Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Owen Manning is a piece of shit.

Carisi stares at his ugly mugshot and feels grim satisfaction that the camera got it right--he's seen the man in person, barely five minutes ago, and he's a relatively handsome man in his late forties. Blond, thinning at the top. Hard blue eyes. He's tall, but not as tall as Carisi, though he certainly tried to be when two uniformed officers had dragged him through the bullpen and into an interview room.

"We can thank homicide for this one," Fin grumbles from behind him, shuffling through case notes that other detectives had dropped off.

Manning has a weighty file.

Drunk and disorderly, assault, public intoxication, two DUI's in the past three years, to name a few. Carisi gives a low whistle as he studies the rap sheet pinned to the whiteboard. He scans a report issued to homicide from OCFM--they'd received no less than four calls from the children's teachers in the last year. There had been bruises and odd behavior, but nothing had been substantiated as abuse.

Carisi glances at their school photos, pinned beneath their father's mugshot.

Maxwell, age eight, and Lindsay, age thirteen. They're cute kids, but that's nothing unusual--Rollins always says that he thinks all kids are cute. He always reminds her that she's never seen his cousin Angelina as a baby.

"Lindsay is the one making the allegation?" Benson asks, pushing her glasses onto her nose. Carisi likes the way the boxy black frames look on her but knows better than to tell her that.

"Yeah," Fin mumbles, distracted as he reads a police report filed late last night. "Says he's been touching her at night."

"Just touching?" Benson asks.

"That's what she told Officer Park."

Benson nods and joins Carisi in examining the board.

"Rollins is on her way?"

"Said she was picking them up about half an hour ago, should be here any time now," Fin answers.

"Homicide's case fall apart? I remember reading about this guy in the news," Carisi asks.

"Mistrial," Benson sighs. "We don't have the details yet. The ADA on the case is still determined to push through another trial, but Manning made bail. And now he's our problem, too."

"Dude drinks himself into a stupor and runs a red light. How'd they manage to get a mistrial?" Fin asks, incredulous.

"Yeah, killed the driver on impact," Carisi pitches in, his tone hard with anger. "I read her daughter was in the car. She's alive but..."

He doesn't need to continue, they all saw the news report. Single mom Teri Salinger had been taking her nine year old daughter to pick out a new uniform for school, which was about to start up again after a long, warm summer. Her little prius had crumpled under the force of Manning's truck.

"Like I said, we don't have all the details," Benson answers, examining Lindsay's photograph. The girl has her father's blond hair and wore it in a long bob at the time of the picture, which was probably taken a few months ago for the year book. She has a pointed nose and long eyelashes and looks distinctly unhappy.

Her brother is smiling wide in his picture. There are no hints of distress in his round face.

"Seems straightforward enough," Carisi says, joining Fin at the conference table.

"Lets hope."

- - -

Lindsay Manning cries and shakes her way through her initial interview. Her mother, Abigail Manning, touches her shoulder from time to time but otherwise seems too distracted to comfort her. She glances frequently at the mirror of the interview room and Carisi wonders if she thinks that her husband is watching.

Rollins and Benson go through the usual routine with Lindsay. She's a little too old for the "show me where on the doll" script, and her voice almost doesn't quiver when she tells Benson that her father touches her on her vagina. Over the clothes. Under the blanket. After Mom goes to sleep.

Carisi believes her and he throws frequent glances at Barba, who stands beside him and watches the scene through the glass.

He's sure that Barba notices his staring and he hopes he doesn't mind, but he's dying to know--what did Barba think? Did they have enough?

Carisi wants to nail Owen Manning to the wall.

Barba's face is expressive today, because Carisi can see disgust, anger, and sympathy march across his features in waves, but that doesn't mean that Barba will take the case yet.

Benson wraps the interview up and Mrs. Manning hugs her daughter as they stand up.

"What do you think, Counselor?" Benson asks as she joins them, closing the door behind her. Barba watches Rollins lead mother and daughter back out to the bullpen, where Fin is talking to an animated Max. The boy has never been inside a police precinct before and is clearly excited.

"I think we want to make this as airtight as possible," Barba says evenly, adjusting his jacket. "After that mistrial, a jury might just believe that NYPD has it out for Mr. Manning. It's happened before."

Benson and Carisi nod in agreement, but Benson looks ready for a fight anyway.

"She's credible."

Barba gives her a measured look.

"She sounds a little coached," he tells her.

"I believe her," Benson grounds out.

"I do, too," Barba says, clearly trying to pacify her. "She's clearly distraught and I don't doubt that a jury would believe her."

"So what's the problem?"

Barba sighs.

"We'll need to practice before the trial, if it comes to that. I'd prefer that Mr. Manning take a plea and spare them that, though."

Benson nods in approval and makes her way toward her office, gesturing for them to follow.

Barba nearly collapses onto her couch and Carisi leans against a chair, grinning at him.

"Long night?"

"Long week," Barba answers, reclining his head.

"How's the Rosa trial going?" Carisi asks, curious. He's read about the case but hasn't gotten the chance to pick Barba's brain on it yet.

"We're working toward a plea, but you know Calhoun."

"Yeah, unfortunately," Carisi chuckles. Benson shoots him an annoyed glance and he straightens a bit.

"Carisi, why don't you get in touch with our friends over at homicide. I want to know what went wrong with their trial."

"On it," Carisi grins. He nods at Barba as he leaves and is pleased when the ADA absently returns the gesture.

"So, tell me what you need from us," he hears Benson ask as he closes her door behind him.

- - -

Owen Manning is left to sweat in his own interview room for two and a half hours before Carisi and Rollins enter. He stands immediately.

"This is bullshit," he shouts. "It's been three fucking hours!"

"We needed to get a few facts straight, Mr. Manning," Rollins tells him pleasantly as she sits down. Manning slowly sinks back into his own chair, glancing between them.

"And it's barely been two and a half," Carisi quips, sitting down on the edge of the table. He wants to loom over Manning.

"Still too fucking long," the man grumbles, rubbing his wrist in anger, or maybe anxiety.

Carisi can almost feel Barba's eyes on his back and he starts his line of questioning strong, wanting to impress him. He and Rollins interrogate Manning for a little less than an hour before he crosses his arms over his chest and asks for his lawyer.

- - -

Manning's lawyer is a harassed looking man with a two hundred dollar haircut and cheap shoes. Carisi barely restrains himself from commenting on Mr. Wesley's oversized tie clip.

Wesley's brow is already slick with sweat and he demands that the ADA join them right at the beginning. Rollins shrugs and trades places with Barba, who enters the room with an exasperated expression.

Manning bristles at the sight of him. He eyes his colorful tie and pocket square--both bright pink today--and his lip curls in obvious contempt.

"Mr. Manning, I am ADA Barba," he says quickly, like Manning is of no consequence, and sets his briefcase on the table. He nods at Wesley in acknowledgement.

"Are you fucking serious?" Carisi hears Manning ask Wesley in a mock whisper. Carisi sucks in a quick breath, but Barba stops him with a bemused look. Barbas sit at the table and Wesley steeples his fingers.

"I'm sure you're aware of the dropped charges against my client, Mr. Barba."

"Dropped?" Barba snorts. "I'm not aware of that, no."

"I doubt ADA Miller will be pursuing his vendetta against Mr. Manning after this little endeavor."

"Excuse me?" Barba asks slowly, sounding bored.

"This is clearly police harassment."

Well, that didn't take long, Carisi thinks.

"An allegation has been made against Mr. Manning and we are obligated to investigate," Barba tells him flatly.

Manning is trying to glare a hole in the side of Barba's head.

"My bitch of a wife got her to say that," he says, chest heaving as he clearly fights to get his anger under control. He’s on edge after the long wait and aggressive interview and it shows.

Barba tips his head to the side, looking thoughtful.

"We'll investigate that, Mr. Manning."

Manning is anything but appeased by that and doesn't let up his 'if looks could kill' routine. Barba ignores him in favor of Wesley, who is watching him back warily.

"Is there any particular reason that you requested my presence, Mr. Wesley? Doesn't sound like your client is ready to plea."

"The fuck I am," Manning roars, slapping a meaty hand on the table. Carisi tenses, prepared to grab him, but it's not necessary.

"Mr. Manning, please," his lawyer soothes. He doesn’t look surprised by his client's outburst and barely spares him a glance. It’s obvious that they’ve worked closely together before and Carisi wonders what kind of path in life leads a person to accept someone like Owen Manning as a recurring client.

"Mr. Barba, we're requesting that you drop all charges against Mr. Manning. He's a loving father and loyal husband, and your goons here at the NYPD are going to be facing a massive lawsuit in the near future for their treatment of my client."

Carisi isn't sure which thing to take offense to first.

The conversation doesn't really improve much from there.

- - -

Carisi watches Manning leave the bullpen with his lawyer a little while later. He sees Manning throw one last look at Barba, who never managed to get on his good side and couldn't care less about it. Barba, texting on his phone, either doesn’t see the glare or finds pleasure in ignoring it--Manning is dog shit on his shoe and they all know it. Carisi’s mouth twitches with approval, which Barba somehow manages to catch. Manning is out the door and Barba permits himself a wry grin back at the detective.

Benson approaches them, looking displeased and clearly ready to tell them about it. Carisi braces for a lecture that always seems to find him--as badly as he wants Benson’s approval, it’s been a rare thing over the years and he knows better than to expect it now.

"Well, that was interesting," Barba says, preempting Benson’s possible--probable--lashing for Carisi.

"He lawyered up pretty fast," Benson comments, glancing at Carisi. He knows he hasn’t escaped the full brunt of her thoughts on his interviewing technique, but it appears he has a temporary reprieve. He shoots out a quick mental thank-you into the universe. Being embarrassed by his boss is one thing, but he’s glad it won’t be in front of the ADA.

“We probably could’ve gotten more out of him,” Benson continues, her mouth stretched a bit at the corners. Carisi knows this to be an obvious sign of annoyance.

"Yeah, well, he's been here before," Carisi says defensively. He always tries to walk a fine line in which he’s respectful but he stands his ground with his Lieutenant, yet he comes off as petulant most of the time. This time he was aiming for casual but the line of his shoulders and the quick grimace of his mouth say it all. Barba notices and throws him a look, like he's not sure if he feels amusement or pity.

"He certainly is familiar with the system. I'm honestly surprised he talked with you at all without Wesley," Barba offers. Benson looks at him in surprise but can’t seem to muster an argument against that.

Carisi recognizes the complement and fixes them both with a slightly too bright smile. His body immediately relaxes into a more comfortable slouch and he leans slightly toward Barba as if in appreciation for the support. Benson visibly restrains herself from an eyeroll.

"Even with that, we didn't get much. He's sticking to his story that his wife is setting him up," she says.

“I’m sure you’ll get what you need. You’re all pretty good at your jobs by now.”

It sounds a little pointed, and although Carisi can’t pinpoint why it seems that way, Benson’s eyes narrow ever so slightly.

Fin wanders up to them before she can reply, shrugging his jacket on.

"I've gotta head over to the courthouse," he tells them, looking less than thrilled. “Got a few warrants for that southside brothel that need signing.”

"I'll go with you," Barba says, tucking his phone into his breast pocket and suddenly sounding more tired than he had a moment ago. Carisi realizes that he’s stayed at the precinct longer than usual and wonders if he’s reluctant to return to his office.

"We've got enough for a warrant for Manning's home, I'll get started on that,” Barba tells them over his shoulder, following Fin toward the elevators.

- - -

They don't turn up anything at the Manning residence. They hadn’t been expecting much in the way of physical evidence but Carisi manages to feel disappointed anyway. He watches as techs pack up the home computer and Lindsay's laptop for analysis, and then they gather their gear.

Carisi shrugs and glances at Rollins, who looks bored. They’d both been a little impressed that Manning has a nice little house out in the suburbs but that had quickly worn off during the search. They’re ready to head out but Manning suddenly blocks their way to the door, his face blotchy and red.

"Are you going to clean this shit up?" He demands, gesturing wildly around the room.

Carisi looks at the path of mild destruction. Tables had been overturned, couch pillows removed, drawers pulled out--all in search of incriminating photographs or videos.

"Sorry," Carisi lies.

"That's not really our department," Rollins tells him sarcastically.

Two crime scene techs arrive behind them, and Manning seems to weigh his options before reluctantly standing aside. Carisi almost wishes that Manning would swing at them, because then at least they could drag him in and charge him with something.

He finds that he almost gets his wish a moment later, when Manning grabs his arm as he attempts to walk past. Rollins’ hand immediately lands on her holstered gun and Manning releases him as if burned. He keeps his eyes on Rollins’ hand for a moment, who doesn’t relax a hair, before turning back to Carisi.

"Detective," Manning starts, sounding earnest and looking lost. "I'm not a perfect man, but I would never hurt my daughter."

Rollins snorts. The ‘yeah, we’ve heard that before’ comment goes unsaid but Manning's face changes into something steely all the same.

"I'm capable of a lot of things, but not that. You should tell your boss that."

Carisi almost corrects him--Barba's not really his boss--but Rollins interrupts.

"Come on, Carisi. Don't waste your time."

He hesitates, watching fury and desperation play across Manning's face, and then he follows her out into the rain.

- - -

It's three days later and they haven't made much progress. Barba has called Lindsay in twice for subsequent interviews--he still maintains that she sounds a little rehearsed, but he thinks she'll do okay if it comes to a trial. TARU hadn’t turned up anything unusual on the home computer--unless you counted a cleared porn browsing history out of place--and while they had some concerns about Lindsay’s laptop, there was nothing to link some inappropriate comments on her Facebook and school forum to her allegations.

Carisi buys lunch and brings it to Barba's office. He doesn’t think about it much, it just makes sense to him in the moment, but he feels a little unsure as he passes Carmen with a quick hello. He swings through Barba’s doorway and shakes the bags a bit in greeting.

If the ADA is surprised that Carisi shows up unannounced with Chinese food, he doesn't show it. Instead, he quirks a one-sided smile at the detective and stands, flipping a file closed and gesturing toward the table at the other side of the room.

They settle in and discuss the case as they eat.

They plan a counterattack against Manning's claim of police harassment and Barba nods approvingly as he lets Carisi take the lead in the conversation. Carisi sometimes takes a little while to get where he needs to be, but he always finds his way there with a little guidance. Barba agrees when he suggests that Manning’s criminal history will mostly do their job for them.

Their conversation shifts to the family dynamics and Carisi listens closely as Barba sorts through his thoughts on Mrs. Manning, Lindsay, and Max. He doesn’t want to ask Max to testify against his father, but he’ll ask the judge to subpoena the boy if necessary.

They settle into an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, each trying to picture the eight year old trembling on the stand.

"Well, we'll leave the rest for now," Barba says, packing up the containers in the plastic bag they came in. "I've got to get to court."

- - -

Benson and Carisi wait for Barba outside of the courtroom three hours later. He’s looking down at his phone when he makes his way toward them and Carisi spots him first--spots the fiercely crimson tie fastened securely at Barba’s throat and the way the soft charcoal fabric of his suit is subtly lined with a deeper black--and jumps up from the bench.

Barba looks surprised to see them but Carisi thinks he looks happy too, so things must have gone well on the Rosa case. He’s preparing a smart comment about how Barba must have gotten the drop on Calhoun at the arraignment but Benson starts in first.

“What else do you need for us to bring the Manning case to trial?” She demands, seemingly towering over the ADA despite the fact that they’re nearly matched in height. He doesn’t seem too bothered by her tone but he doesn’t quite resist the bait, either.

“A bit more if we want to win.”

Carisi hangs back a bit as they bicker, smiling to himself. Sometimes it’s like being around an old married couple and he can’t help but admire the friendly way they collide and clash, and he finds himself hoping that he can earn that kind of comradery with the both of them, too.

They pause at the top of the courthouse steps and agree that they'll need to bring Lindsay and Max's teachers in to establish a pattern of behavior.

Barba begins to make his exit, but pauses to grin at Carisi, who doesn’t miss the way the cold December air brings out the pink in his cheeks.

"Thanks again for lunch," Barba says teasingly, but he's really half watching Benson's face transform with confusion and just a hint of betrayal.

Carisi sputters a bit at the intense expression that she suddenly aims his way and watches Barba slip down the stairs and into the crowd.

"Lunch?" Benson asks, her voice a bit like sandpaper. She knows Barba well enough to recognize when he's teasing, but she knows he wasn't lying either. Carisi can almost see the moment her face settles on disapproval.

Carisi struggles between feeling embarrassed--he doesn't even know why, they’ve all eaten and discussed cases with Barba before--and feeling pleased because Barba had thanked him, even if it was only for the purpose of tripping him up in front of his boss.

Benson rolls her eyes at his hesitation and starts down the stairs, apparently deciding it isn’t worth waiting for an answer.

Wondering if it would be inappropriate to plan retaliation, Carisi's eyes automatically find Barba down on the sidewalk below, where he's typing on his Blackberry and likely waiting for an Uber.

He's helpless to stop the shout that escapes him when he sees Barba get stabbed between the ribs.

- - -

He thinks he's been punched, at first. It feels like a hard fist lands against his side and he feels his breath rush out of him with an audible hiss.

Staggering, Barba turns in disbelief but only catches a glimpse--a blur really--of black. He starts to crane his neck to follow the motion but his hand is slick and warm and he looks down, stunned to see blood coating his palm where he'd rested it against his ribs.

His mind stretches out into a narrow buzz of shock.

He looks up again, but only a handful of bystanders stare back at him with realization. One woman covers her mouth with her hand.

He takes a step backward and nearly stumbles off the curb.

He's distantly aware of shouting and then Benson is there--or is it Benson? He's not sure.

The pain takes over.

His hands spasm as he tries to grab at the woman, who is grabbing at him, and she's saying something but his ears feel like they've been filled with cotton and he feels static on his tongue.

Carisi is there, too. He's sure about that one because he can hear his name being shouted in the detective's ridiculous, familiar accent.

"I've been stabbed," he explains to them.

Or maybe not.

He's not sure if he gets the words out.

