inevitable with whatever superficial, light-hearted small talk they could muster until one of them ripped the Band-Aid? Take Olivia's cue on this and put the ball in her court, after denying her that choice that July night? Or was that too wishy-washy for a mistake of this magnitude - should he take the reins and apologise the instant she settled in her seat?

He thought that he'd have more time for this,, but Olivia was making her way through the entrance of the coffee shop, and there was no opportunity left for him to back out.

"Thanks for ordering for me," she said as she approached the table and noticed the cup waiting for her - and the growing line by the counter.

"Got a latte for you," he stated matter-of-factly, relieved that his trepidation hadn't (yet) leaked into his voice.

She gratefully lifted the cup to her lips to take a swig of the now-cooled latte, and Rafael felt like he could exhale. This wasn't the bumpy start he'd feared, but that still left him with the weight of everything else still unspoken.

There was an almost disarming casualness to the way Olivia slid into the seat opposite him, her latte in hand and wind-swept bangs framing her face, and for a second it was as though he was transported back to the idyllic first month they'd spent here, when the sheer unfamiliarity of their circumstances had been a unifying force they once thought unbreakable. Those balmy summer afternoons cruising around Bethesda in her car as she croaked along to some tune on the radio, so uninhibited and carefree; the quiet, easy intimacy of evenings on her couch, her head resting on his shoulder as they watched a movie and hair tickling his collarbone...

No, he couldn't get distracted now. Rafael kept a firm grip on his now-empty coffee cup and straightened in his seat. Those moments were in the past, and he had to focus on the present; the very real conversation that they were about to have.

Now they'd been broken - completely shattered, in fact - and it was time to start picking up the pieces.

Rafael watched as Olivia shifted uncomfortably in her seat and fidgeted with the sleeves of her blouse as though the exact same thought had crossed her mind. The coffee shop was abuzz with conversation, but only an awkward silence hung over them, and he anxiously downed the rest of his drink in a futile attempt to calm his nerves. When was the last time he'd been this tongue-tied with her? Had he ever been this tongue-tied with her, even back when what he thought was his unrequited desire had reached a fever pitch?

He'd felt so many things in Olivia's presence since the day they'd first locked eyes in 60 Centre Street: respect, admiration, annoyance, frustration, desire… but never did he expect that he would one day feel so self-conscious sitting across from her, every moment calculated and cautious. She took a long, slow sip from her paper cup, her body language calm and unflappable as it always was, but the way she skilfully averted his gaze made it clear that the walls he'd spent so long trying to break down had come back up.

The afternoon sun danced into the room through the open window, gently illuminating her face, and Rafael's breath caught.

For a split second, he was sitting across from her in Founding Farmers, iced tea in hand and her laughter reverberating in his ears, their knees grazing under the table and sending shockwaves through him with every touch - a quiet intimacy he'd once taken for granted, and he now feared would never get back.

Now there was only a stony silence to the backdrop of a driving, furious Alanis Morissette song, and the effervescent warmth had all but disappeared from her brown eyes. Rafael stiffened in his plastic chair, the mirthful conversation they'd once shared fully replaced by a profound discomfort as they kept their eyes peeled to their coffee cups. Two feet separated him from Olivia - yet it felt like an ocean of distance.

Just yesterday they'd stood right by this table and expressed their eagerness to sit down for coffee, but now that this conversation was staring them in the face, Rafael's mouth was dry and his mind overwhelmed with a heady mix of trepidation and fear. God damn, where had all their intimacy gone? Why were they sitting across from each other like strangers, after all they'd weathered together?

Why had he let them reach that state of ruin?

As the final bars of the song played, Rafael took a deep breath and finally punctured that oppressive silence.

"So… how has work been?"

Harmless small-talk. It was superficial, but superficiality was fool-proof, wasn't it?

"Fine, I guess," Olivia said offhandedly, her eyes still trained on her coffee. "It's been an adjustment, but I like the charity and it's a great place to work," she added with a slight smile.

"That's nice," Rafael replied, unsure if he wanted to press for more when he detected even the slightest bit of reticence in her tone. Was she seeing right through his ruse; this delay of the inevitable?

"How's your job search going?" she quickly asked before he could linger on that thought any further.

Small talk. Two could play that game.

"Still getting there - I think I'll start sending out my applications next week," he said with the same matter-of-factness she had. "I need some extra time to get my resume and cover letters in order first."

"That's great to hear. Text me anytime if you need another pair of eyes," Olivia offered, although the slight smile she wore never quite blossomed into something more.

"I may take you up on that offer, actually. Thanks, Liv."

"Great."

And then silence again.

Thanks, Liv? He'd said that to her countless times, but the polite, business-like manner with which he'd said it this time made him bristle. Perhaps this would be in character for them two years ago when they were little more than an SVU detective and ADA working on a case, but they'd survived an attack on their lives and had their lives uprooted and fallen in and out of bed together in the last few months alone - and now they'd regressed back to those transactional first meetings in his office, speech pointed and hearts guarded.

Thanks, Liv. He hated how something so simple gave away the magnitude of the gulf that now separated them.

Great.

Now Rafael wished that he hadn't downed his entire cup of coffee in the minutes before they'd started this conversation, because he desperately needed something, anything, to divert his attention. Harmless small-talk: it was superficial, and only made that gulf feel even more insurmountable.

