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“You didn't send me flowers, did you?” she asks, staring at the assortment of lilies and pussy willows on her desk.
“No,” he answers from the other end. “Why would I have?”
“It's Valentine's Day.”
“I'm aware,” he states archly. “But I'm not sure why you think I would have sent any.”
“This isn't funny Rafa,” she groans, leaning back in her chair. “I've got a bucket of orange lilies with no card and Rollins and Carisi won't shut it about a secret admirer.”
“You think I would've sent you lilies?” he scoffs. “That's offensive. You know lilies are death flowers.”
She laughs in spite of herself. He’d ranted last week about the entire idea of flowers for Valentine’s being a scam by florists to make people feel guilty about an ordinary day. He’d also told her that, if one was to buy into the whole floral industrial complex, the only thing to do it with was roses.
Twelve red roses in fact.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Lilies smelled like death, laceleaf looked fake, some flower had something to do with something in Hamlet and by that point she had stopped listening to all the reasons flowers were stupid.
Except roses. Roses were perfect.
“I thought it might have been a joke,” she sighs.
“A joke of a flower arrangement.”
The feeling of disappointment that washes over her is a surprise. She doesn't want flowers. She doesn't care about public displays of affection and romance. She’d honestly kind of agreed with him last week about the whole thing being ridiculous.
Still, when the delivery had appeared in her office this morning and it was something as absurd as orange lilies and pussy willows she figured only Rafa would be this ostentatious. She’d assumed it was a playful nod to the fact that they were both alone and he hated flowers. She’d kind of grown accustomed to their weirdness over the last few hours - given who she had decided they were from.
Now she suddenly wants them gone. In the trash. On fire somewhere.
They actually look like some furry talons had caught fire - or the fire was growing something. Now, something she had grown to enjoy has become completely, utterly tacky.
“Who’d be giving you flowers?” he voices her own thought for her.
“I don’t know. Maybe someone who wants revenge,” she stands up, backing away from the desk.
“Why would you think that because of flowers?”
She can tell he’s stopped whatever he was doing before. She didn’t mean to worry him.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she offers, “Just Carisi. He said orange lilies symbolize revenge in Japanese culture.”
“Did you recently piss off anyone who would know that?”
She knows he's worried because he doesn't question how Carisi could possibly know that.
“Not that I’m aware of,” she answers, trying to search her brain for some reason this would be given without a note. “Don’t get worried. I just think someone’s playing a joke on me.”
“I have court most of the day unfortunately,” he sighs, preemptively offering his non-help in this non-investigation.
“You still trying to get The Mother Court to hear that case against the ham sandwich?” She jokes. He’d only been working with the Southern District of New York since September. She’d missed him terribly. Even though they talked practically every day, she missed him.
Even though he came over for some spaghetti nights and still took her to Forlini’s occasionally she still wanted her partner back.
Though if she’s being honest, she misses the partner he could have been. The partner she thought he might become when he’d transferred and there was no longer a direct conflict of interest to romance.
Neither of them did romance.
“Something like that,” he laughs, knowing full well he can’t tell her anything about his grand jury proceedings. “You still on for tonight if it doesn’t turn out to be Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes,” she agrees, referring to the dinner they had planned on last week. She was actually looking forward to their plans of Chinese takeout with some crappy wine, dinosaurs with Noah, and leftover Valentine’s candy. “It’s probably just Rollins messing with me.”
“Then fire her,” he’s joking. She knows. She knows every catch in his voice, she thinks. Maybe she’s imagining the worry that she swears is still in his voice. “I have to go.”
“See you later.”
Her hope, the way she had been looking forward to tonight - it only had a little to do with the Valentine’s candy.
Besides, Mr. Darcy would know better than to send god-damn pussy willows.
It’s Carisi who figures it out. Through some unfortunate events, random accidents, a series of carefully placed favors with his boyfriend’s sister’s friend at 1-800-Flowers, and actual detective work.
What follows is one of the most awkward experiences of her life, and she’s been working sex crimes for twenty years. Suffice it to say - the lilies had been from an admirer and he was not Mr. Darcy.