A large, warm hand clasps the back of his neck and Benson is telling him something--what?--as Carisi tries to guide him down to the sidewalk.

He resists but isn't sure why, because he’s suddenly not sure if he can stay standing.

The next thing he knows he's lying on concrete and bleeding out.

Carisi's hands move to the injury--his stab wound, he thinks, nearly hysterical with the shock of it--and he must be pressing down but Barba can't feel it. He only feels a deep, raw pain from somewhere further inside.

And then, nothing.

- - -

"Liv--" Carisi says, or maybe shouts, he's not sure over the roaring in his head. "He--"

"He's just unconscious, Carisi," and he can't believe how calm she can sound. "Just keep putting pressure on it."

She looks around helplessly as a small crowd gathers around them now. She sees a couple of phones out and knows it's more likely that they're taking pictures than calling for help. She wishes she could scream at them, but she keeps her composure. She has to. She pulls her own cell phone out and calls for an ambulance as two uniformed officers from the courthouse race over to them. They’re demanding answers, wanting direction, but Benson can’t offer them anything--she doesn’t know who they should be looking for. Instead, she tells them to secure the scene and push the morbidly curious crowd back. They do so and she feels like she can breathe a little better with the space it gives them.

She looks back to Barba but catches Carisi's wild eyes instead. He looks like he's about to pass out, but his hands are steady and stay faithfully pressed to Barba's side.

His eyes are begging.

She doesn't know for what.

She thinks about Dodds and the hospital and the blood--

"Did you see him?" Carisi demands.

Benson stares at him, at a loss. All the color has drained from his face and she’s distracted by the intense blue of his wide, wide eyes, her thoughts still with Dodds.

“Who?” She hears herself ask.

"Manning!"

"Hold on, Carisi," Benson barks. "Did you see him? Are you sure?"

"I--"

"Are you sure?"

"No! No, but--!" Carisi is starting to shout now, but he snaps his mouth shut when her hand grabs his arm.

"One thing at a time," she breathes, looking stern and keenly aware of their audience.

They wait and let the blood sink into the fabric of their clothes.

She hears the sirens before she sees the lights, and she holds her breath until the ambulance screeches to a stop in the street, blocking traffic. The sun’s still out but the brilliant red and blue wash over them all the same.

The EMTs efficiently take over and then they take Barba away. Benson pulls on Carisi's arm, not trusting him to drive. He lets her fold him into the passenger seat of his own car.

Benson murmurs reassurances but Carisi stares at his red hands for the entirety of the ride.

- - -

Carisi offers to donate blood to Barba at least four times. Benson watches a nurse gently reject the most recent offer, reassuring him that it's not necessary--he’s more than welcome to donate to the blood bank but they don’t need it for Barba’s surgery.

"I'm a universal donor," he reminds her desperately. Benson tries not to think too hard about the quiver in his voice as she places a call to Fin.

"We'll let you know if we need you," the nurse tries to be soothing but she's in a hurry, and she leaves them with a sympathetic look. Carisi watches her go, his eyes haunted.

He's always been an expressive man but Benson isn't sure that his face has ever been easier to read.

"Fin," a voice says into her ear.

"Hey, are you there yet?" She turns away from Carisi and focuses on the far wall, where a bland black and white photograph of an oak tree rests.

"Just pulling up. We'll keep you updated, Liv. We'll find the son of a bitch."

"Good. Thank you. Be careful," she warns. "If this was Manning he's likely armed, maybe even waiting for you."

"We've got this, Lieu."

Carisi has his hands buried in his hair and his head bowed when she turns back to him. He looks up when she sits down next to him in one of the little lime green chairs of the waiting area.

"That Fin?" Carisi asks hoarsely.

"Yeah. They just got to Manning's place."

Carisi shakes his head and stands up suddenly, beginning to pace.

"I should be there," he tells her, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his forehead. His hands are clean now but Barba's blood is still on his clothes. And on hers, too, she knows. She can feel it making her clothing stiff.

"What about donating blood?" Benson asks gently, wanting him no where near Manning. She trusts Carisi, knows he's a good detective, but he's clearly emotional and she can't have him screwing up the investigation on day one. She’s going to find Barba’s attacker and she’s going to see him put behind bars.

"They don't need it," he protests weakly.

"They might."

He collapses back into his chair, resting his head in his hands again, and says nothing. She knows she’s won the fight but can’t bring herself to feel very relieved.

She closes her eyes and she leans her head against the wall, settling in for a long wait.

Chapter Text

Fin instinctively dislikes Manning. He's been on the job long enough to trust his gut, and it's telling him that the man is an asshole.

Said asshole crosses his arms, the veins in his neck bulging, as two uniformed officers poke around the house. Mrs. Manning and the kids are gone.

"They're at a movie," Manning grunts when Fin asks after them.

"At 5PM on a Thursday?"

"Central Cinema has five dollar showings on Thursdays."

"And you're, what, not a five dollar movie kind of man?"

"I'm on house arrest," Manning says, his eyes narrowed like he's not sure if Fin knows that or not.

"Uh huh. That being said, where were you half an hour ago?"

"Half an hour ago?"

"Shortly after 4:30PM," Fin elaborates dryly. He can play this game all day but he'd prefer to move things along.

"House arrest? Remember?"

"So, you were here?"

"Yes!" Manning snaps, losing his patience. Fin counts that as a victory.

"Alright. Can anyone verify that for us?"

Manning starts to pace. He obviously recognizes this line of questioning.

"I told you, my wife and kids are at a movie. They left sometime after three, I don't know, I was asleep."

"Uh huh," Fin drawls again as one of the officers walks up, looking apprehensive.

"Would you excuse us, Mr. Manning?" Fin requests politely, but Manning doesn't budge for several long, tense moments. He's obviously not used to being told what to do in his own house.

But he eventually grunts and moves out of the living room.

"Anything?" Fin asks, keeping his voice low.

The officer shakes his head, looking disappointed. He's a new recruit. He's heard stories about Barba from other officers and detectives but he doesn't bear a grudge because of them, and it seems obvious to Fin that he's earnestly trying his best.

"No. No weapon, no bloody clothes. Everything seems to be in place."

"Alright," Fin murmurs, and goes to find Manning in the kitchen. It's dark now, not quite pitch black but dark enough that Manning has flipped on several lights. Fin scans the counters like he half expects to find a bloody knife there.

Manning is watching him, his brow setting an angry curve across his forehead.

"We'll be on our way now, thank you for your time, Mr. Manning."

"Not like I had a choice."

Fin gives him a look.

"Stay where we can find you," he warns, and then leads the uniformed officers out into the night.

- - -

Rollins has been interviewing witnesses for the last two and a half hours and has run out of names. They'd only managed to pull a few people from the street and most insist that they didn't see anything until after it had happened--they remember seeing Barba, bleeding and staggering, but no one had been paying attention before that.

Only one woman claims to have seen it happen. She said that she noticed a 'tallish' white man bump into Barba in the moments before Barba had spun around. Mrs. Bhargava tells Rollins that the man was wearing a black hoodie but can't share much else.

"He was... pretty pale?" the sixty-eight year old mother had told her.

It wasn't much, but it was a place to start.

The man had been a part of the crowd, flowing naturally with it, and the early December weather meant that plenty of people had their hoods up against the cold wind.

He had hit Barba hard and fast--Mrs. Bhargava wasn't even sure if the man had even looked at his victim--before continuing on to blend back into the crowd of distracted tourists.

The knife wasn't left behind.

Rollins has already put in requests for surveillance footage from the courthouse and nearby buildings, but uniformed officers are still gathering them.

She keeps in touch with Benson and Fin, but Carisi doesn't answer her text, which she thinks is unusual.

She considers heading over to the hospital to wait with Benson and Carisi but decides against it. It's already late and she doesn't trust her sister to keep an eye on Jesse for very long. The babysitter had already left an hour ago and Rollins is anxious to get back.

She shoots Carisi another text on her way home--'keep me updated'--and makes plans to visit the next day.

- - -

Barba is out of surgery but the doctor is still concerned enough that he doesn't allow visitors outside of immediate family.

The hospital has tried reaching Lucia Barba but her phone is off, so Benson makes a call and arranges for an officer to try to track her down.

Benson has a hell of a time convincing Carisi to head home--it's already past 9PM and there's nothing more they can do tonight--but she has trouble leaving, too.

A part of her is still processing that a close friend and colleague had nearly died and she'd been right there. They hadn't been able to stop the attack, hadn't even seen it coming, and worse--they hadn't caught the guy in the aftermath.

She knows that similar thoughts are turning through Carisi's head. She considers saying something like, "it not your fault," (of course it isn't) or, "he'll be fine," (he might not be) but she can't quite manage to break the heavy silence that falls over them as they leave the hospital.

He wanders to his car in a daze and she watches in concern for a moment before calling a cab.

He's a grown man, she tells herself, thinking of the way that Rollins sometimes babies him. He's capable of getting back home alright.

Her thoughts turn to Noah and a glass of red wine in her attempt to avoid thinking about Barba lying helpless on the sidewalk.

- - -

Her team is waiting for her in the bullpen when she arrives the next morning and she takes a minute to be touched by their dedication--she'd gone in hours early and they'd still beaten her there.

Carisi looks like he didn't sleep at all, but she's glad to see that he's more alert than he had been last night in the waiting room.

He nods in greeting when he sees her and then goes back to looking at his computer, where a grainy video is playing in black and white.

"Footage came in," Rollins tells her with a tired smile.

"That was fast," she says with approval, leaning in slightly to watch with Carisi.

"Well, a New York City A.D.A. was stabbed a hundred feet from a courthouse," Finn deadpans. "City Hall is going beserk."

Benson nods.

"Find anything on the tapes?" She asks.

"Sort of," Carisi grouses, pausing the video. "Video quality isn't great on most of these. The security footage from the courthouse is pretty clear but the guy managed to avoid showing his face--he keeps his back to the camera, and with that hood up..."

He trails off and clicks up the courthouse footage. Benson watches as a figure in a black jacket and blue jeans stands--back to the camera--at the base of the steps and then moves swiftly into the crowd once Barba makes it onto the sidewalk. He had clearly been waiting for their A.D.A. Benson nearly loses sight of them there, as there's a particularly thick group of tourists flocking by, but finds Barba's image again once he stops and pulls out his phone, stepping close to the curb as he waits for a car.

Benson squints. Barba's far enough away from the camera that he's nearly out of the shot. She watches with dread as the man in black approaches Barba on the screen--she knows what happens next but it's unclear from the footage.

The man obviously collides with their A.D.A. but the camera doesn't pick up the knife he was surely holding.

She watches Barba turn toward the source of the impact, hand to his side, but the man in black is already gone. He's out of the camera's range after about two seconds.

Benson leans back away from Carisi's laptop and feels cold.

"And the other tapes?" She asks after a moment. Carisi shakes his head and she notices that his hair is less styled than usual--or maybe just more sloppily done. A loose curl rests over his forehead and he manages to look both older and younger than he should, depending on where she rests her attention.

"Still going through them but nothing definitive so far. We don't have a clearer shot of the assault but we have some footage from up the block," he says, sounding more subdued than usual, too. "The first time we see him is two streets away. It's black and white--this camera is probably from the seventies."

His voice sounds bitter.

"The same is more or less true of the others, so far," Rollins says, tapping her pen. "We can see what he's wearing--and he's most definitely a he--and he looks white."

"That's it?" Benson asks, incredulous.

"For now. We still have a couple to go through," Rollins replies defensively.

"Any updates on Manning?"

"No. Seems like he's sticking to his house arrest."

"Doesn't mean he did last night," Carisi asserts with unnecessary venom. They look at him in surprise but he's back to watching his computer.

"We'll do a follow-up interview later today," Benson says, aiming for a placating tone. "In the meantime, Rollins, try to find some security cameras near Manning's neighborhood. Hopefully we can catch him leaving the house."

- - -

"Well, he either didn't leave the house or he knows where the local security and traffic cameras are," Rollins comments, throwing her pen across her desk.

Carisi doesn't lift his head from his laptop.

"Keep looking."

Rollins makes a noise of disbelief.

"Seriously, Carisi?" She complains.

He opens his mouth to say something else--an explanation for his bullshit, she hopes--but Benson enters the bullpen and looks at them expectantly. Her expressions shifts into a subtle shade of disappointment as they explain their meager findings.

"Come on, conference room," she demands after a moment. They follow her through and find seats at the round table. Carisi stares at Owen Manning's face, his mugshot still pinned to the board and now joined by a handful of screenshots from the surveillance videos of Barba’s attack.

Fin joins them with a fresh mug of coffee a few moments later, and they begin the difficult task of narrowing down alternative suspects to Manning.

There are a couple of obvious lines of inquiry--the Terrence Reynolds case and the Munson case in particular--as well as some older ones. Carisi listens with interest and no small amount of anger as the rest of the team discusses Alex Muñoz, Barba's former childhood friend. Carisi had heard about the scandal, because what New Yorker hadn't, but Carisi hadn't known Barba at the time and hadn't been paying attention when Muñoz had attempted to smear the A.D.A.'s good name.

Looking at Manning’s picture and listening to the stories about Muñoz, Carisi's about ready to jump out of his skin. He feels restless and he instinctively knows that the rest of the squad can see it too.

"So," Fin is saying. "We have a lot of suspects but nothing substantial to go on."

Benson looks contemplative but doesn't argue.

"Barba hasn't mentioned any recent threats," she admits after a moment. "I'm not positive that he would, but I like to think he'd bring it up to us."

"It's not impossible that someone's been holding a grudge but hasn't broadcasted that to him--," Rollins reminds them.

"Manning makes the most sense," Carisi cuts her off, his voice a little louder than he'd intended. She shoots him a sharp glance, her eyes moving quickly between his face and where his hands are clenched on top of the table.

"It's likely that he thought he could stall the case if something happened to Barba," Fin agrees, but he's watching Carisi closely now too.

"We haven't found any evidence of that," Benson reminds them with an edge to her voice. She begins pacing a small path in front of the table. "We'll keep looking but we have to stay open to other possibilities, too."

"And, what, we just sit here talking about it in the meantime?"

"Carisi," Benson warns, and Fin and Rollins send him twin looks of shock.

It's not like Carisi hasn't had his share of outbursts, but it might have been the first time one was directed at Benson. And she clearly isn't impressed.

"I just mean, we should be out there getting that evidence," he amends, looking a little surprised with himself, too. "Me and Rollins can re-interview Manning, talk to his wife and the kids."

Benson shakes her head.

"I'm not sure that's the best use of our time, Carisi."

Her phrasing is gentle but her tone is not.

"Manning could have taken his anklet off and put it back on after," Carisi argues, looking around the table for support. His large hands gesture loosely. "There's, like, a hundred youtube tutorials. Even a loser like Manning could figure it out."

"Maybe," Benson agrees but looks unconvinced.

"And he has motive--the most motive, right now," Carisi continues, pushing a bit harder. He's clearly frustrated by the way that Fin and Rollins sit quietly and watch the exchange.

"Manning doesn't think so," Benson answers and ignores his loud scoff. "Fin already brought that up in their second interview from this morning. Manning says that he didn't need Barba dead to beat him in court."

If possible, Carisi's hackles rise even more.

"And," Benson continues, holding up a hand to stop his obvious protest. "He seemed convincing. Manning just got a mistrial in what everyone thought would be a cut and dry win for the prosecution.”

"Okay, yeah, but--"

"His confidence was bolstered. He probably really does think he could beat this charge, too," Benson finishes, her voice stern. "Look, Carisi, I'm not saying he's not lying. But he has a point--even Manning has to know that Barba would've been replaced. His trial hasn't even started so it wouldn't have caused another mistrial. If that's what he wanted, he would've waited to go after Barba."

Carisi clearly wants to argue but struggles to find a way around that logic.

"You might be giving him too much credit in the intelligence department," is all he manages to mumble.

They exchange half-hearted theories for the next fifty minutes before Benson is called into a meeting with Dodds Senior. She gives Carisi a thoughtful look--like she's not quite sure she can trust him--but seems to come to a decision quickly enough.

"Carisi, drop by the hospital and see if Barba is awake. Get his statement if you can."

He nods eagerly and nearly misses it when Benson asks Rollins and Fin to pay Manning a visit to make sure he's where he's supposed to be.

Carisi feels a pang of something--maybe a bit of betrayal, because that had been a suggestion she'd shot down not too long ago--but he gathers his things in silence.

He forgives her by the time he gets to his car.

- - -

"Mr. Barba isn't able to have visitors yet."

Carisi frowns but he isn't exactly surprised.

"What's his condition?"

The nurse hesitates and Carisi can see that she's busy, but she pushes away from her computer a bit and runs a hand through her short sandy hair. She isn't young and she isn't old, and Carisi can appreciate the elegant curve of her jawline and the laugh lines on her face.

"It was pretty touch-and-go for a bit. He lost a lot of blood and he was in shock by the time the paramedics got to him. But the surgery went well and Mr. Barba is in good health, we expect him to make a full recovery with time."

Cariai lets out an audible sigh of relief and grins at her. She smiles patiently back, clearly a bit charmed with him.

"He's not quite out of the woods yet," she cautions, but Carisi thinks she doesn't look too worried.

"Any thoughts on when he's going to wake up?"

She tilts her head to the side and looks past him when a young couple enter the wide room, holding hands and looking lost.

“It’s hard to say.”

“Can you try?” He pushes, and seems a little less charming because of it. She maintains her smile though, understanding how difficult it must be on the detective to investigate violence against his own coworker.

“With an injury like his… maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow? He’ll likely be well enough to leave by the end of the week.”

He’s clearly surprised by this and her smile broadens to show a line of teeth, amused.

“It’s not really like in the movies,” she tells him. “We’re good at what we do and there isn’t a lot that we can do for him after a few days of monitoring. He’ll be more comfortable at home and we’ll need the bed.”

“Huh,” Carisi replies, a little unsettled. He tries not to look alarmed by the idea that they might push Barba out early in order to secure more space. He shifts his weight and glances over his shoulder at the couple again, who are pale and watching him impatiently. They clearly need to talk to the nurse, too.