If Olivia had detected his discomfort, she wasn't showing it. She nodded briefly at a visibly concerned Alison behind the counter and then quickly turned her attention back to her coffee, her eyes still not fully meeting his. Was she waiting for him to make the next move; to move on from what they both knew was a half-hearted attempt to delay the inevitable? Waiting for him to rip the Band-Aid, because that was only the right thing for him to do after he'd exiled her from his life?

God, he felt like an abject idiot. He'd agreed to this meeting knowing full well that he'd have to atone for what he'd done - so why was he still hesitating?

He got his answer when he forced himself to look at her - really look - and took in her presence in the seat across from him: sleeves rolled up but still remarkably polished and composed, expression as calm and measured as it could be under the circumstances, emotion in her eyes unperturbed and inscrutable. The same Olivia he'd laid eyes on the first time in Part 11 that July 2012 afternoon - the mythical Olivia Benson of Manhattan SVU who'd until then only existed on the pages of New York Ledger or reverent whispers in the bar; the Olivia he'd prepared to keep at arm's length from the first case they worked on, because he couldn't imagine bearing himself to someone so casually confident and laser-focused.

It was also the same Olivia he'd shared little more than a professional working relationship with. The Olivia he'd soon be bumping into only occasionally at Whole Foods or the mall every once in a while if he didn't tread carefully now; the Olivia he'd fallen for that frigid winter's afternoon that he'd once silently accepted would never meet his gaze with the warm affection he'd grown to crave. They were on the precipice of falling right back into that liminal space - and it was up to him to catch them before they fell.

Rafael took a deep breath and forced his surroundings to come into clarity. Starting a conversation like this was always the most difficult step - all he had to do was look her in the eye, steady his voice and apolo-

Their knees accidentally brushed under the table.

He pulled away instinctively, even that split-second touch sending shockwaves through every fibre of his being. But that wasn't what consumed him, because he could have sworn that he saw something flash through Olivia's eyes - emotion that was more than enough proof that she'd felt that same volt of electricity course through her. Emotion that was enough to tell him that she wanted those afternoons in Founding Farmers again; those quiet evenings in her living room, limbs tangled and breaths falling in sync.

And that was the sign he needed.

Why rehearse so hard? Why go over his opening line so obsessively when that wasn't the Rafael Barba that Olivia needed him to be? Didn't she deserve nothing less than his most honest and unguarded self?

It was time for him to drop the self-consciousness and do exactly what the Rafael Barba of 2013 wanted nothing more of - to bare his soul to her. He took another deep breath, steeled himself, and shattered the expectant silence.

"Liv," he started nervously, his voice gaining strength the more he spoke, "I owe you an apology."

She finally looked up from her coffee to really look at him, the residual hurt of that July night seeping back into her eyes, but didn't speak.

"I was out of line. I shouldn't have said all the things I said that night, and I'm sorry."

You're the problem. You're the reason I can't move on.

He bristled replaying that exchange in his head, but knew that his visceral response had nothing on what Olivia had felt that night or was feeling now, her brows furrowed and lips pursed as though she was reliving it yet again. The split-second of warmth he'd seen just a minute ago now felt like a distant reality, overtaken by the residual hurt and devastation of that night.

"You were concerned, and I overreacted. If I could take that back, I would," he admitted. "And driving to Jersey - that was egregious, and the last thing I want is to put us both in danger."

His cheeks flushed instinctively. All month he'd tried his absolute hardest not to think about that frantic drive up the I-95, as though he'd been in a trance - and all the calls and texts from Olivia he'd wilfully ignored to drive himself within a hair's breadth of the belly of the beast.

Olivia set her coffee cup back on the table with a soft thud and listened in a tense, brooding silence while Rafael tried desperately to read the inscrutable emotion in her eyes. For yet another split-second he could have sworn that her guarded expression softened once more, only for her to quickly steel herself.

Her voice was low; serious - a stern sotto voce. "You hurt me, Rafael," she confessed, a small hint of venom infiltrating her tone. "I know you had it tough, but it just felt like you were… punishing me for it."

"I'm sorry, Liv," he repeated, this time even more apologetically. "You didn't deserve that from me, and you had every right to be angry. You have every right to be angry."

Olivia straightened up in her seat and frowned. "You can't treat someone like that just because you're going through something difficult. I'm not saying that I'm not empathetic to how much you struggled with the adjustment, but things should never have gotten that bad before that night."

Her tone was still calm; still business-like and matter-of-fact, but that didn't dull the almost eviscerating way she looked at him across the table, as though her gaze had physical weight, and he had absolutely nowhere to hide. He couldn't hide; especially not now - he'd opened this door, and he was going to follow through with it no matter how much Olivia's words cut him.

"I take full responsibility for that. And…" he added hesitantly, "I don't know if things between us will ever be the same, but I know I hurt you, and I'll do whatever it takes to make up for that."

His heart thumped wildly in his chest; he was impervious to the rest of this coffee shop as he watched Olivia fight an onslaught of unshed tears. Would their relationship ever be the same again? Would she even let him try?

Whatever she told him, he knew he would have to accept - even if the possibilities scared the fuck out of him.

"You know what hurt the most?" she asked, her expression distant and tone wistful.

"What?" he managed above his heart thumping uncontrollably in his chest.

"That you were off on some reckless joyride back to New Jersey while I was taking that pregnancy test on my bathroom floor." She lingered uncomfortably on the last few words, visceral hurt emanating from her.

Shit. The pregnancy test.

