She shouldn't be here, standing in front of his door like it was just any day. But she couldn't simply turn away. When he pulled open the door she could feel the full weight of the week settle upon her shoulders, her stomach clenched and her eyes instinctively darted away from his. He looked a mess, shoulders tight and eyes deep, the remnants of his ensemble dishevelled and hair gel ruined from running his hands through it one too many times. The moment stretched on as she finally met his eye, realizing the true depth to which she had disappointed him this week, noting the tension around his mouth as if he were biting back a perpetual scowl. And for the first time, she considered that he may not let her in.
But he stepped aside, walking deeper into the apartment without a word. She took that as her cue and followed the retreating back, watching as it collected the half drunk glass of scotch and collapsed back onto the couch. Hesitantly she settled beside him, perched forward on the edge of the couch as if to flee at the slightest hesitation. But she wouldn't, not tonight.
Her eyes darted between his profile and the smiling image of the young boy splashed across the newspapers on his table. "Look, I know you think I… let you down this week." His eyes darted to hers sharply and she could hear the words he held back with gritted teeth. "I won't apologise for it. Terrence's death is a tragedy, and it is something we will all have to carry with us. But until you've been there…" she went silent, drifting off to some memory he could not access before rasping out a rough "you don't know". The single thought that had been haunting him burst through his lips as her hands continued to absentmindedly twist together.
"Just one second. If they had waited…"
"But they didn't know! They couldn't have. One second is the difference between watching a bullet take away your partner, or having a little boy bleed out. Or, yes, in this instance, killing an innocent man. But Barba, we all make choices, and sometimes we make mistakes, but we do the best we can. That's all we can do – our best."
They sat in silence as the shadows grew longer across the carpet, as the street-lights turned on and the noises of the city changed around them. Slowly she relaxed into the pillows and let her mind wander, secure in the knowledge that he hadn't totally counted her out yet.
He didn't apologise, and neither did she. Shades of grey; sometimes your moral high ground isn't concrete, that doesn't mean it isn't strong. But eventually he lets his shoulders drop and throws a "your boyfriend definitely doesn't like me now" her way. He's referring to Tucker and she can tell just from the twist of his lips that this is his olive branch, so she replies with a light irritated warning of "Raf" and smiles a sigh of relief as he rolls his eyes and smirks.
The silence continues, but their shoulders are now brushing, sharing each others weight. Her hands have stilled in their movement and his eyes are watching her. He wanders about those twelve cases, the two where she shot. He'd read about them, obviously, in the preparation for trial but there are things that cannot be told from a file.
She could stay there forever. It's a thought that is both comforting and terrifying. But she has a son to get home to and a nanny to relieve so she slowly lifts herself from the couch and plants a warm hand on his shoulder, making her exit. Half way to the door she hesitates, turning her head with a "til tomorrow?" that she wishes sounded more confident. His eyes swing to hers and though they are still sunken and pained they are no longer hard. His reply is more solid and it's that which keeps her going through the long night of paperwork and a fussy toddler. "Tomorrow.", he confirms.