He reluctantly moves away from the counter, thanking her for the information. She looks a bit disappointed but her eyes keep their soft, sympathetic sheen.

“We have your department’s information. I’m sure your supervisor will be notified once he wakes up.”

- - -

He bumps into Rollins in the parking lot of the precinct.

He watches as her mouth pinches in disapproval at the news that Barba hasn’t regained consciousness.

“We could really use his statement,” she admits, following him up the elevator and into the bullpen.

“What did Manning say this time?”

“Nothing new. He even went as far as to say that he’s glad that Barba’s alive--says he’s looking forward to ‘kicking his ass’ in court.”

Carisi swears and throws his jacket onto his chair, which earns him a stare from Rollins and a passing officer. He refuses to be embarrassed and is a little frustrated that Rollins doesn’t seem too bothered by Manning bad-mouthing their A.D.A.

“Look--Carisi--I get it,” she says quietly, leaning slightly toward him as though confessing something private. “We’re all worried and we all want Manning to go down, but--”

“But what?” He challenges. He wants to say more but he doesn’t know how to put his sudden annoyance with her into words.

“But you’re acting a little…”

“What?”

“A little off, Carisi. That’s all. You getting enough sleep?” Her voice adopts a concerned tone and the skin around her eyes is creased a bit as she studies him closely.

“I don’t think any of us are.”

“Well, some more than others, apparently.”

It’s the wrong thing to say and she immediately knows it. His big eyes suddenly look wounded. She makes a noise as she tries to find a way to backtrack and he almost lets her.

“No, you know what?” He says, keeping his voice low but allowing it to get heated. “I do care, alright? We all should. Barba may not be a cop but he is one of us.”

“Of course he is.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I’m crazy for giving a shit?” He demands, nearly whisper-hissing at her now. She takes a breath and then glances around before all but dragging him into the break room.

Carisi immediately begins pacing the small space. She watches him before heading for the vending machine and punching in the code for pretzels a little too hard. He waits her out.

“Alright. Look, Carisi. You’re not crazy for caring so much--like I said, we all care. But you’re just acting a little out of control. I know with--with Dodds, this isn’t…” Rollins pauses, struggling. She’s really not the best with heart-to-hearts and they both know it. “This is hitting all of us, just in different ways, but you can’t keep it up with the outbursts. You’re lucky Benson has let you get away with a few already.”

He makes an offended sound and stops pacing in favor of staring at her with his hands on his hips.

“I know you’d be like this with any of us, probably even worse,” she continues. “You care. And that’s a good thing. But we need you focused.”

“I am focused!” He protests, but seems a little bit pacified by her acknowledgement of how much they all mean to him. His heart beats a little faster at the idea of any one of them injured but he doesn’t agree that it would be any better or any worse than Barba.

“Yeah, just maybe not in the right way,” she snarks back.

Carisi feels his throat burn with frustration.

“You weren’t there,” he tells her, glad when his voice doesn’t break.

She hesitates and then her voice goes soft.

“I know,” she puts a hand on his forearm. He nearly shrugs her off, but he desperately wants the comfort and some part of him is grateful that she’s giving him even this much.

“It was--”

Fin walks into the break room and looks startled to find them standing so close to one another. He clears his throat and offers them a smile.

“Not interrupting, am I?” He moves toward the soda machine without waiting for an answer. Maybe he’d noticed their intensity and was trying to diffuse it.

“No,” Rollins says, drawing back a bit. Carisi suddenly has trouble meeting her eyes, so she opens her pretzel bag with a pop and digs out a few. Carisi waits a moment, like he’s hoping she’ll say something else--but she only chews on her snack and watches Fin as he heads back to his desk with a Coke. She gestures toward their own desks and Carisi follows her out, moving slowly.

“We should get a guard for Barba’s room,” he says, once they’re seated.

Fin looks over, eyebrows raised slightly, and Rollins mirrors the look.

“What, you think someone’s going to take a shot at him in the hospital? Try to finish him off?” She asks, her accent a bit thicker than usual and just a little bit sarcastic.

Carisi bristles immediately.

“Someone got him with a knife in broad daylight, basically on the steps of the Supreme Court,” he reminds her, eyes hooded and angry. “You really think they wouldn’t--”

“Okay, okay,” she holds up her hands in surrender. “I’ll make the call.”

He nods and looks away. He opens his laptop and she slowly puts another pretzel in her mouth. She trades a look with Fin, who has his eyebrows lowered with concern now. When Carisi gets up to get coffee, Fin wanders closer to her desk.

“He okay?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, leaning back in her chair and considering Fin, who nods like he didn’t expect much else.

“He’s always been protective of his people,” Fin says, clearly thinking out loud. “Doesn’t really come as a surprised he’s freaked. He basically saw it happen.”

“Yeah, but…” She pauses, not sure what she’s about to argue. She shakes her head.

“He’s right about the security detail, too,” Fin continues. Rollins frowns a bit at this, clearly disagreeing but more than happy to humor them. The guy had been careful to avoid cameras and she doesn’t think he’d be stupid enough to go into a building covered in them. She’s still mulling over her reluctance when Carisi makes his way back over without even glancing at them.

She regrets the sudden distance between them.

She thinks that Benson would’ve found a better way to have had that conversation.

She shares once last glance with Fin before he turns away and goes back to his own desk.

She tries to catch Carisi’s eye, thinking that maybe she should apologize--but for what? She wasn’t wrong. It really was great that Carisi cared so much but it wasn’t helping their case. She tries to imagine how Benson would put that into words for a moment, but gives up.

She picks up the phone and makes sure to request Barba’s guard loud enough for Carisi to hear.

- - -

By the time they leave that evening they’re all exhausted. Benson’s eyes are red when she dismisses them, but she stays behind in her office. Carisi nearly stays too, but his hands had started trembling about half an hour ago and he knows he won’t be much more use that night. He can barely see straight.

He and Rollins ride the elevator down together and he’s relieved that the tension between them has mostly melted away. They’re too tired to be sore at one another.

They hesitate in the lobby. Carisi wants to say something, maybe tell her that she was right and that he needed to focus more on finding Barba’s attacker and less on snapping at his team, but he can’t quite bring himself to say it. She must sense it anyway though, because her smile is warmer than it has been for hours.

“It’s been a shit day,” she says, going for nonchalant and he allows it. They can pretend things are normal for a minute.

“Yeah,” he agrees out loud, running a hand through his woefully ruffled hair.

“I know it’s late but--my place? We can grab a pizza and watch some trash TV again.”

Her eyes are tired but hopeful, and her pink mouth is curved into an inviting smile. He pictures it, thinks of Jesse, thinks of Frannie too, and is nearly overcome with how tempting it sounded. But it wouldn’t feel right, not with Barba still fighting for his life, and he’s so tired he feels like he can fall asleep standing up.

His smile is genuinely regretful when he declines and he means it when he asks for a raincheck.

Carisi drives himself home in a daze and thinks he’ll be asleep before his head even hits the pillow, but he’s wrong. He tosses and turns and winds up staring at the ceiling, watching as headlights from outside the window cast shifting shadows across the smooth surface.

He lies awake and he thinks.

Rollins’ words burn at him in the dark and he turns them over carefully, wondering if she has more of a point than he’d like to admit.

He summons the memory of her in the hospital, writhing in pain and red-faced and sweating, and he’d been so scared for her and the baby.

He thinks of Benson, trapped in that townhouse with a gunman, and remembers the ice that he’d carried in his stomach over the days that followed. It had been so close.

The thought of losing either of them still frequently finds him in his quiet moments, but now they are amplified, and visions of Barba bleeding and vacant-looking are added to the mix.

Carisi throws an arm over his face and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He thinks about his friends--his coworkers--his new little family--and he nearly trembles with preemptive grief. He considers the close calls and he makes a point of not thinking about Dodds and how it had felt to actually lose someone. He hadn’t known Dodds long, but the man had taken a piece of Carisi with him to the grave.

He feels like Barba will take limb with him, if he goes too.

He considers Rollins’ statement that he’d be even more upset, even more irrational, if it had been one of the other SVU detectives. He thinks that, somehow, maybe that wasn’t true. He would care--oh god, would he care--but this feels different.

He thinks that it could be because the threat is still out there. Maybe waiting to strike again. At least before, with Benson and Rollins, he’d known where the potential for harm was. Barba’s attacker was a complete unknown, and the only reason that sleep even found Carisi that night was because he knew, at the very least, that a guard was standing protectively in front of Barba’s door.

- - -

He’s pleased when Benson allows him to join her for a surprise drop-in at Manning’s house the next day.

He’s less pleased when she feels the need to give him something resembling a pep talk--or maybe a warning--when they pull up to the Manning residence. She cautions him against acting out.

“Look, Lieu, I passed the bar exam and I’ve been doing this for years,” he snaps, one hand on the car’s door handle. “I know the line. I’m not going to screw this up.”

She looks unconvinced and more than a little pissed off at his tone.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, looking properly ashamed, and she lays a tentative hand on his shoulder. He expects her to say something but she just watches him for a moment and then pats him before slipping out of the driver’s seat.

He takes a deep breath and follows her.

Benson knocks firmly at the door and Max all but throws it open, his face morphing from excitement to confusion. Carisi wonders if they had ordered pizza and gotten police officers instead. But Max regains some of his enthusiasm and lets them in.

They follow the boy through the entryway and into the dim living room.

Manning looks up sharply from his recliner, a beer in his hand and Lindsay sitting at his feet.

Carisi and Benson exchange an uneasy look at how close the two are--the girl is practically sitting on his foot and has her back pressed against his leg--and Manning fixes them with a drunken glare.

‘Sick son of a bitch’, Carisi thinks bitterly. But he’s ashamed when he realizes that he’s almost forgotten about Lindsay in all of the chaos of Barba’s attack. Benson looks like the same thought is running through her head. She clears her throat and Lindsay looks over slowly, then turns her attention back to the television, where a cartoon is playing. Max has settled onto the carpet, resting on his belly.

“Mr. Manning,” Benson greets at last, and Carisi finds the awkwardness almost unbearable. “We--”

“What the fuck do you want now?” Manning spits.

Carisi eyes a few empty bottles lying next to the recliner and then glances around for Mrs. Manning. He finds himself hoping that she’s home.

“We just have a few more questions,” Benson picks up where she left off, barely missing a beat.

Manning takes a swig of beer and then shrugs.

Carisi and Benson settle down onto the couch and Carisi immediately launches into the usual questions--ones that Manning has heard at least three times over now. He’s rolling his eyes--nearly rolling his head with it--and waving his free hand angrily as he answers. He was home alone, asleep, at the time of the attack. No, no one can corroborate that. No, he doesn’t give a shit if that that looks bad.

“Do you know how to remove your tracking anklet, Mr. Manning?” Carisi asks, and Manning squints at him.

“Remove it?”

Carisi frowns, annoyed at the man’s bewildered tone, and repeats the question.

“If I could take it off whenever the fuck I wanted, do you think I’d be sitting here drinking at home?”

Benson opens her mouth, but Manning doesn’t let her get a word in.

“Look, I told you, I didn’t stab your faggot attorney.”

Carisi’s on his feet and Benson’s grabbing his arm before he’s even aware of it. Her hold on him is firm but her expression says, ‘I’d let him beat the shit out of you, if I could’, and Manning sneers, his head swaying slightly as he looks up at them. His eyes are glazed but he looks pleased at getting a reaction.

Carisi sees an endless array of regrettable decisions in his near future and he has the sense to storm out of the house before he can commit to one.

He leans against Benson’s sedan and clenches his hands together against the cold, even though he appreciates the way the biting sensation grounds him. He thinks that he could strangle Manning with his goddamn bare hands and that scares him a little.

He shakily leans his head back and watches the few patches of sky get chased away by heavy clouds. He nearly doesn’t notice when Benson approaches him cautiously about ten minutes later, her hands buried deep into the pockets of her coat. She watches him for a long moment and then touches his shoulder again as she passes him to the driver’s side.

She starts the car and he reluctantly moves off the hood, closing the passenger door a little too hard as he settles in. Benson ignores him and blasts the heat. The warm air makes him feel kind of sick.

He expects her to start driving back to the precinct but instead they sit in silence for a few minutes. He’s almost tempted to turn on the radio but resists.

“Lindsay seemed a little off,” Benson eventually says, deciding against discussing Manning’s slur and Carisi’s less than professional reaction to it.

Carisi looks at her, but says nothing. He hadn’t noticed Lindsay as much as he probably should’ve.

“She had a pretty visible reaction, when he got upset,” she clarifies, and he looks away, resisting the urge to say something childish like, ‘well, duh’. “If nothing else, I think it’s a safe bet that he’s hitting her, if not all of them.”

“Yeah, ‘course he is,” Carisi agrees, nodding his head.

“As for the rest…” She tries to find his gaze but he’s watching as raindrops begin to settle against the windshield, his heart suddenly beating just a bit harder. “I’m not so sure.”

“He did it,” Carisi says sullenly.

“You don’t know that,” Benson snaps, then looks alarmed as Carisi suddenly smacks the dashboard, hard. They both freeze. Carisi stares at the offending hand as if it had acted on its own and Benson’s watching him like he’s a cornered animal.

He doesn’t like the way that makes him feel.

“I’m--” he swallows roughly, wanting to apologize but unable to find the words.

Benson doesn’t move or say anything for several long moments, but she eventually leans back in her seat and stares at the steering wheel instead.

She puts the car into drive.

They don’t speak again until they arrive back at the precinct.

- - -

They’re barely back half an hour when Benson re-emerges from her office, a tired smile on her face.

“Barba’s been cleared for visitors,” she announces and they all exchange relieved glances. Carisi feels a weight lift off of his chest. He finds Benson’s eyes and she regards him with something like forgiveness, or at least understanding.

It’s been a tough few days. She gets it.

His eyes nearly water at the realization.

“I’ve got a meeting with Dodds, he wants to bring updates back to City Hall about the case. Carisi--” She pauses, still watching him carefully. “Why don’t you stop by the hospital?”

“Yeah, yeah of course,” he nods eagerly, a little embarrassed that he’s back to being all smiles already. It isn’t quite like the past few days haven’t happened, but the effect is lessened, like letting air out of a too-small balloon.

“I’ll come with,” Rollins offers, starting to stand, but Benson shakes her head.

“Sorry, but no, I need you and Fin to keep chasing down leads. We can’t afford to pause the investigation. Carisi can handle getting a statement, if Barba is up for it.”

Rollins sits back down slowly but Fin nods enthusiastically, already turning back to his computer with renewed energy.

Carisi has his coat on and is turned toward the elevators, but he pauses to shoot Benson a grateful look, glad to be the one to check up on Barba. She gives him a small, uncertain smile in return and then retreats back into her office.

Carisi makes plans to stop by one of Barba’s favorite cafes on the way over.

- - -

There's nearly a spring to his step when he shows up at the hospital with two cups of hot coffee. He approaches the nurses station and gives them his most charming smile, which a redhead with kind-looking eyes readily returns.

"Rafael Barba's room?" He requests.

The young male nurse to the redhead's left glances up from a file. He seems a little alarmed.

"And you are?"

Carisi is quick to set a coffee cup down on the counter in order to flash his badge, realizing that they probably think he could be the one who put their stabbing victim there in the first place. The nurses look relieved as they inspect his identification and Carisi feels a rush of gratitude toward them for being protective of their patient.

"It's this way," the male nurse says, coming around the counter. Carisi catches a glimpse of his nametag--Josh Sutton--out of habit.

Sutton keeps a brisk pace as he leads Carisi down the hallway, but slows down and glances over at him a few times. Carisi starts to worry that Sutton might think he's a dirty cop, looking to finish the job, but Sutton focuses on the coffee.

"Are those both for you?" Sutton asks, but he asks it like he already knows the answer.

Carisi blinks and processes the implication of the question.

"Oh--he not allowed to have caffeine yet?"

The nurse looks vaguely embarrassed for Carisi.

"Mr. Barba isn't awake yet, Detective."

"Oh."

Carisi glances down at the coffees.

"Sorry--I assumed you knew. Mr. Barba is out of intensive care but he's only just stable. He's also on heavy medication right now. I wouldn't expect him to come around for another few hours, if at all tonight."

Carisi nods but doesn't look like he understands. Flustered, Sutton resumes his brisk pace and Carisi trails behind. Sutton deposits him at a room--326B--and heads back toward the nursing station.

Carisi greets the guard who has been assigned to Barba, and the man looks at him back with interest until Carisi identifies himself. The guard’s expression shifts back to boredom.

Carisi hesitates on the threshold of the room, feeling a little sick. It’s dim inside, already transitioning to dark as the afternoon fades, but Carisi can still easily find Barba’s prone form beneath the hospital blanket.

He moves into the room, studying the paleness of Barba's face and the way the skin beneath his eyes is dark and bruised-looking.

Barba looks tired. He looks so tired that he looks like he'll never wake up.

Carisi's eyes find a small trash can and he moves toward it, feeling numb, and throws both cups into the garbage. He feels embarrassment burn at him suddenly--he’d expected Barba to be grumpy and in pain, but awake and maybe just a little glad for the company--and more than anything he feels stupid.

He settles his lanky body down into the closest chair, lets out an uncertain breath, and watches the way Barba's chest moves in his sleep. Carisi’s mouth has a bitter taste that has nothing to do with the coffee he’d been sipping on the way up. He doesn't miss the thin clear tube that comes out of the blankets and disappears somewhere under the bed. A tube to keep his chest from filling with fluids, blood, something--maybe--Carisi doesn't really know.

He finds that his eyes are dry and warm.

- - -

Carisi’s been sitting there for about twenty minutes before clacking heels rouse him from a stupor. He glances up to see a woman with short, dark brown hair and Barba’s chin peering down at him in confusion.

Lucia Barba, he realizes.

Of course she’d be here, and of course she’d be a bit startled to find a strange man slouched in a chair beside her injured son.

Carisi starts to rise and introduces himself, and she accepts his outstretched hand a little bit more reluctantly than he’d expected. Her eyes are red and raw looking and her gaze is still glassy with the echo of tears.