Rafael didn't know what to say to that other than a muffled "I'm sorry", his skin so flushed he felt he was going to burn himself alive. This was the one topic he knew he simply didn't have an excuse for - and his mind frantically cycled through all the lines he'd rehearsed over the last 24 hours, although he knew very well that a prepared line would never suffice for both his conscience and Olivia.

"I was worried that I was pregnant with our child, and you didn't answer any of my texts and calls for two days," Olivia added sharply, as though it physically pained her to relive that day.

His throat tightened as Olivia's reproaching eyes bore through him, silently demanding an explanation he simply didn't have. How had he been so blinded by his own despair that the issue had become little more than a passing mention during that heated conversation? How had he allowed himself to exile Olivia from his apartment and life - especially after she'd dropped that bomb on them?

There was so much more he wanted, no, needed to say than a quiet "I'm sorry", but he settled for the cold, hard truth.

"There's no excuse for that." Rafael swallowed the lump in his throat. "I have no excuse for that."

"Well, I'm glad you know that," she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You could have at least responded to all my texts asking where you were."

"I was an asshole. And if you're still angry at me… then I'll accept that," he conceded.

He didn't care how broken he probably looked; he cared even less about the visceral pain that shot through him as he said that. All he could focus on was how Olivia silently folded her arms on the table, her eyes awkwardly darting between him and her lap, and the resigned - and disappointed - sigh that escaped her throat.

Well, I'm glad you know that. He wondered how long that line would taunt him for.

Olivia's expression had now returned to the disarmingly placid stare she'd worn when she first sat down, but the sheer anger that'd flashed through her eyes as she recounted that day, even for just a millisecond, was as alive as the guilt that shot through him. How did even just a second of raw emotion feel so searing?

"I'm sorry, Liv," Rafael interjected quietly as the silence grew increasingly suffocating.

He'd spent the last few months studying Olivia's expressions, memorising the way her brows furrowed as she worked her way through a case file, or lips quivered with arousal when their skin first came into contact in the dim light of one of their bedrooms. And so he thought he'd finally cracked the code; learned how to read the enigma that was Olivia Benson: except that her now-inscrutable expression was his silent confirmation that that ability had slipped right out of his hands - or that he'd never mastered it at all. And Rafael was helpless as he watched Olivia take yet another deep breath, seemingly on the precipice of delivering a devastating blow that he wasn't sure he'd be able to weather - and it didn't take him long to realise that he was holding his breath.

Maybe he was so convinced that she was about to deal the fatal blow that he was taken aback when the cold, hardened grimace she'd worn just a minute ago softened.

"Look, I don't want to be unfair to you either." Olivia sucked in another breath, the venom in her tone now gone. "It's on me, too. We both were reckless."

She silenced him with a quick glance just as he was about to interject. "I know what you're going to say, but that old saying - it takes two to tango? We moved too fast. And I'm just as responsible for that as you are."

He absorbed every word attentively but remained too afraid to ask what that meant for them - or to admit to her that she was right.

Barely six months ago they'd fallen into her bed after a drunken night at Forlini's, the explosion of desire between them giving away to a second the night they'd crashed into the hard surface of the Chelsea sidewalk, and then another the day they'd been freed from the marshals' custody and into suburban America with only one precious connection back to New York…

Perhaps the explosion of July 2nd - that heated, charged argument where everything that had simmered between them finally boiled over and scalded them both - had been the fatal blast.

"The… incident, the relocation, the last few months… We had too much on our plates. And deep down, I knew that looking out for you was just me finding a crutch for how much I was struggling with being here. I can't do that anymore, Rafael - we can't do this anymore."

Ah, fuck.

It was taking him all his might not to show just how much that prospect - the permanence of this new state - terrified him.

We can't do this anymore. It was as good as a death sentence for them; the start of polite nods and vapid small talk in the Whole Foods freezer aisle or Nordstrom home section, and silent nights alone on his couch ruminating yet again over how something as irrational as envy and temporary as resentment - or so he'd thought - had planted seeds of poison in their relationship they'd never be able to purge.

Maybe it was the death sentence he deserved.

Maybe it was time to accept - fully accept - that no amount of affection left between them was ever going to close that gulf; that Olivia would be better off without this baggage around her ankle.

"But…" she punctured the silence once more.

Olivia looked up from her coffee cup and her gaze directly met Rafael's, sending a shiver down his spine.

Her expression was almost imploring; a far cry from the raw hurt he'd just been pierced by. "I don't want to cut you out," she confessed nervously, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want things to go back to the way they were when we were at home; when we first got here."

For the first time since he'd arrived at the coffee shop, Rafael felt like he could breathe again. Her hand inched closer to his on the table and their fingertips grazed for the first time in weeks, sending yet another shockwave through him.

"But we need to start again, on the right foot this time," she added, her tone increasingly resolute. "We can't fall back into what we had a month ago."

His voice re-emerged with the wave of sheer relief that washed over him. "I don't want that either, Liv. Things will be different this time."

And he knew that it was up to him to convince her of that.

"I talked to Nguyen; I'm working on those job applications. Threw out the cigarettes. Haven't touched the scotch," he rattled off confidently - although the anxious look he cast at her as he lingered on the final word silently sought her approval.

The corners of her lips curled into a smile that Rafael didn't have to study closely to know what it meant. "I'm happy for you, Rafael."

It was the first time in almost two months he'd heard her say his name with that much affection or tenderness, and when their eyes next met, Rafael was yet again taken back to their sunny afternoons at Founding Farmers, iced tea in hand and her laughter in his ears - a quiet intimacy he'd once taken for granted, but he now felt much more hopeful about recovering.