She wouldn’t be surprised if she has to get another ADA next week. She also wouldn’t be surprised if this one pretended the whole ordeal never happened. She’d prefer that honestly.
Nevertheless, she resolved to put it behind her, and enjoy the boring night with her best friend. She had picked up the takeout on the way home from work. A text to Rafa had confirmed he was bringing the wine shortly.
In the text she had also confirmed she had sussed out the true identity of Mr. Definitely-Not-Darcy.
Rafa is buzzed in a short time later. In one hand he carries a large bag, in the other a bottle of champagne.
“So who were the lilies from?” he laughs as he traipses in, placing the champagne on the counter and bag on the floor. As she locks the door he goes to the kitchen.
She could make a comment about the champagne not being shitty wine at all. In fact it’s some French label monstrosity she doesn’t want to begin to contemplate the price of.
He returns to the hall with two champagne flutes she didn’t realize she had. It shouldn’t surprise her that he knows her kitchen better than she does.
She smirks, taking the glasses from his hands as he points the bottle down the hall. He was being overly cautious as he opened it without incident.
“Celebrating the indictment of your ham sandwich?” she smirks, watching as he pours.
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” he answers, settling the bottle back on the counter and handing her a glass. “In honor of the identification of the Mysterious Not Mr. Darcy.”
He raises his flute, and she clinks against it with her own. She rolls her eyes as they both take a sip.
“So,” he leads, placing his flute back on the counter and moving toward the bag, “I repeat the question. Who were the lilies from? Rollins?”
“Stone,” she rolls her eyes. Again. Fucking Stone. “And they weren’t just lilies.”
She’d offer to help him do whatever he is doing but he wouldn’t let her and she enjoys the view she’s getting in her current position.
“Oh really?” he asks, pulling out a long box.
“Pussy willows,” she manages to breathe out, still incredibly annoyed by the entire chain of events. He pulls a square vase out of the box.
He didn’t - did he?
“You’re telling me,” he leads, rustling around the container, “Your ADA gave you an arrangement of orange lilies and pussy willows? For Valentine’s Day?”
She’d have more to say about his tone if he wasn’t currently pulling his own set of flowers out of the box. He did. He absolutely did.
“Yeah,” she swallows another swig of champagne.
“On purpose?” his voice almost cracks as he puts the roses in the vase.
“Very much,” she winces, “The lilies were meant to be exotic and the pussy willows, well -”
“Erotic?” he supplies helpfully. She can’t bring herself to confirm with more than a nod, “I’m going to need a drink for that one.”
He grabs the bottle, sighing.
“After a very illuminating conversation about personal and workplace boundaries he has assured me he will never be doing anything like that again.”
“I also assume you informed him that it could also be considered harassment and you reserve the right to contact an attorney?” he raises an eyebrow, clearly pissed but trying not to show it.
“I may have offered to inform his boss of his inappropriate behaviors if I ever heard word of them continuing.”
“That’s probably the best you can do at this point unfortunately.” he groans, “God, dating must be ridiculous these days if he thinks that’s the way to ask you out. I’m definitely never getting married.”
He’s joking about that last part, she thinks. It still feels like a slight knife. Like her heart went and tumbled down the stairs while still in her body. That’s her excuse for not taking it as one, anyhow.
“Rafa,” her voice cracks, “You really don’t see yourself falling in love?”
His hand tenses around the bottle, “I didn’t say that.”
“You said last week you don’t see the point in all this fuss,” she gestures to the flowers sitting on her counter and to the champagne bottle in his hand.
“I guess I did,” he nods. “Impeccable memory as always.”
“So what was the point of all this,” she swallows, staring at the glass in her hand, “to say that it’s all stupid and I’m never going to find someone who loves me enough to do this?”
His mouth sets as he puts the bottle back next to the roses.
“My original point was that when you love someone it shouldn’t matter if they remember to buy you things on corporate holidays in the middle of the week. What should matter is that making them happy makes you happy.”
There’s a wistful tone to it. A pain over something he doesn’t want to acknowledge or name. It breaks her heart.
He didn’t say he couldn’t fall in love. He didn’t say he didn’t want to. He didn’t even say he wasn’t now.