He realizes that he’d been hoping that there’d be some flash of recognition at his name--that maybe Barba had mentioned him to her--but her face had just adopted a blank look when he showed her his badge.

Suddenly feeling nervous and out of place, he offers her his chair but she brushes past him before he can finish, settling into one on the opposite side of the bed and resting her purse across her lap. He slowly sinks back into his own chair.

All of his attempts at making small talk over the next few minutes with her fail, and she rejects his attempts at light-hearted banter with something like suspicion. He considers showing her his badge again, just to reassure her, but they lapse into an awkward silence instead.

Carisi listens to the raining beating down outside and feels the echo of it in his rib cage.

He feels irrationally upset, even silly, and when he excuses himself to leave she barely glances up from Barba.

Carisi makes his way to his car in a bit of a daze and checks his phone.

He has a message from Benson and a message from Rollins. Benson wants to know if he got a statement and Rollins jokingly asks if Barba is any friendlier on pain medication. Carisi hesitates, his stomach rolling a bit, and he texts back, ‘he’s not awake yet’ to them both.

He considers his clipped message for a moment and follows it up with, ‘his mom is there now.’

Benson texts back an immediate, ‘Okay.’

Carisi wants to ask her how the meeting with Dodds went but just stares at his phone instead. A few minutes later, a reply from Rollins pops up on his screen.

‘that sucks. good thing she’s with him tho. my place? got a new ep of last one standing on my dvr.’

‘sure’ he types back, starting his car. He could definitely use the company.

But he’s halfway to her apartment before he feels a little light-headed. His hands shake a bit and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel with his right hand while the other rubs at his eyes.

He texts Rollins again to cancel while sitting at a red light.

Her face and number appear a moment later and he swipes to accept the call.

“What the hell, Carisi, I already ordered the pizza.”

Taken aback, he hesitates, guilt and annoyance battling inside of him.

“Sorry. Just more tired than I thought, I guess,” he mutters. “It’s just hitting me.”

There’s a long silence on the other end and he almost checks to see if she’s hung up on him.

“Jesus, Carisi,” she eventually breathes out, her accent sounding stronger with her anger. He hears Frannie whine somewhere in the background. “We all care about him just as much, okay? But you moping about it isn’t going to help anything.”

Carisi, stunned, can’t think of what to say.

He feels the urge to yell, to tell her that it doesn’t seem like they care, but he immediately decides against it. He knows that they do. He’s just not sure that she cares as much as the rest of them.

He grumbles out another apology and then they hang up, both reeling a bit.

Carisi spends his drive home wondering how they all would react if was him, lying hurt in a hospital room, with justice for his attacker nowhere in sight.

But that doesn't do him any good. It just makes him feel sick and alone.

He makes a detour to pick up some fast food and almost regrets cancelling with her as he waits in the drive-thru line. He shouldn't have bailed on her at the last minute. He orders a large burger with fries and considers asking to add bacon, but Dr. Rudnick’s voice comes to mind and he decides against it.

The smell of the greasy food makes his stomach tighten and ache for the rest of the short drive, and he barely lets himself into his apartment before digging into it. He eats standing at his cramped kitchen counter.

He changes into sweats and an old t-shirt and then settles onto his couch, his thoughts alternating between Barba, lying unconscious in the hospital, and Rollins, likely soothing her agitation with a bottle of beer in front of the television.

He falls asleep propped up against the armrest with a true crime program playing, but he jolts awake twenty minutes later when his cell phone chimes. Disoriented, he glances at the crime documentary and has a moment to think that Barba would probably make fun of him, if he could see Carisi right then. He’s a little surprised at how much he suddenly longs for that scenario--Barba awake, whole, prodding gentle fun at Carisi’s expense. He takes a moment to try to picture Barba sitting in his living room but he can't quite manage it.

He checks his Apple Watch and sees that it’s barely past 9PM.

Rubbing his eyes, Carisi picks up his phone from where it has been tossed on the table and sees that he has a text from Benson.

‘Barba woke up,’ it reads, ‘Only for a few minutes, though. He wasn’t coherent enough to answer any questions.’

Carisi sits for a moment and absorbs the fact that Benson must be at the hospital. He stands up and quickly texts back, ‘on my way’.

He’s got his jeans halfway on when his phone beeps at him again, and he pulls them on the rest of the way and checks it quickly.

‘No point. He’s out again and hospital visiting hours just ended. Get some sleep.’

He slowly sits down on his bed, staring at the message.

He pulls his jeans off and walks back to the couch in his boxers and burns with a strange shame. He hates feeling over eager and wonders if Rollins hadn't had a point about him.

He watches the rest of the program and allows himself to imagine what snarky things Barba would say about the murder investigation, and then he goes to bed without thinking about much of anything at all.

Chapter Text

Carisi wakes up and calls the hospital before he even brushes his teeth. He could’ve just asked Benson for the visiting hours, but somehow this is easier. He makes a private vow to get his shit together--or at least pretend to have it together in front of his team.

An aggressively tired nurse tells him that their visitor hours are 9AM to 9PM, and he frowns when he realizes that that means that he won’t be able to stop by before work as he had planned. His shifts starts at 7AM.

He considers asking to leave the precinct to visit Barba once 9AM hit, but then remembers the promise he gave himself about five minutes ago.

Benson probably already thinks he’s emotionally compromised and there’s no point in adding fuel to that fire.

He plans to visit on his lunch break instead.

- - -

Fin is showered, dressed, fed, and dead on his feet as he makes his way into the bullpen.

He hangs back a second to watch Carisi stagger away from his desk and toward the break room. Fin raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask--Carisi looks stressed and Fin isn’t sure the pounding in his head will let him sit through a Carisi Moment.

The man is a bit panic-prone and that’s fine, it really is, but Fin’s not in the hand-holding mood.

Folding his jacket over the back of his chair, he fixes himself a lukewarm mug of department coffee and then collapses at his desk. Rollins strolls into the bullpen, a stack of files pinned under her arm, and smiles warmly at him. He raises his ‘NYPD’ mug in greeting and reclines as far back as his chair will allow.

“You look like you got about as much sleep as I did,” she comments, resting a hand on her hip as she watches him grimace into his coffee cup.

“More than Carisi, I’d say.”

Rollins lets out a puff of air that makes her bangs shift, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, well,” she says, sounding dismissive, and doesn’t bother to finish. He senses there’s a lot to that little sentence but refrains from commenting. Rollins’ business is definitely Rollins’ business--and Rollins-Carisi business is sure as hell not Fin’s business.

Carisi returns to his desk with a soda and Fin can’t resist asking about that. So maybe sometimes Carisi’s business is his, after all.

“Soda? At eight-thirty in the morning?”

Carisi looks up, startled, like he hadn’t realized Fin was even in the room. He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck in what Fin thinks is probably a Staten Island ‘aw shucks’ way.

“The coffee’s starting to make me jittery,” Carisi confides, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he grins a bit wider, like he’s glad to have the whole team assembled and ready to go. Or, well, as ready as Fin can be after a very long night of reviewing Barba’s most recent cases.

“You? Jittery? Can’t have that,” Fin jokes.

Carisi’s mouth opens but Fin cuts him off, gesturing toward Benson’s closed door.

“What’s up with Liv?”

Carisi and Rollins both glance over. Carisi makes an unpleasant face.

“A.D.A. Whitman is here,” Rollins tells him once it becomes obvious that Carisi isn’t interested in answering.

“Ah,” Fin acknowledges. “Makes sense. Barba can’t exactly try his own case.”

The expression on Carisi’s face darkens and Fin watches him over the navy brim of his mug. The younger detective has been a proverbial landmine lately and nearly any mention of Barba is enough to set his hackles up.

Fin is just as curious about Carisi’s odd behavior as the rest of the team, but he’s generally good at minding his own business, after all.

The moment passes and Carisi’s face clears as he throws himself back into some assignment he’s got going on with his computer. Rollins throws Fin a look, not needing words.

’Weirdo’, Rollins’ eyebrows playfully tell him.

’Glad I don’t have to sit with him,’ Fin says back with a roll of his eyes and a teasing smile.

He boots up his laptop and sighs as he looks at the long queue of cases and transcript summaries waiting for him there. He hadn’t even gotten through half of Barba’s files from the last month. It was no wonder the A.D.A. seemed to subsist entirely on caffeine--did the man ever sleep?

Fin picks absently through some low-key cases, able to dismiss them pretty easily, but is distracted by Carisi’s need to glance at Benson’s office approximately every two minutes.

Fin is about to lose his patience and surrender to a snarky comment when Benson’s door swings open and A.D.A. Whitman steps through, looking almost as annoyed as their Lieutenant, who follows him into the bullpen with a severe frown.

He slowly closes his laptop.

- - -

“Whitman, you remember Detective Tutuola?”

Their replacement prosecutor considers Fin with a curt nod and then glances at Carisi and Rollins, too. He’s already been introduced to them earlier this morning and he’s curious to see where they’ve gotten with the case in the last hour. Their expressions aren’t inspiring much confidence.

“Yes, of course,” Whitman says absently. “Conference room?” He asks Benson, who nods and leads the way.

The SVU squad finds their regular places at the table, but Whitman stays standing in order to study the photographs and an expanding timeline on the boards.

“It’s been a couple of days. This is all you have?”

Carisi throws a look at Benson and then Fin--the fact that he doesn’t look to Rollins registers with Benson but she can’t deal with their dysfunction right now. Whitman is a hardass and he’s been given the honor of prosecuting a violent assault against a fellow A.D.A. Whatever patience he might’ve had is already being stripped away by the minute.

“This has been a difficult case from the start,” Benson says mildly, not defensive but not ready to apologize for events beyond their control, either.

Whitman, clearly not happy with that answer, puffs up his chest a bit and examines the screenshot of their suspect colliding with Barba. She follows his gaze and feels a pang in her chest. Whitman’s reputation is on the line but Barba is their friend, and no matter how badly Whitman wants a win, well, they want it more.

“Manning seems like a pretty obvious prime suspect,” Whitman says, jabbing a thumb at the man’s mugshot.

Carisi shoots an excited look between the A.D.A. and Benson, and she nearly groans with dismay. Carisi catches her expression and his own dims a bit. She sometimes forgets that beneath his energy and his youth, he’s an observant detective and she feels a sudden regret for judging his enthusiasm so harshly. She knows it’s coming from a good place.

He had all but ambushed her when she’d arrived at the precinct that morning and had told her, in no uncertain terms, that they had to catch the guy before Barba left the hospital. Benson agreed, of course, but it had taken all of her patience not to send him home for the day for giving her a headache in the first ten minutes of her shift. In some ways, he’s a part of her family now, but he still got under her skin with frightening ease sometimes.

She looks away from him.

“We’re not so sure about Manning’s involvement, but we’re still actively investigating,” she tells Whitman, tapping a finger absently on her thigh.

Rollins chips in and shares about five minute’s worth of information, concluding that so far there is no concrete evidence to suggest that Manning had gone after Barba. The video made it impossible to tell if it was him or not, but the traffic camera footage, his intact tracking anklet, and his lack of a substantial motive are enough to convince Rollins that they should be looking elsewhere.

Benson’s eyes flicker to Carisi intermittently. He begins to look surprisingly melancholy and she’s not sure if that’s better than anger or not. She glances up at Whitman, who is still standing above them.

He looks uncertain.

“Well,” Whitman says slowly, rubbing his jaw, “we should definitely keep our avenues open. I wouldn’t count Manning out but there’s not enough for an arrest yet, much less a trial.”

Benson and Rollins nod, and somehow they both look to Carisi, who seems to be embarrassed to be the focus of their attention. He looks away but can’t hide the expression on his face from them.

- - -

Carisi manages to listen to the rest of the discussion about Manning without an outburst, although plenty of things come to mind.

He takes a moment to be glad that Whitman is less attentive than Barba, because Barba would definitely have picked up on the way the other detectives are looking at Carisi throughout the conversation like he’s going to try to flip the table over.

From there, it’s almost impossible to stop a sudden rush of comparisons between Whitman and Barba, which, pathetically, just makes Carisi miss having their Cuban A.D.A. around even more. Whitman is aggressive, intelligent, and ambitious, but he’s not very focused and he misses the little things--like an entire squad shifting nervous glances toward one of their own.

He dresses better than the average defense attorney but worse than most of the other A.D.A.’s that Carisi has met. Carisi feels like it’s safe to assume that Whitman has never worn pink in his life and that he wouldn’t know how to fold a standard pocket square, much less get one into those intricate little mountain peaks that Barba sometimes indulges in.

Whitman is quick to criticize their efforts but offers no real suggestions of his own--Barba probably would’ve been barking out ideas or bickering with Benson about the fastest way to nail Manning on another charge, just to get him off the street and away from the kids.

Whitman wants a fast, easy win and has no way of going about getting one yet, so he gets frustrated, and he takes his frustration out on the detectives.

Carisi can’t even muster his normal protective urges when Whitman demands to know what Rollins has been doing with her morning, if not tracking down more witnesses. It pisses him off, sure, because Rollins doesn’t deserve that, but Carisi says nothing in her defense and she stares at him afterward like he’d been the one to question her work ethic, not Whitman.

Whitman, meanwhile, begins to look impatient.

"Have you considered that it could be a personal attack?" He asks, sounding like he's already made an assumption about it.

Benson doesn't respond immediately and Carisi glances at her, sensing hesitation.

"We have," she says slowly. "But given where the attack took place I think it's unlikely."

Whitman gestures for her to continue but looks displeased.

"If this was personal, why wait to do it in front of so many people?" Benson taps her pen. "It would make more sense to carry out the attack in a secluded area. And if they knew him, they would probably have a good idea of where to do something like that."

"It's likely that they have no idea where Barba lives," Rollins chimes in. "They know he's an A.D.A. and at the courthouse lot, and that's where they waited for him."

Whitman bobs his head like he thinks this makes sense, but still doesn't seem satisfied.

"Or it could be that someone just doesn't want it to look personal," he suggests.

"And risk Barba recognizing him, in front of dozens of witnesses?" Fin asks, incredulous.

Whitman rolls his eyes, clearly frustrated, and spreads his hands in a helpless gesture.

"Maybe. Look into it anyway."

They reluctantly nod--it's likely a waste of resources but they aren't in a position to ignore avenues of investigation.

"It also may be due to his... lifestyle."

Carisi's head whips up. Benson opens her mouth and takes in a breath, but she doesn't say anything immediately. Fin's eyebrows raise and Rollins keeps a carefully blank face.

The implication is impossible to ignore but no one knows how to address it.

Benson tries anyway.

"Are you suggesting--"

"Look," Whitman cuts her off, "it's not exactly a secret."

Benson shakes her head at him, disappointment playing over her face as she exchanges glances with her team.

Her eyes linger on Carisi, who doesn't notice this time.

"Maybe not," Rollins ventures carefully. "But--"

"There's nothing wrong with it," Whitman continues, though to Carisi it sounds like maybe he doesn't approve anyway. "But it could be relevant here."

"How so?" Benson asks, her voice a bit husky with annoyance. She sounds defensive and protective.

"This could be a hate crime."

"If that were the case," Rollins says, her eyebrows lowered. "Wouldn't there be some kind of political statement?"

"No one has claimed responsibility for the assault," Fin provides. He's staring Whitman down like he can make the man shut up and leave through sheer power of will.

"Look into it anyway," Whitman snaps, and Carisi is a little surprised by his intensity.

He wonders if this is a political move on Whitman's part--convicting a social terrorist of a hate crime against a colleague would do wonders for his career.

Benson looks like she's having similar thoughts.

Sensing the change in mood, the A.D.A. glances between them and then seems exasperated.

"Believe it or not, I care about him too," he says reluctantly, like it's a confession and not a statement of friendship or loyalty. "We used to work together, back when he was at the Brooklyn office."

This is news to all of them. Carisi relaxes a bit, happy to accept that Whitman is on Barba’s side, but Benson still looks ready for a fight.

"I want this guy caught just as badly," Whitman goes on to say, though he lands somewhere just a little south of genuine to Carisi's ears. "Which is exactly why we're going to leave no stone unturned."

His enthusiasm is met with quiet uncertainty.

The atmosphere remains uncomfortable.

"Then why don't you give us some suggestions?" Benson asks, barely shy of sounding sarcastic. "Give us some names to track down?"

Whitman seems amused by that, and if he notices her ongoing hostility about the topic he doesn't show it.

"I said we worked together, I didn't say we were close," the A.D.A. shares, looking around for support. Carisi has to hide a wince, thinking about the empty space in his mind where Barba's list of friends should be.

"I know he likes hard liquor and coffee and that he snacks every chance he gets," Whitman jokes. "But he never mentioned a boyfriend to us, much less introduced one."

Carisi's eyes fall down to the table and he feels his face get hot. Homosexuality isn't an uncomfortable topic for him--not anymore, not after doing this job for years--but it feels unbearably awkward to talk about Barba in these terms.

He knows the man enjoys his privacy and he feels embarrassed for him, to be spoken about in such a way, in front of people he works closely with.

"We'll look into it," Benson surrenders. She seems like she'd agree to almost anything to get Whitman to stop talking.

"Good."

A brief silence falls and Whitman glances around again.

He barks out a laugh at the uneasy looks on their faces.

"For christ's sake, people! This is SVU, are you really that uncomfortable with this? Look at what the man wears, I don't think he's trying to hide it--"

"Counselor," Benson interrupts, holding her hands up. "We're not uncomfortable with the possibility of Barba's sexuality, but let’s not make any assumptions here. I said we'll look into it--and we will."

Whitman doesn't look impressed, but he accepts that.

He spends a few more minutes trying to come with other possibilities and engages Fin in a conversation about some of Barba's more intense cases, and then he packs his briefcase, tells them to keep him updated, and heads out through the bullpen.

- - -

"Hey, Counselor, wait up."

Whitman pauses at the elevator and places his hand against the panel as Carisi lopes over to him in a few long strides.