There were so many words on the tip of his tongue: thanking Olivia for not turning her back on him, gratitude that they'd reached the light at the tunnel after all this time, or even the sheer relief that they'd emerged from this conversation (relatively) unscathed, but he settled for squeezing her hand gently, the feeling of his skin on hers, no matter how chaste, was electrifying enough in itself.

It was a promise - a promise not to poison this relationship again, because they both needed each other in this profoundly jarring new reality.

They'd move forward cautiously, of course, but Rafael had a distinct feeling that history wouldn't repeat itself.

Even more intoxicating than the glint of warm affection in Olivia's chocolate brown eyes was the realisation that they were sitting so close that their knees were touching under the table - and that neither wanted to pull away.


Tuesday, 3pm

Rita was worried that the bouquet she'd ordered was comically large, but her fears were assuaged when she walked into Catalina's room and found that it was just one of an array of bouquets from well-wishers, giving the small suite an air that was more celebratory than foreboding - just the atmosphere they needed after an especially nightmarish morning.

The elderly woman was asleep to a chorus of beeping monitors, her wrinkled face weary and downtrodden despite the peaceful state she appeared to be in from a distance - even more than the last time Rita had met her for lunch just under a month ago. Even then, the once-sprightly woman who was the subject of many a Rafael Barba anecdote wore a sadness that never quite left after Rafael's "funeral" that spring, and Rita filled a glass of water to leave by her bedside, despite knowing that she wasn't likely to reach for it anytime soon.

"Ms. Diaz had a stroke," the doctor - a neurologist Rita had a brief fling with at Harvard and whom she'd shamelessly begged to help Catalina out - had explained to her and a panicked Lucia in the waiting room earlier that morning. It had certainly been a possibility after the transient ischemic attack that she'd experienced a few months before Rafael's untimely disappearance, but not one that Lucia or Rita had actually considered at length, especially in light of more… pressing recent events.

"It's good that she was admitted quickly," he'd explained to them, "but given her old age and weakened state, I'll have to monitor her closely over the next two to three days…"

It wasn't the prognosis they wanted, but at the very least, Catalina seemed to be hanging on - and they hoped that things would stay that way.

Only when Lucia reluctantly tore herself from the hospital briefly to attend to a few urgent matters at her charter school did Rita seize the opportunity to pull Andrew aside in the hallway and implore him for his brutally honest assessment of Catalina's situation - to which he'd grimaced but looked her in the eye and delivered it anyway, because if there was one thing from Harvard that had endured, it was Rita's refusal to take no for an answer.

"It's a delicate situation, Rita. She recovered well from the ministroke she had in the winter… but it's too early for me to say conclusively if she'll recover fully from this one," he said tentatively.

"But you're saying that she has a chance of recovery?" she pressed, desperate for any sliver of hope she could give Lucia - one that she sought just as badly for herself.

"Today and tomorrow are critical. I'll call you when I have more - I promise," he assured her with a gentle touch of her shoulder that she wished brought more solace than it did.

She didn't want to imagine how Rafael would react to learning from one of the marshals that Catalina had passed (Knock on wood - Rita instantly admonished herself for that thought). God, the possibility of him living the rest of his life never hearing from his mother or abuelita again; heck, not even knowing if they were still alive… she couldn't even fathom that.

And then there was Lucia. The last logical thing that Rita could do was choose now to tell her that Rafael was alive and (hopefully) well somewhere, but that didn't stop her from wishing that she could - anything to stop the rest of Lucia's world from being reduced to shambles if the worst happened.

Four months since Rafael and Olivia had left New York, and this certainly hadn't been what Rita had expected when Fin had shown up on the doorstep of her brownstone while she was in the thick of her grief to proclaim that Rafael wasn't dead.

It wasn't as though Rita didn't have this thought at the back of her mind. Rafael had always been candid with her about his worries over his abuelita's health, and Catalina's weakened state was becoming increasingly apparent with every visit Rita paid to the Bronx walk-up. Still, it didn't change the fact that Catalina had become her surrogate grandmother in those four short months, and she was going to do exactly what Rafael had asked of her: to watch out for Catalina and Lucia until the day he returned.

(If he ever did.)

She'd known from the moment Fin had divulged it to her that this secret would be profoundly lonely, but only now did that truly slap her in the face - and so she fired off a text to the only other person in the same boat.

Catalina's been admitted to the hospital.

She was surprised when a reply came almost immediately.

What happened?

Stroke. Already had a scare last winter. She's being kept for close observation for at least the next few days, she typed back.

How are her chances?

If only anyone had a straightforward answer to that.

Can't make that call yet. But the neurologist is an old friend. He'll keep me posted.

Want to talk about it? Can't do tonight, but later this week, maybe?

That'd be nice, actually.

Sure.

Rita heaved a quiet sigh of relief as she stepped out of the Uber that'd taken her back to her Madison Avenue office to pick up some paperwork and hopefully clear her calendar for at least the next couple of days. Having one person to confide in was better than none, at the very least.

Maybe counting her blessings was going to get her through the next two days.

Rafael was alive wherever he was; so was Catalina. She couldn't let the worst overcome her now - not this early. She had to hang on until they all emerged from this, hopefully unscathed.

Rita had never been a religious person, but that didn't stop her from muttering a silent prayer as she stepped into the doors of Calhoun & Berkeley.


