I'm back! This is about Barba's suspension, post Know it All in Season 18. There will be a few of these. Eventually. Spoilers abound, friends! You've been warned!
xx
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Week 1
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When he leaves the DA's office, Rafael feels an odd sense of relief and upset. Relief that he can still be a lawyer. Upset that it will take 6 weeks without pay for that to happen. Still, he's able to concede that all things considered, the outcome could have been worse. Significantly worse. At the end of this, he still can practice law and he's grateful for the realization that this is a positive and not a negative. There's nothing else for him and he's stared that possibility in the face.
He puts on his gloves, walks down the familiar stairs of the courthouse, and begins his forced, unpaid vacation.
This is fine, right?
He's at the curb, about to hail a cab, when he turns and looks back at the looming building behind him. He practically spends more time there than he does at his own apartment.
Thisisfinethisisfinethisisfine.
His mother would say this is a blessing. He works too much. He could use a break. Listening to all those awful things, day after day. Sleeping on the couch in his office. Pouring over paper after paper. Signing things. Doing research. Questioning defendants. "You can finally do something fun, mijo," that's what she'd say right now and say without saying that this, of course, would come after taking your mother out to dinner.
What will he do? 6 weeks is the longest that he's gone without working since he began. It's a long time to spend without a schedule. Without a routine. Without his coworkers. His friends. What will he do without-
Scotch. This requires scotch.
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"Another please," he says, once he gets the bar tenders attention, gesturing toward an empty scotch glass.
The bar tender is skeptical and says, "Are you sure, Counselor?"
Rafael smiles, ruefully, and nods his head, "Yeah. I won't be in court for a while."
Thankfully, the bar tender says nothing else, only pours him another glass, neat, and leaves him be. So far, his list of things to do while on suspension (that he is quite literally writing out because he doesn't know what else to do) include: get a dog; do the dry cleaning before it becomes a serious problem and not just a problem; take his mother out to dinner; drink lots more scotch; go to Cuba.
Each time he adds something to the list, he gets another glass of Makers Mark, because he's thinking things like I'll get a dog and god only knows what on earth he'd do with one of those.
ThisisfinethisisfinethisisfineTHISISREALLYFUCKINGFINE.
He sighs, puts a handful of dollars on the bar top, finishes his scotch, and gathers his things to leave.
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He's standing outside the bar, waiting for a taxi. He's unsteady on his feet, he realizes this now that he's attempting to do something other than balance on a barstool. Taxis go by and he's not quite able to get his hand up high enough to signal one. Not because he's that drunk (he isn't, seriously), but because he's not sure where to go. Home? That almost feels like conceding defeat.
So instead, he finally gathers his guts and hails a taxi because he's just sober enough to and when he gets inside, he mumbles an address to the driver, who immediately takes off.
After a few minutes, Rafael says, "¿Qué hora es?" without even thinking. The driver peers at him in the rearview and Rafael is sure that he says something in return, but he's not exactly sure what. And now, it's possible (possible) that he's too drunk to ask him to repeat himself and give himself away so instead he nods and closes his eyes, waiting to reach their destination.
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Okay.
Okay.
Rafael is standing at the foot of her stairs. Well. Accurately: he's standing outside, at the bottom of the stairs, that lead in to her apartment building. He still has to buzz up to her and let her know that he's here. It occurs to him that he doesn't know whether she's with Tucker still.
Okay.
Right foot, left foot. You can do this. And so he does, one foot at a time. Both feet plant on the first step and now there's only 3 more between him and the buzzer to get in. When did he get this drunk? What time is it, anyway? He throws his head back, trying to make out which window belongs to Olivia, but obviously this is a needle in a haystack situation. Does he text her? Call her? Walk up those 3 godforsaken stairs? Turn around and go home?
"Shit," he says, losing his balance on the stairs and thankfully landing on both feet back on the sidewalk, "Fuck."
"Rafa?"
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. "Liv!" he says in surprise, a smile coming across his face like a wave. She's standing in front of him now, holding the door open, looking less than pleased, but he's never been happier to see a friendly (if angry) face. "Liv! I'm so sorry! I shouldn't be here. I know. I just—I didn't know—things are—" he's trying to grab one thought and run with it, but that's proving more and more difficult. "What time is it anyway?"
Liv rolls her eyes at him, "It's 3 in the morning! I heard you climbing around out here. Get inside, you'll catch a cold." She's holding the door open and realizing rapidly that he's been trying to do this for the last 20 minutes and has been wholly unsuccessful. "Oh, for—" she leans down and takes his hand, holding the door open with her foot. "Come on, now. Noah's upstairs. We've gotta move."
As he takes her hand, she realizes (he doesn't): he's holding on for dear life.
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She sets him up on the couch. He keeps mumbling in Spanish, "perdón, perdón," and she keeps telling him, "no pasa nada," each time he apologizes. As she gets him to lie down and is just about to turn back to her bedroom, he grabs her hand.
"Gracias, mi amor."
Without hesitating she responds, "Buenos noches, Rafa," since drunk Barba is apparently monolingual, and she turns to go back to bed.
Mi amor.
Now that, that she wasn't expecting.