"Detective," he acknowledges, stepping aside slightly as Carisi joins him in the compartment.

"Thanks. Hey, look, you got a minute?"

Whitman gives him an amused glance and gestures around him at the elevator as if to say, you’ve got until we hit the ground. It starts to move downward.

"Okay," Carisi says, sounding grateful, and licks his lips. "So, listen, about Manning--I was thinking it makes sense to post a unie outside of his house."

"Does it?"

Whitman raises an eyebrow at the suggestion but doesn't immediately shoot it down, and Carisi takes that as a green light.

"Yeah, I mean, I know he has the tracking anklet, but that's kind of a misnomer, you know?"

Whitman smiles at him and it's a somewhat secretive, knowing look.

"They don't actually track where he is, right? It just tells us when he leaves the house--or whatever radius they set."

Whitman nods but he's starting to look bored.

"I see where you're going with this, Detective," he interrupts, though not unkindly. "And I don't necessarily disagree but there isn't enough to justify stationing an officer outside his house twenty-four-seven."

Carisi protests and starts running through the evidence again but the elevator doors open and Whitman steps out. Carisi follows him out into the lobby.

"I'm just saying, even if it's--"

"I'm sorry, Detective," and to Whitman's credit he does sound it. "If you bring me something that can justify it, I'll make it happen. Until then..."

Carisi narrows his eyes as he tries to come up with another argument, thinking he can maybe come at it from another angle before Whitman reaches the door.

He's surprised to find that the A.D.A. is regarding him with consideration instead.

"He speaks highly of you, you know."

It takes Carisi a moment to realize that Whitman isn't talking about Manning. He stares.

"Who, Barba?" He asks uncertainly.

"Not to me, directly. But he came to the Brooklyn office in person to recommend you for an interview."

Carisi blinks stupidly at him and says nothing.

"I wouldn't say it was the talk of the office, but it certainly was a surprise. Coming all the way from Manhattan to recommend a junior detective to a D.A.?" Whitman smiles and shakes his head like it's a joke. Carisi wonders if it is one to Whitman.

"I--"

"A phone call would have done it but he shows up and sits down with my boss instead. You must have impressed him somewhere along the way."

Whitman's voice is a bit teasing, as if to say 'I don't see it myself', but Carisi doesn't sense malice behind it.

"I didn't know that," Carisi says, just to say something at all. He shifts his weight as he pictures Barba, sprawled out casually on another D.A.'s couch, one leg comfortably crossed over the other, his colorful socks probably showing, praising Carisi to his former boss. It's a heady image.

Whitman is watching him closely.

"I don't blame you for wanting to get out of here," the other man says after a moment.

"What?" Carisi starts, confused.

"Your fellow detectives up there don't seem like the friendliest bunch."

"No--no, they're great," Carisi corrects, getting a little worked up on their behalf, despite the fact that he's never felt more out of place with his team. Not even when he’d first started.

"I'm just saying that I think you're making the right choice. You've got to have potential if Barba's so keen on you," Whitman says, shrugging. “I don’t think he’d recommend me for something if my life depended on it--and we’re not even on bad terms.”

"I haven't decided," Carisi says slowly, not appreciating Whitman’s sense of humor. "It’s something I’ve been considering--wanting for a while, actually--but it’s not the time.”

Whitman looks surprised and then annoyed.

"You took an interview with another department's District Attorney and you're not even interested in the job?"

Carisi hesitates and realizes how bad that might look--for both himself and Barba, but he can't take it back now that he's said it.

"I'm just keeping my options open."

Whitman looks anything but impressed, but he doesn't look quite as indignant anymore.

"Spoken like a true attorney," he quips dryly, and then he's gone, waltzing out the front door and into the freezing morning air.

Carisi slowly makes his way back to the elevator.

- - -

He visits Barba on his lunch break.

Traffic is bad and he only has about fifteen minutes to spare, but he settles into the same chair as before and looks around sheepishly for signs of Lucia Barba.

He feels a little guilty for being relieved that she's not there.

He focuses on Barba, who looks like he hasn't moved an inch since Carisi's last visit, but his color is a bit better.

Carisi drums his fingers on the armrests, impatient for Barba to wake up.

He wants to ask him about the attack, wants to ask him about Whitman, wants to ask him about his meeting with the Brooklyn D.A. and did he really go all the way there, just to put in a good word for Carisi?

His fingers grow still. Without realizing it, his eyes have been tracing the way Barba's eyelashes fan over his skin, the long curve of his nose, and the masculine line of his throat.

He feels calmer. As badly as he wants Barba to open his eyes, he thinks that this is okay too, just for a minute longer--this quiet, comfortable peace.

He's a bit late getting back to the precinct but the stare he gets from Rollins doesn't bother him one bit.

- - -

Carisi doesn't expect Barba to be awake when he enters his hospital room, sharply at 9:02am, but the A.D.A. turns his head to blink blearily at him as he makes his way through the doorway.

Carisi pauses as if unsure of his welcome, but then forces his legs to carry him forward with at least a semblance of confidence. He drops himself into what is now his usual chair and smiles brightly at Barba.

Barba squints back at him, looking equal parts groggy and suspicious. Cariai tries not to take it personally that Barba's looking at him like he doesn't know why he's there.

They're not friends, not exactly but... Carisi thinks about the look on Barba’s face at the bar, after Dodds’ funeral. He thinks of the warm hand on his arm after Heredio’s lineup. He thinks about the casual, arrogant way that Barba had informed him that he’d set up that interview for Carisi. He remembers the look on Barba’s face when he’d praised Carisi during Lewis Hodda’s trial.

The images parade through his mind and he decides, sure, maybe not friends, not yet--but close enough.

"Hey," Carisi says, radiant with relief. "Welcome back."

Barba nods in acknowledgement, a ghost of a smile on his mouth, and looks half-asleep. Carisi realizes he isn't sure how much Barba remembers and he runs a few questions through his head, considering where to start.

What did you see? Did your attacker say anything? Did you recognize his voice?

Instead, he leads with, "I met your mom."

Carisi immediately grimaces and wonders why that was the thing to force its way to the front of the line.

Barba blinks at him and frowns. Carisi could walk backwards out the door that very moment from embarrassment.

"You what?"

Carisi runs his hand along the back of his neck, rubbing the short hair there sheepishly. He decides that avoidance is the best policy.

"How much do you remember? About what happened?"

Barba hesitates, but Carisi can see the moment he decides to let the comment about his mother go--for now. Carisi thinks it will probably come up later.

"Are you taking my statement?" Barba asks, somehow managing a hint of sarcasm despite looking so tired and so pale.

Carisi almosts protests--it's not that official, not that important, they can wait if Barba wants--but Barba doesn't seem bothered by the idea of it and they desperately need to know what he remembers.

Carisi nods

"Don't you need your little book for that?" Barba quips, slurring slightly. Carisi sees him glance at the IV bag and the line in his arm and assumes that Barba's wondering what drugs were running through his system.

"Nah," Carisi says with a tight smile. "I've got it, I'll remember."

It sounds like a promise.

Maybe Barba can see something in his face, something hard and determined, because he accepts this without a fight.

Barba takes a deep breath, wincing at the way it makes his chest hurt, and Carisi watches him run memories through his mind. He doesn’t try for very long.

Barba shakes his head and looks dizzy for his effort.

"I don't know. I'm not sure."

Barba sounds breathless and embarrassed and Carisi's confused for a moment. Barba has surely worked with enough victims to know that memory and trauma have a complicated relationship, so he thinks it shouldn't come as a surprise that Barba doesn't remember it clearly. But maybe that was the problem--Carisi could scarcely think of Barba as a victim, even after watching him get stabbed in the street. He realizes that Barba is likely struggling with the concept of it, too.

"Hey, that's okay," Carisi reassures, trying not to slip into his 'comforting cop’ voice. Barba of all people would not appreciate it, especially not right now, especially not from him. "Take your time."

But Barba's quiet for slightly too long and his eyelids are starting to droop with fatigue, so Carisi starts prompting him gently.

"You were at the courthouse. You had just finished with an arraignment and you were heading back to the office, I guess. I mean, we didn't exactly talk about it, but we assumed..." Carisi struggles, trying to stay focused. “The Lieutenant and I were there, but you had gone ahead by yourself. You were standing at the curb and looking at your phone. Do you remember?"

Carisi keeps his voice low and even and watches Barba's face carefully. He tries not to feel disappointed when he doesn't see a flash of recognition in Barba's eyes.

"Maybe," Barba says slowly. He sounds even less sure than he looks.

"I know I was stabbed," he offers, trying again. "The nurse told me as much last night. But I'm not sure if I remember it or if I just made it up after hearing about it."

Carisi nods in encouragement, wanting Barba to keep going, but it's obvious that the A.D.A. is fading. There's a tremble in his fingertips, a slight shake where they rest against the powder blue of the hospital blanket, and each time Barba blinks his eyes stay closed just a little bit longer.

The rain picks up outside and Barba allows himself to be distracted by it for a long moment.

"I'm not sure," he says at last, avoiding looking at Carisi.

"Okay."

Barba glances over as though he means to give Carisi a scathing look, but he hesitates at the expression that Carisi aims at him. Carisi puts as much warmth and understanding in his gaze as possible. He knows that Barba is struggling with being on the wrong side of a criminal case and that he expects to be judged for being less than helpful.

"Okay," Carisi repeats, unbearably gentle, and he watches as Barba's anxiety fades into exhaustion. He looks weak. Carisi thinks he's never seen him more vulnerable, not even when he had been lying unconscious just the day before. Barba’s eyes have always been expressive.

It makes Carisi's chest ache with protectiveness.

Barba swallows thickly and his eyelashes flutter and Carisi watches in fascination--he can see the exact moment when Barba gives up the fight and succumbs back to a quiet sleep. He doesn’t quite collapse but it’s as if a switch has been flipped and he’s out.

Carisi knows he needs to head to work. There's a lot to do and the clock is ticking.

He stays a while longer all the same.

- - -

"How is he?" Benson demands as he enters the bullpen, looking like she's been waiting for him. Carisi realizes that maybe she had been.

Carisi smiles.

"He's okay," he says, feeling back to being on solid ground again. "A little out of it, but you know," he flaps a hand in a loose gesture, "the pain meds and all."

She nods but the intensity of her stare doesn't relent.

"He doesn't remember much--he didn't see anything," Carisi relays quickly, and he watches disappointment sour her face.

"Okay," she sighs.

"Are you gonna go visit again today?"

She gives him a sharp look, like she thinks maybe he thinks that she doesn't care enough to make time.

"As soon as I can," she tells him, turning back to her office. She pauses, one hand resting on the doorframe, and then turns back to him with an expression he can't quite read.

"Get started on Whitman's assignment," she instructs with something like regret.

Carisi jerks a bit with surprise.

"What? You meaning digging into Barba's private life?"

"We have to pursue other lines of inquiry besides Manning, Carisi," she says sternly, and there's an edge of steel to her voice.

"That's not--"

"Get to work."

Her tone is neutral but her eyes are sharp, like she's waiting for a challenge to slap down. He wonders how bad her morning has been and is suddenly glad he was given a later shift--he was able to visit Barba and avoid whatever it was that put her on edge.

He remembers that she'd had a meeting scheduled with Dodds.

He ducks his head in acknowledgement of her command and moves toward his desk. He's not thrilled with the assignment--the idea of prying into Barba's personal life makes his skin crawl--but he's not interested in starting a fight with his Lieutenant over it.

She nods, satisfied, and doesn't quite slam her office door.

- - -

Benson collapses into her chair and rests her forehand against her hand.

She's exhausted.

They were all but clueless about who had tried to murder their A.D.A. and City Hall was breathing down her neck. Dodds wanted updates three times a day and each call was getting less pleasant than the last.

Their meeting that morning had gone less than stellar.

He accused her of lacking focus, and she could see the memory of his son imprinted in his eyes.

You didn't stop that and you didn't stop this and--

Their relationship became a little more hostile each time they laid eyes on each other. Benson desperately wanted to build back up to where they had been before, but he blames her for Michael's death and he could probably see that she blames herself, too.

It only justifies his newfound animosity toward her.

It also didn't help that Dodds was fond of Barba and seemed to be taking a personal interest in the case beyond the scope of his position as her superior.

Swallowing, she lifts her head and begins going through the papers left on her desk. She scans a list of Barba's previous cases that Fin had flagged as potential inquiries but she has trouble focusing.

Carisi is driving her insane.

She's not sure what to make of his behavior but she's definitely starting to suspect.

And if she didn't like the idea of him and Rollins fraternizing--she pictures the unending horror of a fallout between Carisi and Barba and yearns for a drink.

She would have to transfer Carisi if that happened. There was no way any of them could live in the aftermath of a failed relationship between those two.

She runs a hand through her hair and forces herself to take a mental step back.

She'd had her suspicions about Carisi before. The man had practically clung to Barba from day one, and while she had originally assumed it was professional admiration and the reckless energy of youth--and there probably was still an element of that--she hadn't missed the way Carisi's eyes never failed to wander to Barba whenever the man was in the room. Not to mention the casual touching.

It's a stretch, at first, imagining good Catholic boy Sonny Carisi feeling anything less than panic and disgust at the notion, but she has to give him some credit--he's grown a lot over the years.

But Carisi never did anything in half-measures. It was still possible that he had only platonic affection for the A.D.A. and that they had all underestimated his protective streak.

She drops Fin's list back to her desk and wonders if she should talk to Carisi about it. She thinks that even if her detective does have less than platonic intentions toward Barba, he was either unaware of it or had it repressed it deeply and likely wouldn’t appreciate her bringing it up.

And if it wasn't true at all she would only succeed in widening the divide between him and herself. She and Carisi had never enjoyed the close, easy relationship that she has with Fin or had with Amaro, and she doesn't want to jeopardize it any more than she has to.

Sighing, she decides to just put off thinking about it for a while.

She'll sit Carisi down and hash it out if she has to, but there are more important things to focus on for the moment.

Namely, making a bit of goddamn progress on the case.

- - -

Carisi doesn't know where to start.

He opens up google on laptop and types Barba's name in, but he doesn't open any of the first dozen of links that pop up.

He tries to work up the nerve, his cursor hovering, but then Fin disconnects from a phone call and stands up with a groan. Sufficiently distracted, he glances over and watches as Fin stretches.

Fin folds his hands into his pockets and walks over to Carisi’s desk when he sees him staring.

"Heard you were at this hospital this morning," Fin says in a way that is both friendly and calculating.

"Barba doesn't remember much," Carisi admits with a nod, leaning back in his chair.

"He doing okay?"

Carisi thinks it sounds like Fin cares, but he also thinks it's in the same way that Fin might ask about any victim. He realizes that maybe Fin doesn’t consider Barba to be one of them. Maybe Rollins doesn’t either.

Or maybe he’s being too sensitive.

"He's awake," Carisi offers, somehow sounding more tired than he feels.

"That's good."

Fin seems content to leave it at that, but he hesitates before he heads back to his own desk. He picks up the phone again and Carisi is out of distractions.

He takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to his computer.

- - -

A basic search on Barba yields mercifully little. There are countless articles relating to past cases and press reports, but next to nothing on his personal life.

The Muñoz scandal comes up often and Carisi burns with anger as he reads the accusations Barba's former friend made against him, ranging from being City Hall's lapdog to framing Muñoz by bribing an underage girl to lie about explicit pictures.

Carisi wonders if Muñoz made arrangements for Barba from prison. It definitely wasn't outside of the realm of possibilities, but Carisi thinks that a sloppy stab in the side is a little lacking for a professional job, especially if Muñoz had reached out to BX9.

Carisi has to fight against the image of Barba with a bullet in his head.

But he can't deny that the attack was similar to a prison shank job. Maybe Muñoz had convinced an ex-cellmate to take care of his old friend?

Carisi makes a note about it and sets it aside.

He struggles to find any evidence of Barba's sexual history on the internet, and is at once grateful for that and immensely curious. Barba certainly knew how to be discrete when he wasn't being flashy.

He's not sure where to go from there.

He doesn't know any of Barba's friends--he knows that he has some, the yachting thing and a few other fragments of conversation come to mind--and he doesn't know how to go about interviewing Barba's associates.

He tries to imagine interrogating Rita Calhoun about Barba's sex life.

He knows that they used to work together, maybe they had even been friends once, but he can't imagine her being forthcoming about anything, ever.

From reading up on the Muñoz scandal and being briefed by his team, he knows that Eddie Garcia is a possible lead--maybe even a possible suspect. The man had been close to both Barba and Muñoz and it wasn't outrageous to think that he could've crawled back to Muñoz after flipping on him.

Carisi hasn't met the man but he thinks that wouldn't be out of character.

He finds himself wishing that Barba had better friends growing up, and then catches himself and feels guilty.

He pops Eddie Garcia's name into the search bar and feels his eyebrows shoot up when he reads that Garcia is--or was--a correctional officer.

He frowns as he considers the implications.

Maybe the Munson indictment had pissed Garcia off. Maybe Garcia and Muñoz had had a conversation about it and that's when Muñoz had gotten his claws back in.

Or maybe Garcia had colluded with a fellow C.O.

Would Barba's pursuit of Munson have been enough for Garcia to want him dead?

Carisi doesn't know, but he's definitely going to have a conversation with Eddie Garcia about it.

- - -

Garcia isn't home, or at least no one answers when he pounds on the door.

Carisi stands on the curb outside of the apartment complex and checks his phone for messages. He has a clipped text from Rollins, informing him that there are no new leads on Manning.

There’s also a text from Benson from fifteen minutes ago, requesting an update on his progress.

He finds himself wondering if Barba has access to his Blackberry yet and has to fight down a smirk at the thought of the A.D.A. fighting with nurses about it.

He pockets his own phone and walks back toward his car.

- - -

He's only been driving for about five minutes before Benson calls. He answers with an apology for not replying to her message yet, but she cuts him off.

She informs him there's been a complication at the hospital.

"His vitals dropped and they put him back in intensive care," she tells him, and her voice is gentle but there's a wary edge to it.