Wednesday, 11am

It was only 11am when Olivia first fished her cell phone from the recesses of her blazer pocket in the middle of an especially arduous meeting, expecting to be greeted by another item to add to her to-do list, but instead finding a solitary text message from Rafael.

How's work today?

Could be better, she typed under the table. But thanks for checking in.

It took her plenty of willpower not to smile like a lovestruck teenager as one of the managers took the team through a routine administrative report.

I appreciate it, she added a few seconds later.

And she meant it.

Things will be different this time, he'd promised her the day before at the coffee shop during the conversation that had gone surprisingly well, and Olivia couldn't help but feel warmth seep into her chest as she stole another glance at Rafael's text. Sure, she'd inferred from his calm and confident manner that he'd taken the past one and a half months to get himself together, but the assertive way he'd looked her in the eye and squeezed her hand made her the most assured she'd felt in weeks, and this text only lifted her spirits further.

This definitely was a high she needed to be reminded of to get her through the rest of these meetings - and that she hoped would linger for the rest of the day.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the grey bubble that showed he was typing his next message, but her phone buzzed in her hand only two minutes later.

I was thinking of picking up some Korean take-out tonight - want me to get you a portion?

That would be great, she fired back, making another futile attempt to hide the smile that was creeping across her face.

Bulgogi with rice, as usual?

Of course he remembered. She didn't expect any less.

Sounds amazing. Thanks, Rafael.

See you later, Liv.

It was perhaps the first hint of normalcy between them in what felt like an eternity, and Olivia was more than content to sit through meetings for the rest of the day when she had something to look forward to at the end of the day.

Sure enough, Rafael rang the doorbell at exactly 7pm with two paper bags in hand, just after a bone-weary Olivia had kicked her pumps off her blistered feet and tossed her crumpled blouse into the laundry hamper.

"Hey, Liv," he smiled, and handed her one of the bags. "Got your bulgogi. There's extra kimchi in the bag."

"You remembered," she beamed - helping herself to his portion of kimchi had been a habit of hers from the first time they'd ordered take-out to her New York apartment. "Thanks."

"No problem. I'd better get home and eat this before it gets cold," he said quickly as he turned in the direction of the elevator.

"Wait - you're not staying to eat?" she asked confusedly, biting back her disappointment.

"You're fine with that?" Rafael stammered in return, with what looked like genuine surprise.

"When you said you were bringing take-out… I assumed we were going to eat it together?" she joked lightly, the awkwardness of the exchange still hanging over them. "Unless you have something else you need to do, of course."

"Oh… I don't, actually," he replied, and allowed her to usher him back inside. "I guess I can stay."

"Great." She closed the door behind them and took the other bag of food from his hands before he could get another word in. "I'll pop these into the microwave. Make yourself comfortable."

Olivia promptly disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Rafael alone in the living room as the microwave whirred to life. Apart from the Longchamp tote that he assumed Olivia was using for work lying by the credenza and stack of work documents on the coffee table, the apartment looked virtually the same as it had the last time he'd been here less than two months ago: pillows lining the beige leather couch, evening sun reflecting off the darkened TV screen, Olivia's half-filled ceramic mug resting unsteadily on one of the armrests.

Yet there was a newness to the room that he couldn't quite place a finger on - had she switched out the colour of the blinds, maybe? Bought a new room diffuser?

Why did he feel like a fish out of water?

Olivia returned with their food and a glass of water for him before he could mull on that thought any further, and he gratefully accepted one of the pairs of plastic chopsticks they'd bought together at Macy's their first week in Bethesda.

"Want to watch something?" she offered, and reached for the remote next to her.

"Sure," he replied, realising quickly that the white noise would effortlessly conceal any attempts at awkward conversation.

They'd gotten the worst out of the way the afternoon before, but this was the closest they'd been to normalcy in almost two months, and he didn't know why he suddenly felt like a stranger in Olivia's private space as she turned the TV to the same throwback movie channel they'd always watched over dinner.

Was this moving too quickly?

We can't fall back into what we had a month ago. The subtext of that statement had been blindingly clear to the both of them - they had to take things slow and avoid a reprise of the inferno that they'd only just put out. He'd been given the choice to stay for dinner; should he have turned it down?

But he now was holding his reheated food on a plate on his lap with Olivia a foot away from him, her mouth full of bulgogi and body language surprisingly relaxed - she'd leaned back and crossed both her legs on the couch to enjoy a re-run of Ferris Bueller's Day Off - and he didn't want to leave.

Rafael lifted his chopsticks to his mouth and took his first bite of the japchae he'd chosen for himself as Olivia's laughter echoed through the room. It was a sound he'd almost forgotten, but now felt absolutely electric.

And it was his cue to just live in the moment and let the rest of his self-doubt go, because if this was what normalcy felt like, he'd take as much of it as he could.

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be happy with Olivia, just the two of them laughing over a movie they both loved over dinner from one of their favourite haunts in town, and he never wanted to forget it again.

Olivia was pleasantly surprised when she snuck a glance at Rafael out of the corner of her eye and caught a glimpse of his exuberant smile, his laughter mingling with hers. She felt him shift in his seat and relax into a more comfortable position - and it was her cue to muster an ounce of courage to slide slightly closer to him.

She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be happy with Rafael, just the two of them enjoying each other's company in a comfortable silence at the end of a long day as the sun dipped below the horizon outside and bathed the room in a warm, inviting glow, and she never wanted to forget it again.

