It's just a touch; fleeting, rare. A warm hand briefly resting against an arm. A reminder that she's not alone. Because this job loves to beat them down and he will not let it win. It's not much, not nearly enough to be inappropriate or misconstrued. But it's something, his little way of saying he's in her corner.
She brings snacks to his office too often - a mandarin split between them or a packet of cookies from the downstairs Starbucks. She knows he hasn't eaten because he never has breakfast these days, just guzzles coffee and pretends it's a food-group. She shrugs the concern off as professional courtesy, some days admitting it to have breached beyond that.
There are mornings during particularly hard cases that she will walk into work to find him in her office, feet kicked onto her desk and head buried in a manila folder. His cup will be empty beside him as a hot one sits waiting to kick-start her day. There's a silent agreement to not mention the case until she's at drunk at least a third and there are days when it feels that he's checking on her more so than the case, but she'd never dare clarify.
Noah had made Barba a card to say thank you for the birthday present; it was a messily scribbled drawing (which of course the child thought was a masterpiece) with Liv's neat hand-writing inside and Noah's early attempts at signing his own name. She's in Barba's office when her eyes catch on the folded paper on display amongst his certificates and books and her voice trails off. Both Barba and Amanda shoot her a concerned sideways glance before Rollins takes over the relay of information. Her head is miles away, in unknown territory, because the only personal touch in that whole damn office came from her son.
He tries not to dissect their phone conversations, tries to pretend he didn't notice when their "thank you, good bye" became "see you tomorrow", or the "make sure you get some sleep, okay?" that sometimes sneaks in. But he notices everything, even Langden's voice in the background one night. He tries not to dissect that too.
When Elliot comes back into the picture - just walking into the squad room one day with a giddy Maureen beside him, wedding invites in hand – Barba stands taller, moves closer, keeps his voice clipped and his eyes sharp. He's only heard snippets of the story, odd water-cooler talk here and there, but the look in Olivia's eyes is all the background he needs. So when she fails to find words he steps between them with an introduction and a slew of probing questions, feigning nonchalance, giving her the time to recover.
There's the rare evening out after a closed case, soaking up the loud music and the bright smiles, because they got the bad guy and that should be celebrated. The victory is always bitter sweet, though they pretend each win is not tinged with the pain that cannot be undone, that they can cheers their drinks and not think of the victims too late to save. She's always the first to leave, and he always lets her call a taxi, waiting for its arrival, before turning to walk himself home.
On the evenings that find him at her house - too kind to ask her to leave Noah for a meeting in his office – she sometimes finds herself watching him. He's still hesitate around the boy, scared of hurting him, but as he squats next to the toddler and mumbles Spanish explanations to him, she wonders if this could be their future. If one day the man with the suspenders would carelessly throw the boy with the funny socks over his shoulder and call him Son. Or if their future would be just this – moments between chaos.