Work Text:
Olivia had been 99% sure it was she who would move first.
Co-workers: never a good idea; hadn't she learned her lesson? Yet somehow, she found herself caring less and less these days. Always another victim, looking up at her with sad, broken eyes, asking, "does it ever go away?" Always another perp, so that somedays she found herself feeling like Elliot, only barely containing her rage, when she wanted to smash the monster's face into a wall.
But then he came along.
She had been 99% sure she would hate him.
"Bring-your-daughters-to-work day?" Really? And that smug grin, those flashy suspenders.
They yelled "Arrogant! Ambitious!" as surely as his snappy comebacks.
Still, maybe that's what did it. He irked her. He didn't disgust her, he didn't draw her sympathy, or her pain. He just damn well annoyed her, a little buzzing sound that she couldn't swat away.
So she took him to task. She snapped back, and stood up, and taught him some well-needed lessons every chance she could.
And he listened. He listened. Fourteen years, and she hadn't realized how rare it was for her to tell someone they were being an asshole, and have them actually try to fix it—even if Rafael would sure as hell never admit that was what he was doing.
Rafael. When had she started calling the counselor by his first name, at least in her head?
It must have been that case with the gay rapist who attacked other gay men. She remembered tracking him down in that small, so-classy-she-wished-she'd-worn-heels bar. He was half-undressed, as usual (seriously—the minute they entered any office, it was, oh hey, time for the tie to come off!), sleeves rolled up, a glass of scotch within easy reach. She'd been surprised at the flash of heat the tableau had sent through her. He was relatively short, the same height as her most likely, quite different from her normal type. But here, she was struck by how powerful a man he was, even when sitting at relative peace. He was broad-shouldered, stocky, and with hints of surprising muscles underneath all those suits. He reminded her of a tiger, or maybe a cobra, all coiled muscles, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
"Sit. Drink. Smile," he'd said to her, flashing that smirk of his.
Somehow, those three words simultaneously touched her and annoyed her to no end. Who was he, this sarcastic, arrogant lawyer, to tell her what to do? How to feel? And yet... How long had it been since someone had told her to smile? Such a stupid thing, really, but how long had it been, since anyone had even acknowledged that she should smile? She was Detective Olivia Benson, fierce, fearless, strong. At work, she was a force to be reckoned with. At work, she walked around like she owned the place.
And at night, she went home to a darkened apartment.
It was during the Joseph Secter case that things really changed. Child cases weren't technically Rafael's division, but the ADA who was supposed to handle it was out with a rather nasty bought of flu, and Rafael had offered. An easy case, he'd joked. No problem. Eight year old boy, raped and killed, and plenty of evidence to secure a conviction. Way easier than the she-said, he-said cases he so often prosecuted.
So to say Olivia had been surprised when he showed up at her apartment, drenched from the May thunder-storm that was currently causing her cat to huddle under the couch, would be an understatement. "Olivia," was all he said, voice hoarse. She let him in.
Five minutes later, they were sitting on a couch, Olivia with a cup of tea, Rafael with a glass of brandy.
"How the hell do you do it?" He asked her, voice pained. "I've been staring at the pictures, the one of Joseph grinning, alive, excited for his second grade photo. And..." He looked down, hands clenching his glass of brandy so hard she almost worried he would shatter it. "His body. In the mud. Broken. How," he looked up, suddenly enraged, his voice almost a growl, "the hell do you do it?"
She didn't have a good answer. She never did. All she knew was that she didn't have another choice. It was the only thing to do. When she told him that he nodded, all the fight leaving him suddenly, and she thought that more frightening by far than if he had smashed his glass against the floor.
"You've changed me, you know," he said quietly, speaking more to the floor than her. He laughed. "What a cheesy thing to say." He sighed, looked up, and stared at her, looking almost puzzled.
"You've made me care. Made me start to think of them as people, and not just cases." He grimaced. "Don't know if I'll ever forgive you for that."
Olivia didn't know what to say. Caring was so much harder.
He really was very handsome, even hair sticking up funny from the rough toweling job he'd done earlier. She didn't have any men's clothes in her apartment, hadn't, since Brian had left, and that had been a while ago, so he'd to simply dried his as much as possible. As if Rafael had heard her thoughts, he asked, "No boyfriend who's going to kick me out in a few minutes, when he gets home?" His voice was too careful, she thought, registering its even tones. There was something here, if she wanted it.
"No," she laughed, though it was almost too sad to be called such. "No. The job, you know..." He moved closer to her on the couch, eyes still fixed on hers.
"I know." She blinked. That stare was... quite unnerving.
"Do you want more brandy?" He didn't answer, just reached over slowly, and placed his hand on hers. It was warm, callused, not the hand she'd expect from a lawyer. It felt like hers, really.
Funny. She'd always thought that if this was to happen, she'd move first.
She wouldn't lie. She'd envisioned it. Had woken up, drenched, panting in the middle of the night, from visions of pushing him up against his office door, and kissing him, hard. Tamping down that arrogance of his, showing him who had the upper hand. She would be rough, all the rougher because of the moans she drew from him with each bruising touch. The first to go would be those suspenders, damn things. Although she had plans for them too, at some point. Perhaps she'd make him beg. Or maybe she would tell him not to speak at all, render him silent for the first time in his life. Only those sharp, expressive eyes looking up at her, wide with arousal.
Instead, it was he who moved, quick (definitely a cobra, a distant part of her brain remarked). His lips crushing hers. His voice, whispering, hot and low, "I want you. So fucking much." His hands, pinning her down, tracing her body, the shape of her curves. Suddenly, he stopped, and Olivia realized that she had frozen, dazed, not quite believing what was happening.
His voice seemed hurt, suddenly uncertain. "I'm sorry. I thought..." he trailed off, moving away from her. And Olivia woke up. Fiercely, she pulled him back towards her, mouth hungry, nipping at his lip, hand firmly grasping the back of his neck. He smirked, confident once again, and returned the fierceness equally.
She had been 99% sure she would move first.
99% sure it wouldn't work. That as the first light shown through her bedroom window, her heart would sink. That after that, it would be awkward glances at work, stilted movements—not to close, don't brush his hand accidentally.
She had been wrong.
It was he who moved first. And perhaps, that was why she liked him. Perhaps, deep down, she knew she was drawn to him because he was someone who never stood still. Who changed, when she showed him how. Who didn't take her for granted, because he didn't take anything for granted.
And in the morning, there was no sinking heart. There were awkward elbows poking in the side, and teeth that needed to be brushed, and no men's clothes. And there was coffee, and laughter. A lot of laughter.
Things were different at work, but not nearly as much as she had expected, and not in the ways she had worried. There was more smirking, and less personal space, and winks with deeper meaning. There was probably some gossip, and maybe even some betting pools. But it didn't matter. Because she was Detective Olivia Benson, who caught the criminals, and he was ADA Rafael Barba, who put them away. And if they went home together at night, arm-in-arm, his cockiness to her confidence, well, did it really matter?