Carisi sits at a red light, stunned. He tries to form a question or a response, but his mind is racing to the worst conclusions--had Barba's attacker gotten to him in the hospital? Had a blood clot gone to his brain? Stress-induced heart attack?

He thinks about Mike Dodds and he can't breathe.

Benson, presumably taking his silence for what it was--panic--reassures him.

"The tube in his side had gotten blocked," she says. "It was serious but he's out of danger now. They're going to move him back to his room soon."

Feeling nauseous with relief, he says, "Okay, I'm on my way," without really thinking about it.

"Carisi, stop," Benson snaps, and he's almost as surprised by her tone as he is by the anger that rears up in response to it.

He says nothing, but he doesn't turn toward the hospital either.

"Barba is my friend too," she says firmly, and Carisi wonders why everyone has been feeling the need to say that lately. "But we're not going to help him by sitting at his bedside."

"Okay," he grounds out through clenched teeth.

She asks him to head back to the precinct, her tone softening, and then she disconnects.

He tries not to be angry with her because he knows she's right. Carisi also knows that Barba and Benson are close, despite their many arguments. He thinks about his own--and mercifully only--real argument with Barba.

Sean Roberts.

Carisi had been upset that their case was slipping away between their fingers and he'd been furious with Barba for blaming him and Rollins for the kid's screw-up on the stand. Barba had prepped him, too. He hadn't caught on that the young man was obviously not quite right and shouldn't have been put up there for cross-examination to tear apart.

But he regrets raising his voice with the A.D.A.

He'd been there when Rollins had questioned the kid and he'd known, in his gut, that there was something off about the exchange. But Fin's reputation was on the line and they'd all been so damn eager to make it right.

Carisi remembers the look on Barba's face. The way his frustration had frozen over into a mask and the line of his mouth stretched in silent disapproval.

Looking back on it, Carisi is surprised that Barba hadn't said anything--since when was their A.D.A. lacking for a stinging comeback? But he'd restrained himself, because he probably saw the hurt under Carisi's anger, too--he had disappointed Barba and himself by letting that wavering witness take the stand and it had been humiliating.

He should've warned Barba.

He pulls into the precinct and sits in his car for a few minutes, still lost in thought.

It would be too awkward the apologize to Barba now--too much time had passed. And even if he worked up the nerve to do it, he imagined that Barba would be dismissive and wouldn’t want to talk about it.

As far as Carisi knew, Barba and Benson never talked about their fights afterward. They just accepted the circumstances and let the rest fall away--water under the bridge. Carisi isn't sure if that's how he wants his relationship with the other man to be, but maybe that’s because he knows the value of a good confession.

Old habits die hard.

Heaving his long legs out of the sedan, he makes his way upstairs and into the bullpen. He sits at his desk, checks his emails--no real updates--and he thinks about Barba, lying in the hospital.

He thinks of his slow, lopsided smile in that damn bar.

He thinks of the coldness in his eyes when Carisi had snapped at him in his office.

Rollins collapses down into her chair across from him without a word, startling him out of his introspection. He waits for a glance, a smile, a glare--anything really--as she takes her time settling in. When she finally grows sick of his staring she looks up and gives him a tired smile.

He returns it, trying for apologetic. He's not sure what he should be sorry for but he wants to get back into her good graces and thinks that might be the fastest way.

"Anything new?" He dares to ask. She frowns but it isn't aimed at him.

"Not really. We didn't find anything useful from the rest of the security footage--it could be Manning but it could also be any of the thousands of other men who look like him in New York. We can't get much just from his height and the fact that he's white."

Carisi nods and tries not to let despair show on his face. He can't believe that one of their own was assaulted, right in front of them, and they're no closer to finding the culprit than they had been on day one.

Rollins reads his expression and leans back in her chair, and then she seems to decide against saying a couple of different things.

"How's he doing?" She asks after a while, her southern drawl a little thicker than usual.

"I don't know, he was okay when I saw him this morning but they put him back in ICU for a while."

"I know, Liv told us."

"I haven't been back over there since then," he says, and feels annoyed when she looks surprised. "Benson is there with him now, I think."

She gives one slow nod, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

"It's nice," Rollins starts, going for genuine but coming off to Carisi as cautious. "How much you care."

He isn't sure if she means caring about Barba specifically or not, but he feels vaguely embarrassed all the same. He rubs the back of his head and shrugs.

"It's a good thing," she presses on. "You're a good man, Carisi. And a good cop."

That earns her a smile, which she readily returns.

"Come over tonight."

This again. Carisi had plans to drop by the hospital after work and she probably knew as much. But their friendship is finally leaving shaky territory again, and he's not sure if he can refuse a third time without landing back there.

"Come on," she laughs, "Jessie and Frannie miss you, and I have, like, eight episodes of trash tv backing up my DVR."

He grins at that and looks convinced.

"I might drop by the hospital first, though."

"Pick up food on the way over this time" she suggests as though she hadn't heard him, opening up her laptop with a smile.

The matter settled, he turns to his own computer, wondering if he can find some of Barba's old classmates from Harvard.

Chapter Text

Benson is nearly asleep when her phone chirps at her. She shifts in the uncomfortable hospital chair and digs the offending device out of her coat, staring with unfocused eyes at the screen as she unlocks the message.

It's a picture of Noah. There's macaroni cheese smeared on his face and he has a wide smile.

Benson smiles back at the image of her son and then sends a quick reply to Lucy. /Looks delicious!/

The sound of rustling grabs her attention and she glances up at Barba, who looks around in confusion before dropping his head back to the pillow. Benson thinks he's gone back to sleep, but he heaves a painful sounding sigh and reaches up to rub at his eyes.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

Barba angles his head slightly toward her but doesn't open his eyes.

"Yes."

There's a small smile on his face and no irritation in his hoarse voice, so Benson manages a chuckle.

"Good. It's about time you woke up, anyway," she tells him with amusement, leaning forward a bit to rest her elbows on her knees.

She studies her friend.

"What time is it?" He asks after a moment, and she feels a pinch of concern at how drained he sounds. She knows it's nothing unusual, not after what he went through, but the visage of Mike Dodds overlaps with Barba's prone body.

"A bit before noon.”

"What day is it?" He amends in a weak attempt at a joke.

She reaches out and lays her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. She keeps her voice low and soothing.

"How are you feeling?"

"How do I look?" He quips, opening his eyes just enough to take in her blurry image. "Probably about twice as bad as that."

Benson gives his arm another sympathetic squeeze. It takes an obvious effort, but he raises his other hand to lay it across hers for a moment.

"You scared us," she says, and regrets the loss when his hand slides away to rest on his chest instead. He doesn't seem sure of what to say.

"Carisi came by before--do you remember?"

Barba blinks slowly at her, clearly struggling, but he nods.

"Vaguely," His eyes close again and she leans back into her chair, folding her fingers together. She had hoped that Barba would be feeling better for this part, but she takes a deep breath and begins with her questions anyway.

"Did you see the face of the man that attacked you?"

He gives a barely-there shake of his head.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Did you recognize a smell, maybe his cologne or--" she cuts herself off because Barba's already shaking his head again.

"Can you tell us anything?" She asks, desperation making her sound more frustrated than she feels, and he visibly tenses.

"Sorry, Liv--I don't know," he says quietly, and Benson reaches for him again.

"No, it's fine. We're all just glad you're okay."

He doesn't respond and he doesn't relax. She feels guilty for putting him under pressure; interviewing a friend must be throwing her off of her game, because she doesn’t know why she thought it would be okay to launch into questions like that. The man was barely awake and was in obvious pain.

Benson gives his arm him a final, gentle rub and then stands up.

"Get some rest," she instructs in a soft voice.

He's asleep by the time she reaches the door.

- - -

Whitman is back in their squad room, pacing with his arms behind his back. He’s clearly aggravated after a short conversation with Benson in her office.

Carisi has been itching to leave ever since she returned from the hospital with no real update. He knows that Barba’s been put back into his room and is resting. He knows that the guard hasn’t noticed anything unusual. He knows that no visitors beside Lucia Barba and police are allowed in. But that’s about all he knows and it’s making him anxious.

It’s only 3:40PM and he’s hours away from leaving.

Whitman gives up on studying the board and turns to Carisi, gesturing impatiently with one hand.

Clearing his throat, Carisi sits forward at the conference table and runs through his findings since their last meeting--it isn’t much. Benson looks thoughtful and immediately begins making suggestions after he finishes briefing them on his ideas about Eddie Garcia, Alex Muñoz, and Rita Calhoun.

“Have you spoken to Yelina, Muñoz’s wife? She and Barba were… close, back when they were younger.”

There’s an obvious weight to the way she says it, and Whitman and Carisi stare at her in surprise. The word ‘bisexual’ springs to mind but no one says it out loud--even Whitman apparently doesn’t want a repeat of the last awkward conversation about his fellow A.D.A.’s sex life.

Carisi shakes his head--Yelina hadn’t come up much in the articles, aside from the fact that she was ‘sticking by her man’, according to several reporters.

“She might know something, if Muñoz or Garcia are involved,” Benson continues, clearly uncomfortable discussing Barba’s personal relationships openly. “Maybe his mother, too.”

Carisi takes a moment to look scandalized and Benson looks at him with exasperation.

“Not as a suspect, of course,” she says with dry annoyance. “But if Barba was getting more threats, it’s possible he might have said something to her.”

"What about the rest of his family?" Whitman asks, sitting at the table. "I don't really remember him mentioning them."

Benson shakes her head.

"His grandmother passed a short while back, his father a long time ago. No siblings. I think most of his family are in Cuba. If he has other relatives in the area, I don't think they're close. Not close enough to disclose anything like this."

"Not if he didn't even tell us," Rollins agrees.

Carisi nods absently, thinking of his own family. Did Barba feel lonely, being so isolated from relatives?

Whitman sighs and Rollins runs through her findings with Manning--or lack thereof. Whitman suggests interviewing him again and Carisi thinks about Lindsay, sitting pale at her father’s feet. With everything that was going on with Barba, he’d nearly forgotten why they’d been investigating Manning in the first place.

"Couldn't hurt to drop by and ask a few follow-up questions," he ventures slowly.

Benson throws him a sharp look, but nods once she thinks it over.

"Take Fin with you. See if you can get Lindsay alone for a few minutes."

"He's gonna actually have a basis for harassment if we keep dropping by like this," Fin jokes.

Carisi gives him a grim smile.

- - -

The Manning residence is quiet. It's 4:30PM and quickly getting dark but there are no lights visible from the outside of the house.

Fin approaches the door and knocks while Carisi hangs back a bit, watching for movement in the windows. They wait in the freezing cold, the seconds sprawling out like minutes, but the house stays dark and silent and still.

Carisi feels dread pooling in his stomach. Maybe Manning had run. Maybe he'd taken care of his family before that and a massacre was waiting for them inside.

He opens his mouth to suggest that Fin knock again, harder, when the door swings open.

Mrs. Manning stares blankly at them, clearly confused. She doesn't recognize Fin, but her face changes when she looks past him and sees Carisi standing a ways back. It's a bitter expression.

"Detectives," she grounds out, and sways a bit. Carisi thinks she might be drunk.

“Good evening, Mrs. Manning,” Fin greets politely. “Do you mind if we step in for a minute?”

She gives him a skeptical glance and then steps back, opening the door a fraction wider. Carisi wonders if she’s going to ask why they’re there, but she just shrugs one shoulder, her bathrobe slipping a bit, as if to say 'do what you want.'

Carisi isn't sure what to make of the change in her behavior. She'd been a nervous mess every time they'd met before.

She leads them into the dark house and Carisi keeps his right hand on his hip, not quite resting on his gun holster. Fin keeps his hands in his jacket pockets, likely trying not to look like a threat.

She guides them into the family room, where Lindsay and Max are sitting on the floor, watching something on the television with the sound turned way down. Carisi feels a prickle of unease.

Manning is nowhere in sight. Fin compliments Mrs. Manning on her home, and she gives a friendly, high-pitched laugh and thanks him. She doesn’t seem concerned about having two detectives in her home and the kids have yet to turn around and look at the guests.

Carisi hesitates, thinking it would be weird to go sit next to them on the floor, so he approaches and stands behind them with his hands in his pockets.

"Hey Lindsay, Max," he greets, keeping his tone light and open. Max glances at him with a smile and turns back to the show, but Lindsay doesn't turn at all.

"She's a bit tired," Mrs. Manning supplies, slurring her words.

"Uh-huh," comes Fin's noncommittal reply, managing to sound accepting and disinterested all at once. It works well to get Mrs. Manning’s attention off of Lindsay.

"I hope we're not interrupting any dinner plans," Fin says, after a moment, relaxed and calm.

Mrs. Manning shakes her head, her loose curls bouncing with the movement.

"Oh no, not at all, nothing even in the oven yet."

Fin manages to engage her in a quick conversation about a new soup recipe his son had made for him--perfect for winter, he assures her--and Carisi takes the opportunity to step closer to the kids.

He watches three teenage boys skateboard around a parking lot on the screen and thinks it looks familiar, some kid’s movie from the 90’s, but he can't pinpoint it.

"Do you skate, Max?" He asks, but his focus is on Lindsay, who had yet to look at him, and on listening for Manning, who is most likely in the house somewhere.

"Yeah," Max answers, sounding bored. Carisi makes a face, disappointed with himself--he's normally great with kids.

"What about you Lindsay? Any sports?"

She says nothing, her eyes glued to the screen. From this angle, he can see the smooth roundness of her cheek and the slightly upturned curve of her nose. The television is casting her in a blueish glow.

Max looks at his sister, nearly doing a double-take. Carisi thinks that he's surprised that she has the nerve to ignore a police officer. But if Lindsay notices their eyes on her, she doesn't show it.

He hears the soup conversation winding down and crouches down between the kids, still situated slightly behind them. He feels desperate to her to turn to him, certain that her face would reveal a constellation of bruises. Maybe cuts or a black eye.

He can hear himself saying something about team sports being good for kids, can hear how stupid he sounds, but he’s too busy focusing on the way Lindsay’s fingers are digging tightly into the carpet, nearly shaking with the effort of her grip. Carisi thinks this is significant but doesn't know what the hell it means. Was she scared? Angry with him?

"Lindsay," her mother trills from behind them, having finally noticed Carisi talking to her children. "Go get the detectives some water."

The girl turns toward her mother, glancing past Carisi. Her face is without blemish and he feels a curl of disappointment. Without a word she rises from the floor and walks into kitchen, and then a yellow light fills the threshold and spills into the family room.

Carisi stands and returns to his place next to Fin, feeling out of place and uncertain.

Lindsay hands them a short glass of water each and manages not to make eye contact when they thank her. She settles back to her spot next to her brother on the floor.

"You're probably wondering where my husband is," Mrs. Manning throws out unexpectedly. Fin gives a friendly hum and nods, as to if to say yeah, but it’s no big deal, and she smiles sloppily at them.

"He's meeting with his probation officer," she says, then looks confused at their expressions. "Or, parole officer, I don't know. You know what I mean."

Fin and Carisi share a glance, and Carisi feels every nerve in his body strain with the effort of listening. Was Manning lurking upstairs? Around the corner in the kitchen? Or was he really out of the house, meeting with someone about the terms of his bail?

"I'm sorry you wasted your time," she says with an attempt at an apologetic smile. She seems to have come to her senses and realized that maybe talking to police while her husband was away wasn’t the best idea. Carisi almost wishes that Manning would show up so that they could arrest him in the confrontation.

"Well, we do need to speak to him," Fin says, mirroring her expression of reluctant sympathy. "If we could just wai--"

"Oh, please do come back tomorrow. Maybe call first," she laughs, as if pretending not to hear him. She suddenly collects their untouched glasses back from them, placing them gingerly on a white end-table.

"Mrs. Manning--"

"We really do have to start dinner now."

Carisi knows that they've worn out their welcome and that pushing won't help their cause tonight. Fin, sensing the same, nods and wishes the family a polite goodbye. Carisi gives Lindsay one last glance, but he only gets the back of her head for his effort.

Mrs. Manning leads them back out of the house and tells them to stay warm.

The door clicks shut with a resounding finality.

Fin and Carisi walk slowly back to the car, not speaking. Carisi is running a dozen options through his head, not the least of which is another search warrant to get them back into that house.

- - -

Benson looks less disappointed than Carisi expects with their report. She removes the thick frames from her face and tosses her glasses on a stack of papers.

"Well, that should be easy enough to confirm. Fin, give his officer a call. If he is there, or was there thirty minutes ago, then we'll know for sure."

Fin nods and leaves her office without comment.

Carisi stands awkwardly and Benson looks at him expectantly.

"Bad vibes, huh?" She asks, paraphrasing his description of the event.

"Yeah. It was..." he struggles to find something more elegant to say than 'weird', but nothing comes to him and he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"Did you call Yelina Muñoz?"

Glad to be given something else to focus on, Carisi promises to go do that but Benson stops him with a shake of her head.

"She was pretty fired up last time she spoke with us. It was a difficult situation. But this won't be much better, not if she thinks we're accusing her husband."

Carisi puts his hands on his hips and considers this.

"So you're thinking, what, face-to-face interview first?"

"Actually... I was thinking maybe I should handle this particular interview."

Carisi reels a bit and is taken back to his first case with SVU, back when Benson didn't trust him to have a conversation with a witness. His face contorts with a mixture of pain and anger.

Raising her hands in a placating gesture, Benson stands up and then leans against her desk, her face apologetic but determined.

"Nothing personal, Carisi. But I’ve met her before and I'm familiar with her husband's case. I just think it would be more appropriate."

He doesn't miss the way she pauses before that last word. Appropriate. It stings, no matter how she spins it. She didn't think he was good enough at his job to handle interviewing a woman who was likely only tangentially related to the case.

"Okay," he says, his voice betraying his hurt. "Got it."

He nods and turns to leave, half hoping that she'll stop him and say something to make it right, but she lets him go. He sits down at his desk and feels a cramp forming in his stomach.

- - -
Rollins knocks on Benson’s door about an hour later, and Benson invites her in with a lazy hand gesture. She has a headache.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” her detective greets, looking cautious. She closes the door behind her.