Rafa - her Rafa - is in love with someone who doesn’t love him.
She wants to choke. In all their years of friendship he’d never so much as gone on a date. At least a date that she’d known of.
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” she attempts a smile. She suspects it comes out more like a grimace. A fake smile that doesn’t meet the eyes - Tom Cruise working at a Chick-Fil-A.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, pulling a hand to his neck and looking off into a corner, “she’s not interested so let’s not make a thing about it.”
Let’s not make a thing about it? Have they met?
“Yelena?” she asks, unable to help herself.
“I said let’s not make a thing about it.” It’s his turn for a smile that doesn’t meet the eyes, “I got you the flowers to get you the flowers. Let’s talk about something else.”
The flowers though. They’re perfect.
Roses. Twelve. Red. Nothing more. Nothing less.
She nearly drops the glass on the floor.
“Liv,” his eyebrows furrow. Her eyes are probably showing the silent panic she is in right now. He bought her perfect, long stemmed red roses she didn’t even really want. He bought into the floral industrial complex to buy her these flowers he thought she wanted.
She doesn’t answer him, just moves to the counter to put down the glass. Her trembling fingers reach for the card he hid behind the vase.
“Liv,” his voice cuts through the dull buzzing in her ears as she fumbles with the envelope. “What do the flowers have to do with - “
She honestly doesn’t hear the rest of it. She opens the flap. Printed in slightly askew, bold capital letters:
SINCE YOU WANTED FLOWERS - RAFA
The card falls to the floor as the dull buzzing turns to a full roar and she launches herself at him. Her arms wrap around him as her chest collides with his.
“Oof,” is the noise he makes as she buries her face in his shoulder, willing herself not to cry.
His hands tentatively reach around, attempting nervously to complete the hug.
“Liv,” he tests gently, hand coming to a rest at her shoulder blade, other at her waist. “As much as I love hugging you I’m concerned about your -”
“You’re an idiot,” she chokes out, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
“As we’ve established multiple times,” he continues for her, humor back in his voice. The hand at her waist tightens slightly. The one at her shoulder blade is moving softly back and forth. Reverently, almost.
“Thank you,” she sighs. “For the flowers.”
“Hey,” he jokes, “we can’t all give sex flowers at work.”
“Not funny,” she snuggles into his shoulder, still laughing.
This is nice. He’s calm and caring. He's her best friend. To deny the way she feels about him now just isn’t possible. To deny the way she’s always felt about him is stupid.
She doesn’t want to deny it any more.
“I love you, too.”
If she’s honest, she’s expecting a denial from him. A nervous recitation of why she shouldn’t, why she couldn’t be interested. Maybe even a trembling argument as to why he thought she didn’t.
But he’s always been a little smarter than her - at least in some ways.
Instead, his hand tightens even more at her waist as he uses the other to lift up her chin, “You’re saying you are interested?”
“Yes,” she smiles, eyes blinking back tears at the confirmation. Her muscles had been gearing up for a fight without her express knowledge and to have no such thing is - a revelation. “Very much so.”
He grins.
“This is why I’m an idiot?”
“Among several reasons,” she laughs. “Noah and Lucy will be home any minute so you’d better kiss me before our window closes.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He just smiles, searching her eyes as his hand settles along the small of her back and the other reaches below her chin to pull her forward.
His lips finally meet hers.
She clutches the back of his head and continues kissing him. To say it’s as wonderful as she’d always hoped would be something from a poem she’s never cared about. To go over thoughts about destined moments and cosmic ratios is the purview of writers.
All she knows is he’s kissing her and he’s really fucking good at it.
“For the record I hate flowers though,” she murmurs as she breaks off, breathing in heavily as he moves his lips to her hairline.
“Too bad,” she can feel the smile against her forehead. “I was going to go with pussy willows next year.”
Even though she slaps his shoulder and should tell him he’s being very presumptuous she doesn’t. Even though Noah will be home in a few minutes she kisses him again. Even though she knows he will refuse to stay the night she will invite him to anyway.
She loves him and she’s very much interested. Her idiot. Her Rafa.
He’s definitely going to be here next year - even if it is presumptuous to assume.