God, she missed how intoxicating his Terre D'Hermes was when they were this close, and she felt her skin flush with anticipation as he inched closer to her.

With their food consumed and empty boxes laid to rest on the coffee table, Olivia snuck another furtive glance at Rafael, whose arm was resting on the back of the couch just inches from her head, and finally closed the rest of the distance between them.

There was no doubt as to what they both felt when her head came to rest on his shoulder. They watched the rest of the movie in the same comfortable silence they'd been enjoying since they first sat down, his accelerating pulse giving way to a languid, peaceful comfort with the darkness that slowly descended over the room.

The last of his worry was promptly forgotten by the time the credits rolled, and neither pulled away even when Olivia jabbed the "off" button on the remote and the screen faded to black. Instead, she buried her head in his shoulder, so close that Rafael could feel her steady breaths against the thin material of his T-shirt, and the two let the comfortable silence envelop them with little regard for the clock on the credenza across from them.

After a month with a Berlin Wall of tension between them, the feeling of their skin connecting was like rain in an Indian summer. Rafael lifted a hand to her neck and gently ran his fingers through her hair, eliciting a quiet relaxed sigh from her, and he almost burst from just how contented he now felt, luxuriating in Olivia's company and wondering how he'd gone this long without her.

There was none of the scorching heat that'd led them from Forlini's and right into Olivia's apartment six months ago; that burning, insatiable thirst for her that'd once consumed him whole had evaporated. But something much, much deeper was brewing, and he didn't have to think about how they were starting again on stronger footing, because he knew they were doing just that.

He was no stranger to these kinds of moments with Olivia; the ones he just wanted to bottle up for posterity and hang onto for as long as he could.

This was exactly one of those moments, and the best part about it was that he foresaw many more of these moments down the road.


Wednesday, 11am

"What happened?"

The meeting room was soundproofed and door locked behind them, but Fin still kept his voice down, conscious of the number of the people in this building who'd been at Olivia and Barba's funerals that spring. He honestly couldn't care less that Nick and Amanda were probably spending their lunch break speculating why Rita Calhoun had hunted him down so openly when the two had never ever been spotted together in public before - especially when this very brazen gesture only proved that Rita was about to share something seismic.

"We're going to need that number," she declared firmly.

Fin felt his stomach clench as he took in Rita's frantic, almost frazzled manner - the bags under her eyes that suggested she hadn't slept well in at least a couple of days; her hair unusually dishevelled for a morning in court. Yet her tone was decisive; charged with an authority that made even him shudder involuntarily.

There was only one possible cause. "Catalina?"

She nodded seriously. "Her condition is deteriorating, Fin. We aren't even sure that she'll be able to speak after this - that is, if she makes it through," she explained with a disarming aloofness, although her weary facial expression was a different story altogether. "I was at the hospital almost all night."

"You want to get Barba back to New York?" Fin asked slowly and deliberately, but realised quickly that it was a downright nonsensical move - he didn't even need to ask her if she was serious about that request. Of course she was. When was Rita Calhoun the kind to fuck with anyone about something of this magnitude?

We're going to need that number.

The contrast between the implications of that suggestion and the pointed, almost clinical way it slipped out her mouth was earth-shattering.

"The sooner, the better," she sighed, some vulnerability finally creeping into her tone. "I think it's for the best."

Fin furrowed his eyebrows as the enormity of their exchange started sinking in. He'd already baulked at the idea of handing his burner cell to a civilian, which Rita thankfully hadn't asked of him, but this? This was a completely separate - and much more grave - idea.

(The double meaning of the word wasn't lost on either of them.)

"Can we talk tonight? Your place?" he finally suggested after a pregnant, arduous pause. "We shouldn't talk here," he added as he gestured towards the door, reminding them both that the courthouse at lunch hour was certainly the furthest place from a conducive environment to discuss… this.

Much to his relief, Rita nodded. "You're right. Call me when you're on your way."

They slipped out of the meeting room almost as quickly they entered, and Fin was left to ponder how the fuck they were going to make this work as Rita's Louboutins click-clacked in the direction of the hospital.

Was this remotely possible?

For all they knew, Olivia and Barba were in Hawaii or California or Arizona and would set alarm bells ringing in the US Marshals' office the instant they tried to board a flight to LaGuardia or JFK, and he wasn't about to facilitate a violation of WITSEC guidelines so egregious - or brazen - that they would likely be relocated again, or worse, booted from the programme altogether. If they made the (likely long) trip back, they were going to play it smart - and smart meant days of planning they simply didn't have.

How were he and Rita going to keep them safe while they were in the city, when this sex trafficking ring had made it abundantly clear in recent months that they had eyes on practically every block? Would they even make it through the hospital doors without their plan blowing up in their faces (literally)? This was not a task he'd be able to handle alone, which would mean divulging this secret to at least one other person - preferably one with a gun.

Fin caught himself before he could groan at the next thought that crossed his mind. God, was he going to have to rope in Brian and Nick, now? Or would bringing in possibly the most capricious duo in the NYPD only derail things even further?

And he hadn't even reached the most important question of all: should they even be considering this idea at all?

Those were all the arguments he presented to Rita that evening, their usual wine and whiskey replaced by black coffee and her gigantic digital clock on the credenza a glaring reminder of what they were up against. She crossed her legs on the couch, body exhausted from keeping watch at Bellevue all afternoon and evening, but mind in overdrive as she made sense of Fin's visible scepticism.