“What’s up?” Benson asks and tries not to sound like she wants Rollins out of her office as soon as possible--which is true, but only because Benson doesn’t feel like she can handle anyone else’s problems right now and Rollins has this we need to talk look on her face that doesn’t exactly scream ‘good news’.

Sitting down in the chair on the other side of the desk, Rollins avoids eye contact for a moment and sweeps her hair out of her face. She doesn’t seem nervous, exactly, but…

“You and Carisi have a fight?”

Oh. So the wonder twins are back together, she thinks sarcastically, and then feels guilty. She should be glad that her detectives are on good terms after whatever had been wrong between them before, but she can’t stand it when they team up on her like this.

“We didn’t fight, no,” Benson clarifies, and her tone invites nothing in return. Rollins, being Rollins, decides to go for it anyway.

“It’s just…” her head tilts to the side, the way it always does when she struggles to say something. “He’s going through something. And he came out of your office pretty upset earlier.”

Benson stares her down and wonders if they’re really going to do this again.

Carisi questioning her about Rollins, Rollins questioning her about Carisi--she’s glad that they care for one another but she doesn’t like being second-guessed or asked to coddle the members of her team.

“He’s a big boy, he can handle it,” is all she gives away, though even she winces a bit at her phrasing--she’s been off balance all day and it’s showing.

Rollins considers her with a cool gaze and Benson has to admit that she does respect the other woman’s tenacity. She’s not sure what Rollins’ intentions with Carisi are but she’s willing to piss off Benson on his behalf, and that certainly meant something.

“Okay, well, maybe give him a pat on the back on your way out or something,” Rollins suggests sarcastically. “Because his moping is driving the rest of us crazy.”

Benson commits to nothing and watches Rollins leave without a backward glance. Her head pounds and she turns back to her computer and the flood of unread emails that have been bouncing back and forth between the D.A., Dodds, and her account in a ‘reply all’ session that’s been going on all day.

She takes a long gulp from a water glass on her desk and hates that she wishes it were something stronger.

- - -

Carisi calls the hospital after work and is told Barba is resting. He briefly considers going anyway, but decides against it in the end. He's tired and he's afraid of coming across as overbearing--Barba would probably be annoyed if he woke him up.

Plus, he has a pizza to pick up.

As he drives, some distant part of him wonders if Benson would transfer him for messing this case up.

A few days ago he wouldn't have let the thought cross his mind, but now... He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and tries to ignore the swell of hurt at how out of place he feels at SVU. He finds himself wishing he could connect with Benson somehow, because she’s the lynchpin of their team and he respects her so goddamn much that it’s actually pretty pathetic.

He thinks that he made the right call in avoiding the hospital tonight. Maybe Benson would be happier if he could take a few steps back and distance himself from the investigation, if only for a while.

The thought nearly makes him lose his appetite.

Tired of examining his own feelings, he turns on the radio and makes a point of thinking about nothing at all until he reaches Rollins' door with a hot box of pizza in one hand and a case of beer in the other.

- - -

They're two episodes into the newest season of "Last One Standing" and Carisi is pleasantly buzzed. He bounces Jesse on his knee as two women plot to eject another competitor from the reality survival competition.

He and Rollins have been trading comments and quips about the show, but she's fallen silent over the last fifteen minutes and his latest joke has gone unanswered. He shoots her a few glances and finds her studying the screen of her cell phone.

"Boyfriend problems?" He teases, watching as she blinks over at him in surprise. He jabs his chin toward her phone and she looks down at it as if it had magically appeared in her hand.

There's a tense pause before she laughs a little and drops the phone onto the couch next to her. The movement wakes Frannie, who grumbles and wiggles until she's able to roll onto her back, reclining comfortably next to Rollins.

"Nope," she says at last, picking up her bottle and taking a long swallow from it.

He lets it go.

They're watching the elimination round when her phone buzzes and she snatches it back up.

This time Carisi stares her down until she visibly surrenders.

"It's..." she rolls her eyes and bobbles her head a bit, the way she usually does when she admits something with reluctance. "It's this C.O. I've been texting with."

Carisi's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline.

"What, like, romantically?" He sounds skeptical, unsure if she's joking.

"No, asshole, not like that."

He straightens up a bit, his focus intensifying instead of relenting.

"Is it about the case?"

"No. It's not." She sounds like she's torn between reassuring him and being offended that he'd think she'd keep that quiet.

Carisi relaxes a bit, unspeakably relieved that Rollins wasn't keeping something like that from him. It was bad enough that Benson didn't trust him.

"It's just, when I was up there visiting Yates, we got to chatting sometimes. It's not like we've been keeping in touch all that much but he's been asking if I want to get a coffee for the last two days."

Warning bells are ringing in Carisi's ears and he can't quite manage to keep a look of judgement from his face.

"What?" She asks, clearly ready for a confrontation. He can see it in the flare of her nostrils.

"Is that a good idea?" He asks tentatively.

"Why not? Yates is dead."

"What? No, that's not--it's just that he's a C.O., right, and we're investigating C.O.s right now."

"We're not investigating all of them. So, what, I'm not allowed to talk to any correctional officers now that Barba's managed to piss some off?" She scoffs and he feels his blood pressure rising.

"That's not--"

"You know what? Just don't, Carisi."

She cuts him a look and takes another gulp of beer. She glues her eyes back to the screen and Carisi is reminded of Lindsay, sitting on the carpet in that dark house.

"It's not like I have time for much of a social life right now anyway," she grumbles after a minute, but her face is softening. He sits in silence and Jesse gurgles, waving her fat little arms, wanting attention. He watches Rollins out of the corner of his eye and bounces Jesse thoughtlessly, glad that the baby is happy, at least.

The episode ends but neither of them comment on the dramatic elimination. He's trying to find the words to make a graceful exit when the lock turns and the door opens. He looks up in surprise and sees Kim enter the threshold, kicking off her boots and smiling brilliantly when she sees him.

"Sonny!"

He brings Jesse close to his shoulder and stands to accept a brief hug from her, glancing apprehensively at Rollins, who ignores the exchange in favor of scratching Frannie's exposed belly.

"Hi, Amanda," Kim offers, her smile dimming a bit. Rollins finally looks over and nods, angling her beer bottle in a mock salute before turning back to the television.

"It's so good to see you, Sonny!" Kim squeezes his arm and Carisi is warmed a bit by the genuine pleasure in her face.

"You, too," he replies sincerely.

She takes Jesse from him and the baby trills happily as they walk into the kitchen. Carisi isn't sure if he should sit back down or make his escape. He likes Rollins' sister but he sure as hell isn't in the mood to get in between the siblings.

"This was nice," he begins awkwardly. "Thanks for inviting me over."

"You don't have to leave just because she showed up."

Carisi hesitates and tries for a loose smile. "Yeah, I know, that's not it, though. Long day."

"Would've been shorter if you weren't running to the hospital every chance you got."

Carisi is impressed with himself when he manages to swallow back a bitter response, though it nearly chokes him. He takes a few deep breaths and tries to wait her out, but it quickly becomes unbearable to stay quiet.

"We're going to do this now?"

She sits in sullen silence.

"What's your problem? Huh? What's the problem with me visiting Barba?" He asks, his tone biting. He's suddenly not sure if he wants her to answer, though.

"You're acting like you guys are even friends," she says and Carisi is stung by her cruelty.

"We are," he says, but sounds unconvinced.

"Yeah, okay," she snorts, finishing her beer and changing channels, like the conversation didn't matter at all. He guesses that maybe it doesn’t to her.

He waits for another moment, nearly desperate for her to apologize, but her attention remains stoically on the screen. He grabs his coat from the back of his chair and goes to the door, throwing out a caustic, "Yeah. Goodnight."

He's halfway down the hallway when Kim calls out to him in a faux whisper. He turns and watches her approach, the lines in her face looking deeper in the florescent lighting of the hall.

"Sorry," she starts, then looks unsure.

"You don't have to apologize for other people, Kim."

She offers him a one-sided smile.

"She's probably done it for me enough," she admits, her southern drawl heavy.

He can't deny the possibility of that.

"Don't take it personally, her being like that. She just... she likes you a lot, Sonny."

Carisi rears his head back a bit at the implication, thinking that even if that were true, in that way, Rollins wouldn't be telling her sister about it because they weren’t exactly known for having heart-to-heart conversations.

"Oh," he manages, clearly sounding like he doesn't believe her.

She laughs a little at the look on his face, reaching out to push at his shoulder playfully.

"What, like you didn't notice?"

Now Carisi isn't sure if she’s flirting with him or not.

"She has always had a thing for having things with coworkers," Kim says slowly, sounding both coy and apologetic.

Carisi feels offended on Rollins' behalf and it must show on his face, because she quickly backtracks.

"I'm not calling her a whore," she says, eyes comically wide. "She just has a type, and you're so sweet, Sonny. Of course she likes you."

"I think you're probably reading that wrong," he says firmly. He gives her a small smile, hoping she won't push the issue, and is rewarded when she blinks owlishly and relents.

"Well, she'd be a fool not to," Kim says, giving him a cheesy smile that might have been teasing.

"Ah, well..." He trails off, not sure what to say but desperate to get out of the conversation. "Thanks, though."

She nods and reaches out to pat his arm again.

"You have a good night, Sonny."

He murmurs the same and watches her let herself quietly back into Rollins' apartment.

He feels incredibly tired but, bizarrely, wants nothing more than to curl into the chair in Barba's dark, quiet hospital room.

But visiting hours are over and he needs some sleep.

- - -

Benson is the last of her team to leave that night and she wants to just collapse into bed, but she's already had to cancel dinner with Tucker twice this week--she can't cancel her own ‘sorry I’ve been a flake’ bar date, too.

She texts Lucy on her walk over to the pub, who had already decided to stay overnight with Noah while studying for her finals. It's not an unusual scenario for them, given Benson's work hours--her guest room is well used.

I'll be home in about an hour, she taps out, her freezing fingers making it take twice as long. She thinks that she needs to invest in those new gloves that can interact with smartphone screens.

Lucy texts her back immediately with a smilie face and take ur time, and Benson takes a long moment to be grateful for having Lucy in her life.

Stuffing her phone into her coat, she enters the bar and glances around for Tucker, whose white hair sticks out even in the dim lighting and the crowd. She feels a bit of her stress melt away when he puts an arm around her and kisses the side of her mouth.

Settling into the seat he's saved her at the counter, she folds her coat over her lap and rests her hand on his knee. They just smile at each for a moment--it's been nearly five days since they've seen one another.

"How're you doing?" He asks, stroking his hand over hers. His eyes seem big and dark in the amber light and she can see his concern for her.

"About as well as I can be," she admits.

The bartender wanders over and Tucker orders her a glass of red wine.

"And how's Barba doing?"

"He's still alive."

Tucker takes a sip from his bourbon, looking appropriately relieved.

"I'm surprised it took someone this long to take a shot at him," he jokes a moment later. Benson rolls her eyes and tries not to be offended, but she pulls her hand away from him in order to accept her glass from the bartender.

Tucker watches her face.

"Hey, Liv, I'm kidding," he's quick to reassure. "He was a pain in my ass, but so were you, and look where we are."

She quirks an eyebrow, too tired to be cold toward him.

"Are you suggesting that I have competition?" She teases, and she's glad when Tucker gives a hearty laugh.

"No, really though, I am sorry about what happened. He's a good prosecutor."

"He is," Benson agrees, taking a long drink of her Merlot. She doesn't really want to talk about this.

"And you're going to nail the son of a bitch who did it," he tells her, and while she's happy to hear that he has faith, she can’t deny the doubt that creeps in at the edges.

"We're certainly trying."

They drink in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Benson stares down into her wine and Tucker brushes the hair back from her face.

The gesture is so soft and lovely it makes her eyes sting a little.

"You and Barba," Tucker says suddenly, grinning around the lip of his glass and going for levity. "You two were always a goddamn nightmare for us, you know that?"

She smiles at him like she does.

"And Amaro. The three of you, always busting my balls."

Benson throws her head back with a laugh.

"You gave as good as you got," she replies, teeth flashing in an easy grin.

He looks appropriately doubtful.

"Have you met Barba?" He asks, blinking quickly in mock-surprise. "Have you met you?"

She pushes lightly at his arm, shaking her head and chuckling. It feels good, really good, to laugh. Tucker usually has a way of making that happen and she moves closer to him in appreciation.

They almost lapse back into their quiet moment, but Benson hesitates before asking, "Have you heard anything?"

"About the assault? No."

She nods, managing to feel disappointed even though she knew better than to expect anything. Tucker wasn't with IAB anymore.

"I'll let you know if I do, though. Right away," he tells her, his face serious and earnest. She leans in and kisses him lightly, appreciating the smoky burn of bourbon on his lips.

He takes her hand in his again.

Chapter Text

Rollins isn’t quite drunk, but she’s well on her way, and there are few things she can tolerate less when buzzed--her sister is one of those things.

At least when she’s sober she has the presence of mind to hold back.

As it is, she can barely contain herself when Kim reappears from her little goodbye session with Carisi, giving Rollins a look that can only be described as ‘shifty’.

“You two make a dinner date?” she asks bitterly, getting up to grab another beer.

Kim tilts her head to the side and frowns at her. She puts a hand on her hip but doesn’t say anything, which Rollins thinks must be a first.

“If you think I’m going to let you make a move on my coworker, you’re wrong,” she says, collapsing back onto the couch.

“I guess that is more your area of expertise,” Kim says slowly, unable to hide the ghost of a smirk. Rollins wants to slap it off her face.

“Guess so,” Rollins admits lightly instead, because she knows that arguing the point won’t get her anywhere. “You’re wasting your time, anyway, Kim. Meth heads aren’t really his type.”

Kim’s smirk falls away and is replaced with an expression that borders on disgust. Rollins doesn’t take much joy in humiliating her, but can’t help but find her sister’s expression funny, and she must be smiling a little bit too sharply because Kim flees into the kitchen.

Rollins sips her beer with one hand and holds her knee in a death grip with the other. She wills herself not to feel guilty.

She hears Kim rattle around in the cupboards for a few minutes before disappearing into the guest room. Rollins feels uneasy when she storms back out through the living room with a jacket and purse. She struggles back into her boots and throws Rollins an unpleasant look.

“I know it’s hard for you, Amanda,” she growls, “being so alone all the time. But you don’t have to be such a bitch.”

Rollins clenches her teeth but manages to keep a second nasty retort to herself. Her relationship with her sister is contentious more often than not, but Rollins has always felt responsibility toward Kim and feels sick at the thought of her bailing into the night because of a stupid fight.

Kim waits but seems to realize that Rollins isn’t going to take the bait. She has the nerve to look disappointed when she slams the door.

Regret floods Rollins.

She puts the beer down and drags the heels of her palms against her eyes.

She doesn’t know how Kim always manages to get under her skin--there was no one else that made her feel like a helpless little kid again. Every conversation was lined with decades of loaded feelings and unaddressed slights. Every time Rollins covered for Kim with their mother, each time Kim failed to return the favor, the drugs and the arrests and Deputy Chief Patton--

Rollins takes a shaky breath in, managing to stop herself from going down that particular rabbit hole.

She picks her beer back up and turns up the volume on the television.

- - -

It doesn’t take Carisi long to drive home, but he sits in his car for a while after parking, unable to chase away the bitter aftertaste of his fight with Rollins. Kim has gotten under his skin, too, and he runs the past few months through his head, picking apart his interactions with Rollins and looking for something more. Kim didn't know her sister nearly as well as she thought.

Or did she?

Carisi remembers Rollins' elation that he passed the bar exam--she had been happy, she had touched him a lot, and it had been nice. He remembers her thinly veiled bitterness when Barba had arranged that interview for him--he remembers the stinging "you look like a cop" comment, remembers the way she avoided him as much as she could for the next two days. It wasn't a stretch to think that she was afraid of losing him.

But mostly, he thinks about her attitude about the case. He reluctantly realizes that maybe Rollins could, somehow, be jealous of the attention that Carisi was giving Barba.

He can hear Barba's sharp laugh in his head, can hear him telling Rollins, "he's all yours", bemused and disgusted with being the focus of Carisi's affections.

He recalls, with mild embarrassment, his post-exam confession to Barba. There was no word except 'affectionate' for what he said, for the look that had surely been in his eyes, and the way that Barba had looked back at him... His stomach twists pleasantly as he remembers Barba's slow, self-deprecating, wondering grin.

Carisi had seen something like that same look on the faces of Catholics in church: awe.

He wants to put that look on Barba’s face again.

He thinks about the fact that Barba nearly died and realizes that, for as much as he wants the respect and affection of his team, the idea of losing that with Barba tugged at something deeper. In some ways, he feels that his relationships with the others are all but cemented; their bonds might strengthen over time but he didn't think that they were going to change. The thought of losing Barba, in whatever capacity, felt like a door slamming closed.

An end to some strange potential.

He doesn’t really want to pinpoint what.

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he climbs out of his car and heads into his building through the bracing cold. He thinks that he’s probably never been so introspective in his life, but he doesn’t feel better off because of it.

- - -

He’s groggy and on edge by the time he arrives at the precinct the next morning. If Carisi had to guess, he'd probably say that he'd only gotten about three hours of sleep--thoughts of Rollins had bled into thoughts of Barba, and those had bled into theory after theory about the case.

His brain feels like an angry beehive.

Depositing an apology coffee on Rollins' desk, Carisi takes a careful sip of his own and glances around the squad room. Someone has pinned up more case pictures onto the whiteboard in the bullpen, and his stomach gives a violent flip at the visceral photographs of Barba's injury. It's a nasty wound, red and raw looking, and Carisi realizes with no small amount of dread that he would be looking at it every day for the foreseeable future.

Sinking down into his chair, he closes his eyes and has about thirty seconds of peace before Rollins blows into the room. She ignores the coffee sitting on her desk and she ignores Carisi's plaintive glance. She immediately opens her computer and spends the next twenty minutes pretending he's not in the room.