"I know this is dangerous," she admitted. "But Catalina is probably the most important person in Rafael's life, and he should get the chance to see her again if she really…" Her voice trailed off, as though petrified of speaking the possibility into existence. "I think this is worth a shot."

He softened slightly. "I'm not saying this is an impossible plan, Rita. But we don't even know where they are now, and we don't need more people getting hurt, especially now. You're a civilian. Liv and Barba are civilians now."

She wasn't moved. "Then ask Amaro and Cassidy to help us out here. They care enough about Olivia - I'm sure they'll help in a heartbeat if they know she's coming with Rafael. She won't leave Rafael to make the trip alone… right?"

Fin flinched when that idea crossed his mind once more - Nick and Brian, really? - but briefly ignored how unsound that plan seemed to consider yet another elephant in the room. "What if this sex trafficking ring goes after Lucia next? Or Catalina, if she bounces back from this?"

Only then did genuine worry flash through her eyes, although she immediately steeled herself in typical Rita Calhoun fashion - if only this were as easy as preparing herself for a trial. "Surely there's some way we can keep all of them safe. What if we made this trip back extraordinarily quick - Rafael goes in and out of the hospital, and then they head right back to whichever city they came from? They won't even need to spend the night."

She hoped she wasn't being idealistic or naive. "I think it's worth a shot, Fin," she repeated, this time more emphatically. "Catalina's stable for now, but she isn't getting any better. Andrew says things could change drastically in as little as half a day…"

"And what if we can't get them back in time?" Fin asked quietly, knowing that the question was hanging over the room.

"Then all the more we need to act fast," she insisted. "I know this is a lot to ask of you, Fin, but please - there's no one I trust more with this."

Fin swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling the resolve he'd built up that afternoon dissipate rapidly. Of course it would only be right for Barba to get a chance to say goodbye to Catalina if her condition truly didn't improve - but that still didn't make this the right option, especially when multiple lives were on the line. Calling Olivia and Barba back into the belly of the beast? How was he going to answer for that if God forbid, one or more of them got hurt along the way?

No. This was absolutely too risky, and he couldn't risk more bloodshed. Not when it would be on his hands.

But one look into Rita's eyes, now glimmering with unshed tears and imploring him to take the plunge, and Fin felt his stomach churn. Did he owe it to her - and Barba - to at least give this a chance, no matter how implausible it seemed?

Could he make this work, somehow? Rope in Nick and Brian and convince them not to get ahead of themselves? Surely Olivia hadn't lost all her cop instincts in just a few months, and given the likelihood she'd make the trip with Barba despite their recent feud, that meant one extra pair of watchful eyes…

"Okay," he finally pierced the silence after what seemed like an eternity, his tone increasingly resolute. "Let's find middle ground here."

Rita cocked an eyebrow in confusion, but silently motioned for him to continue.

"Noon tomorrow." He glanced at his cell phone in his palm. "If Catalina's condition doesn't improve by then, I'll call Liv."

"I don't know if we can wait that long, Fin," she protested immediately. "That's just over twelve hours for her condition to deteriorate even further."

"I know we're short on time, but if we're really doing this, we can't rush into it," Fin insisted. "We'll need to plan this out. Talk to both Liv and Barba about how they want this to work. Better we wait a few extra hours than get one of us killed in the process…"

Rita grimaced, but Fin's plan was all she needed to nod her agreement. "You're right. Noon tomorrow, then. I'll text you when I find out how she's doing."

"Alright. I'll wait to hear from you," he replied, although he had the distinct feeling that they absolutely were going ahead with this plan regardless of what she reported in twelve hours.

At least twelve hours was better than nothing. He had a lot of work to do.

"Okay," she affirmed more confidently than she truly felt. "We'll make this work."

The clock ticked relentlessly towards midnight, but neither moved from their seats. They sipped their coffee in a stony silence, savouring what looked to be their last evening of relative peace as Fin scrawled a haphazard assortment of ideas on one of Rita's Calhoun & Berkeley legal pads. There were far too many things weighing on his mind - getting Olivia and Barba in and out of the city unscathed, sneaking them into the hospital, marshalling Nick and Brian… heck, how was he going to explain to Cragen why he needed a day off when they already were so short-handed at SVU?

Rita watched him from across the couch, his brows furrowed in concentration and what she was sure was an emotion she'd never once associated with Odafin Tutuola - worry. There were far too many things racing through her mind - rushing back to Bellevue in the morning to check up on Catalina, making sure Lucia didn't wear herself out between nights in the hospital and preparing for the new school year, and wondering if she'd just signed Olivia and Rafael's death warrants.

Had she made the right call, insisting that they get the duo back to New York?

She'd find out soon enough.


Thursday, 12pm

Want to check out the National Gallery this Saturday? This exhibition looks promising.

(Olivia Davis has sent you a link.)

Ha, I never made you for an art gallery fan, Liv.

I make exceptions. So… is that a yes?

Of course.

Great. See you then.


Thursday, 12pm

1 New Message from Rita Calhoun

Right on time, as he'd expected.

Fin's eyes darted around the room to confirm that Nick and Amanda had left for their lunch break, and he seized the opportunity to duck into the cribs to read the text - better safe than sorry when he had multiple lives on the line.

Catalina's in critical condition now. She doesn't have much time left.

A part of him had expected this, but only now did it hit him in full force.

Alright.

He patted his pocket to make sure the Nokia he'd grabbed before leaving his apartment was still there, and grabbed his car keys on his way out - there was no way he was going to let that phone pick up a signal within ten blocks of the precinct - with a cursory nod at the desk sergeant.

Twenty minutes later, Fin pulled up by Central Park, far enough from the precinct to (hopefully) throw any potential hackers off their trail, and clutched the brick-like device in his hand as it came to life.

Call me back the instant you see this. It's urgent.

His thumb hovered tentatively over the comically large "Send" button. There was no retracting this; no turning back once the message flew off the screen.

Was this - this absolutely batshit crazy plan he'd concocted with Rita - the right thing to do?

Would the frantic morning he'd just spent planning his every move for the next 24 hours come to nought if the sex trafficking ring caught wind of the fact that Olivia and Barba were very much alive?

Rita had trusted him with this, but could he trust himself?

Before Fin could descend further down this pessimistic train of thought, a sudden wave of determination washed over him. No - they'd already come this far. They'd spent hours going over how exactly they needed to play this the night before in Rita's townhouse - why back out now when they were so deep in?

Surely this couldn't go as badly as he was envisioning?

He hit the "Send" button and watched the message disappear from the screen. They'd made a plan. All he had to do was set it in motion.

It's done, he typed to Rita as he slipped back into the precinct like he'd never left.

Great. Call me when there's an update.

Now all they had to do was wait.


Thursday, 9pm

Olivia's breath caught when the tiny Nokia screen came to life and revealed a new text message from the phone number she'd committed to memory over the last couple of weeks.

Call me back the instant you see this. It's urgent.

It was their unspoken rule - and basic undercover skills - never to text with these burner cells, so why had Fin done exactly that?

Urgent. Fin had always been a notoriously pointed texter, but this felt especially insidious.

She hit the "Call" button before allowing herself to speculate what this could possibly be about. Had the sex trafficking ring found enough dirt on their "deaths" to start another reign of terror? Had someone in New York gotten hurt? Cragen? Nick?

Could it possibly be good news? An update on the Feds' investigation that the marshals simply refused to provide them with? Somehow, even daring to consider that thought felt foolish, and Olivia promptly shoved it to the recesses of her mind.

It took barely three rings for Fin to pick up. "Liv?" he asked, the relief in his voice clear as day.

"Fin, what's up?"

"We have a problem - and it involves Barba."


Thursday, 10pm

Rafael took a sip of the chamomile tea he'd just brewed - a blend he'd picked up on the recommendation of an especially enthusiastic promoter at Whole Foods - and felt a wave of calm wash over him as he powered down his Macbook for the night. Why hadn't he thought of tea as his nightcap over the extortionate amounts he paid for scotch?

He thumbed through his text exchange with Olivia from that morning as he sipped from his mug, the quiet exuberance contained in those few lines still bubbling nearly twelve hours later. The National Gallery? Never in a million years did he think that Olivia, of all people, would suggest they spend the day in a contemplative silence at an art gallery, but the link to their current exhibitions that she'd attached to her message had proven him wrong.

This week only got better.

From their serendipitous meeting on Monday, to the difficult conversation they'd successfully steered through on Tuesday, to dinner the night before and now something to look forward to on the weekend - they gave him a high that he didn't want to come down from; one that even his completed resume hadn't given him. It was everything he'd wanted when he'd imagined seeing Olivia again after their mini Cold War, and it didn't matter that they still had a long road ahead of them when they'd gotten off to the promising start that they'd both hoped for.

Rafael nursed his tea and idly pulled up a list of restaurants in downtown D.C. they could try after their museum visit - his treat, of course - until the shrill buzz of his doorbell almost knocked him off his chair.

He glanced at the clock on the wall - 10.08pm. Far too late for even the building superintendent to call on him, which left him with only one possible visitor. A quick look through the peephole confirmed his hunch, and he flung the door open to an unusually frazzled Olivia.

"Liv…?" He immediately dropped his plans for a cheerful greeting when he took in just how stressed she looked. "What's up?"

Her breathing was laboured, as though she'd just sprinted to his door from the parking lot, and only then did he notice that she was clad in the heather grey T-shirt and sweatpants she usually wore to bed. She'd clearly rushed here to see him, but what on earth for?

Rafael's stomach lurched instantly. Surely she wasn't having doubts about what had transpired between them that week - doubts so serious she'd felt compelled to drive all the way here on a work night? Had he missed a sign somewhere? Was he about to shatter his heart a second time?

Yet the way her brown eyes bore into him, a sense of urgency burning in them, gave him the distinct feeling that this was about something else altogether.

"Can I come in?"

Now he had the distinct feeling that this was about something much worse.

"Of course." He promptly ushered her inside and shut the door behind her, and was visibly surprised when she made a beeline for the partially opened window and slammed it shut with a thud, before anxiously pacing the living room with a vice-like grip on her cell phone.

"Jesus, Liv, what happened?" he asked apprehensively. "Are you alright?"

She cast another quick glance at the shut door. "You locked the front door?"

"Of course I did." He furrowed his brows in confusion. "Why do you ask?"

She dipped her voice to a low, grave whisper. "Just to make sure no one else accidentally hears us, because this can't leave the room."

Shit. His heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears. Whatever she was about to say couldn't leave the room... this was something WITSEC related?

Rafael was on the precipice of bursting. "Tell me, please," he implored.

She paused in front of him and leaned in so close he could feel her breath on his skin, but that was the last thing on his mind as her eyes, now filled with a bone-chilling intensity, met his.

"We have a problem."