Fin and Benson walk in together, and they both fix him with an apprehensive stare when they see him. His heart sinks.

Tapping his knuckles on Carisi's desk, Fin smiles down at him. Carisi assumes it was meant to be a comforting gesture, but his stomach refuses to unknot itself.

"So Manning's officer finally returned my call this morning."

Carisi knows that they think he'll think it's bad news, but he can't imagine what he would consider good news with Manning at this point.

"And?"

Fin keeps his voice smooth as glass as he perches on the end of the desk.

"And he vouched for Manning, says he was there from 4:15PM to 4:50PM. Says they were discussing the terms of his bail. Apparently Manning is a big family man now, planning a trip to Disney World."

Carisi splutters indignantly and tries not to acknowledge Rollins' satisfied expression.

"He's suspected of stabbing an A.D.A. in broad daylight and he wants off house arrest to go to play 'father of the year' at Disney World?"

"That's what the man said."

Benson sighs, "Well, it's not like he knew you two were going to visit, it wasn't a deliberate attempt to avoid you."

The team turns to look at her and she crosses her arms, looking tired.

"Rollins, Fin, why don't you head out there later this morning and get that interview with him done."

Carisi opens his mouth to protest but Benson beats him to it.

"Carisi, I need you to keep sorting through our suspect list. You've been doing a good job crossing C.O.s off, keep going through alibis and see who was in the area that day."

Rollins' gaze darkens and Carisi would bet everything he has that she's telepathically broadcasting a threat about their conversation last night. But she's wasting her energy. Carisi says nothing about her relationship with Yates’ old C.O.

Satisfied that his silence is some form of agreement, Benson barks out an almost cheerful, "Get to it," to her team and enters her office.

Carisi wants to go home. Instead, he slides a thick file out of his drawer and picks up the phone.

- - -

Three hours later and Carisi has only managed to cross four more names off his list. Only five supervisors had answered, and one had refused to disclose his C.O.'s whereabouts that afternoon.

Fin and Rollins return shortly after lunch but don't have anything significant to share.

"The guy is sticking to his story," Fin says, disappointment evident in his voice.

Rollins drops half a sandwich on Carisi's desk and gives him a pointed look. Her version of an apology today. He accepts it and nods his thanks.

"Benson said that Barba still doesn't remember much," she sighs, collapsing into her chair. She doesn't look like she got much more sleep than Carisi did, but he doesn't notice.

"She talk to him today?" He asks, surprised. Their Lieutenant had left an hour ago but hadn't said anything when she passed him on her way out of the squad room.

"Yeah, sounds like she dropped by for a bit, we just caught her in the lobby downstairs," Fin says, his tone measured. "She said she had to take a call, she'll be up in a minute."

Carisi nods, numb.

They sit with an awkward silence for a bit, waiting for Benson. She arrives looking flustered and barely spares them a glance as she hurries into her office, ear still pressed to her cell phone. But she doesn't close the door, and Carisi can hear her talking to Noah's babysitter in a hushed voice. Despite his frustration with her, he feels a pinch of worry.

Benson storms back out and pauses by Fin's desk, fixing them all with a steely stare.

"I've got to go, Lucy thinks someone followed them back from the park today," Benson grounds out as she throws her coat back on. "She thinks the bastard was taking pictures of them."

The team makes various noises of distress and Benson refuses when Fin offers to join her. She doesn't want to spare any of their resources, and they all know she can handle herself just fine.

Carisi feels a lump in his throat when her gaze falls on him. He hates that, in that moment, he would do almost anything for her.

"Carisi, go to the hospital and show Barba some mug shots. It's a longshot, but maybe it'll jog something loose. He was pretty out of it an hour ago, but see what you can get. We need something."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he nearly stumbles over himself to stand up and grab his coat.

"Rollins, work on that alibi list, take over for Carisi for now," Benson throws out, already marching toward the elevators.

Rollins looks surprised but doesn't complain, although she does shoot Fin a questioning glance.

Carisi isn't sure what he did to get off alibi duty, but he isn't about to open his mouth and ruin it. He and Benson ride the elevator down in silence while she texts furiously on her phone, presumably keeping in touch with Lucy.

He wishes her luck as they part on the street and she gives him a vicious smile, a thing that promises righteous violence on anyone who would threaten her child.

"You too," she says, and then disappears into the crowd.

- - -

Carisi taps his foot nervously as the elevator climbs up to Barba's floor. He thinks of bringing flowers as a joke and then feels embarrassed with himself.

He flashes his badge and nods in greeting to the guard posted to the A.D.A.'s room, a different one than last time but wearing an identical expression of boredom. The man nods back, looking half asleep.

He enters Barba's room and closes the door quietly behind him. The curtains are drawn across the windows but the room is still pretty bright, and Barba peers at him as though blinded by it.

"Carisi," he says in greeting, voice strained but not without warmth.

Carisi sits in his usual place beside the bed and smiles at him, almost overcome. Somehow Barba's feels like the first friendly face he's seen that day. His eyes trace the stubble that's growing on Barba's jaw.

"Hey, Counselor," he manages, his smile feeling goofy but genuine. "How're you doing?"

Barba waves a hand, the plastic sensor clipped to his finger wagging its cord.

"Oh, you know," Barba says lightly, nearly managing to sound casual, like they were sitting in his office and not in a hospital room.

"Been better."

Carisi's smile hasn't faded. He relaxes completely into his chair and sets the album of mugshots across his lap.

"So, heard Benson was here earlier."

"Feels like five minutes ago."

"I bet. Listen," Carisi leans forward a bit, licking his lips. Barba's eyes seem to unconsciously track the movement. "She had to go, some stuff with Lucy, but she wanted me to show you some pictures."

"Is Noah okay?" Barba asks, brow furrowing in concern.

"Yeah, yeah, they're both fine! Sounds like some creep at the park, but the Lieu is handling it."

"I'm sure she is," Barba says with dry satisfaction.

Carisi grins at him.

"Probably wasting your time with the pictures, though," Barba continues, getting back on track with his usual efficiency.

"Worth a shot."

"I didn't see his face."

"I know."

They study each other in the half-light for a moment, both comfortable with the quiet, momentary companionship. Carisi had missed this, the gentle back and forth, the teasing conversations.

Barba had been hard on him, almost hostile sometimes, in the beginning. But once he'd accepted Carisi as... what? A friend? A mentee? A fellow passionate believer in justice and law? Whatever their relationship had become, Barba's quips had lost their sharp edges. Even when things were bad, Barba hadn't fallen back into old ways and relied on pettiness or meanness.

He couldn't help but notice that the same wasn't true of Rollins. They had come a long way since Carisi had jumped into Manhattan SVU, but even though he would readily call her his friend, she was rarely a bad mood away from cruelty.

But maybe he wasn’t being fair--despite their current nonchalance about the subject, he was still a bit sore from the fight.

Barba shifts and winces, placing a tentative hand on his side. Carisi eyes the thin tube warily, like it might get crimped again at the slightest movement.

"Alright then, let's see them,” Barba says, nodding toward the mugshots.

Carisi's chair gives a low groan as he scoots closer to the bed. He opens the album and begins sorting through the pages.

Barba gives a long sigh after the third time Carisi turns the page.

"This is useless," he complains. "I know half of these people."

He jabs one picture.

"He's a C.O. at Rikers, just like two others from the last page. I may not remember their names but I remember their faces, from before."

Carisi nods like he'd expected as much. He spares a thought for Rollins' C.O. and wonders if he's in the book. A vicious, shameful part of him almost hopes so.

"Just bear with me and keep looking, Counselor."

That earns him an exasperated half-smile.

"Liv's coming down on you pretty hard, huh?"

Carisi hesitates and Barba notices, because of course he does.

"It's... it hasn't been an easy case. Don't know why I expected anything else with you," Carisi jokes.

"Easy wouldn't be at the top of the list of adjectives that describe me," Barba agrees amicably.

Carisi clears his throat and turns the page. Barba obligingly dips his head to look, rubbing absently at his chest as he scans the photographs.

Carisi watches his face. He doesn't learn anything new but he also doesn't leave until a text from Benson summons him back to the precinct an hour later.

- - -

"You're in a good mood," Fin observes, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.

Carisi drops the mugshot album on his desk and throws his coat across the back of his chair. He grins at Fin, "Sure."

"Barba doing good?"

"Better, yeah," he points at the book of pictures like it did something wrong. "Didn't see the guy's face, though. Didn't get anything new from him."

"We figured as much," Fin nods, closing his eyes.

Carisi makes a cup of cheap coffee and settles into his desk, sipping gingerly.

"So, heard Benson met with Yelina earlier today," Fin tells him.

Carisi nods and is surprised that he isn't bothered by that.

"Anything helpful?"

Fin leans forward and gives Carisi a significant look. "Says her husband wouldn't try to kill Barba any more than he would send nudes to a teenager."

Carisi arches an eyebrow.

"So she's still sticking to that, huh? Muñoz being framed?"

"That or she basically admitted that he did try to have Barba put down."

- - -

Benson is pissed.

She knows that her team can read it in her stride and see it on her face. She carries the tension like a second skin and wears it well--she's been on the job too long for it to be anything but familiar.

Carisi leaps to his feet at the sight of her, the lines in his own face deep with concern. He looks more relaxed than before though, and she hopes that means that his visit with Barba went well because they desperately needed a break in the case.

She holds up her hands as Rollins and Fin stand up too, looking like they're prepared to rush her.

"Noah's fine. Lucy's fine," she says, by way of greeting. She feels a wave of gratitude at how relieved they all are on her behalf.

"So what happened?" Carisi is brave enough to ask, slowly sinking back down into his seat. Rollins likewise settles back into her chair but Fin remains standing, crossing his arms over his chest.

Benson sighs and swipes a stray lock of hair out of her face.

"Lucy says there was a man near the playground. White, middle aged, average-looking. At first she thought he was there taking pictures of his own child, but she kept an eye on him anyway."

"Guess paranoia is a perk of working for a detective," Fin quips.

"So this creep follows them from the playground to the street," she continues, gesturing with her hands in obvious agitation. "Lucy never got a good look at his face, she says it was always behind the camera."

"Was it a big one, then? The camera?" Carisi asks, and Benson nods.

"Lucy said she thought it looked expensive, maybe professional."

"Professional playground creeper?" Rollins asks, sarcasm dripping from her voice. Benson ignores her.

"Lucy loses him on the way back, but then she thinks she sees him across the street when they get home," she says, making a conscious effort to keep from clenching her hands.

"He wasn't taking pictures, but he had a baseball cap and sunglasses on. She said he has a 'biggish' nose," Benson concludes.

"She sure it's the same guy?" Rollins asks while chewing on the end of her pen.

"She's pretty sure, yeah."

"Surveillance videos?" Fin suggests.

"Already put in a request," Benson answers, and Fin nods his approval.

Benson takes a moment to observe her team and then starts to head into her office.

"Meet in the conference area in fifteen, I want updates on Barba," she orders over her shoulder, and is met with noises of agreement.

Benson closes her door and leans against it for a moment, feeling bone tired and unfocused. She wants to drive straight back to her apartment and sit with Noah for the rest of the day, but her friend and colleague is sitting in a hospital bed and she can't shrug off the responsibility of finding his attacker.

Barba's attack had been close enough to home--Lucy and Noah being followed threatened to send her into a tailspin.

Pushing herself off the door, she glances through some papers left on her desk without really seeing them. She tries to think back on her interview with Yelina, but the memory of Lucy's scared voice keeps finding her instead.

Benson was really starting to dread mid-day calls from her babysitter.

- - -

Twenty minutes later, Benson joins them at the conference table, not bothering to look apologetic for being late to her own meeting. She glances at the vivid photographs pinned to the board--Barba's injury, Manning's mugshot, a couple of grainy screenshots from the video outside the courthouse, and a handful of crime scene pictures.

She sits down and looks expectantly at Carisi. She hates thinking in cliches, but he looks like a kicked puppy. He glances around at the team from beneath his eyelashes.

"Barba didn't see his attacker's face. The mugshots didn't give us anything new," he says sheepishly. "But he is doing better, I think they decreased his pain meds."

Benson feels a migraine looming and does her best not to lose her temper with Carisi. It's not his fault--he couldn't force Barba to know the man who assaulted him any more than she could.

"Okay," she says, aiming for accepting but landing somewhere closer to annoyed.

"Fin said that Mrs. Muñoz had some interesting things to say," Carisi shares, attempting to segue away from his failings.

"You could say that," Benson agrees, putting her glasses on as she shuffles through their notes. "Not the least of which was admitting that Muñoz is still maintaining that Barba had a hand in framing him."

She ignores the angry snort that comes from Carisi's direction, but doesn't miss the sharp look that Rollins shoots him. Benson isn't sure what that's about and almost doesn't want to know. She respects Rollins as a detective and would never admit it out loud, but her flare for personal dramatics was exhausting. If there's bad blood between the two of them again, she trusts them to work it out on their own.

"Yelina insists that her husband is innocent. She seems to genuinely believe that he hasn't done anything wrong, or she's very good at acting like she does."

"Yeah, well, she's had some practice with that," Rollins grumbles.

"So we're no closer to finding the son of a bitch who stuck Barba," Fin summarizes.

The team lapses into a tense silence.

"What about interviewing Muñoz directly?" Rollins asks.

"He won't meet with us without his lawyer, I bet," Carisi counters. "Without any evidence as leverage, there's no point."

"So get some evidence," Benson suggests curtly. "See if any of Muñoz's C.O.s are willing to talk with us. Maybe we can find a cell mate, someone Muñoz was close with that got released recently."

"Fat chance," Rollins remarks. "We're not exactly on their Christmas list."

"Worth a try," Fin objects, voice slow as molasses. Benson nods and looks at her and Rollins sighs, recognizing it as her new side project.

"Any new information on Manning?"

Rollins shakes her head.

"Nothing. He's been keeping clean, sticking to the rules. He knows we've got a close eye on him."

Benson nods her head, absorbing this. She turns back to Carisi.

"Have you turned up anything else? Someone else we should be looking at?"

"I haven't--I mean, a lot's been going on," he replies defensively. "Haven't had much of a chance. I still want to talk to Calhoun and track down Eddie Garcia."

"Get to it then," Benson commands, grabbing her glasses off her face and dropping them onto their alibi checklist, which was increasingly filled with strikes. Most of the officers were working at the time of the attack--or so their supervisors said. Benson wished that they had the resources to verify that with hard proof, but in her gut she didn't think this was related to the Munson case.

Too sloppy. Carisi had previously said as much, and she agreed. That didn't rule out it being an outsourced job but... Benson's instincts said otherwise.

It felt personal. Too opportunist to be a calculated move, though, which made it all the more confusing.

She takes a deep breath and looks up to find that Carisi and Rollins have slunk away to work on their respective tasks, but Fin remains, sitting and watching her quietly.

"Go home, Liv. Be with Noah, we got this for today."

She starts to protest, but aside from a growing stack of paperwork she's got nothing urgent to do specifically at the precinct. She can do most of the rest from her laptop at home.

All the same, she stays for another two hours, studying their notes and the pictures that fill the whiteboard.

She promises herself that she'll visit Barba again tomorrow and then heads home.

- - -

She's helping Noah eat spaghetti when her phone rings. She breathes deeply, wiping the sauce from his face, and then picks up the call on the last ring.

"Benson."

"Hi, Lieutenant Benson," a male voice rumbles on the other end. "This is Clark Reeves. You have one of my men posted outside of Rafael Barba's hospital room."

Ice fills her stomach and she turns away from Noah, walking to her kitchen counter and leaning heavily against it.

"What happened?"

"Nothing--no cause for alarm," he reassures, but his tone remains severe. "This is just an update. The guard on duty, Benjamin Ward, reported in about ten minutes ago. He's had a man, late forties maybe, acting suspiciously near your man's room."

Benson hesitates.

"How so?"

"Walked by multiple times in an hour, baseball cap and big eye glasses, jittery looking."

"Sun glasses?" Benson asks sharply.

"No, they were--and I'm quoting here--'hipster' glasses. Big ones. Ward says it made it harder to get a good look at his face."

"And this man, he wasn't just there visiting someone else?" She asks tiredly, returning to Noah, who is watching her closely. She wonders how much longer she should be taking work calls in front of him.

"Well, that's certainly a possibility. But Ward doesn't think so. He wouldn't have called it in otherwise."

"Right."

"Ward wants to pull him aside for questioning next time he sees him, but the last thing we want is to harass a man visiting a sick loved one."

"Of course not," Benson agrees reluctantly.

"We'll pull the footage from the hospital and send it to your precinct, but my gut is that it's a reporter. Your A.D.A. made the news in a big way when he got himself stabbed. It was probably only a matter of time before someone tried to sneak in for a picture."

"Could be," she says evenly, not willing to commit to the assumption but feeling inclined to agree.

"Thank you for letting me know. Keep me updated," she says after a pause.

"Will do. We'll be on high alert for a while, please keep us informed if there's anything we should know."

They exchange a farewell and hang up. It takes several deep breaths before she can help Noah finish his dinner.

She drinks three glasses of red wine before she collapses into bed, but her phone chirps right as she starts to drift off.

It's a text, not a call, so it's probably not life or death, but Benson rolls over and grabs at her phone anyway.

Hey, just checking in again, a text from Tucker reads. Call me if you need ANYTHING Liv

She belatedly remembers that she was supposed to call him after Noah had his dinner and she feels a pang of guilt. But he doesn't seem angry and she types back a quick thank-you-and-goodnight message.

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. She thinks about Barba--their first trial together, nearly laughs as she remembers that damn belt incident--and before she can help it nostalgia turns into theory. She browses through their cases in her mind as she would books in a library, skimming their contents and waiting for something to jump out at her. But, with the exception of the SVU team and a handful of others--if she's being generous--Barba had made nothing but enemies since coming to Manhattan.

She thinks about Whitman and doubts it was much different in Brooklyn.

A part of her feels sorry for Barba because he seems to lead a lonely life, but she had rarely seen him melancholy. A secret part of her worries that he'll leave once he's well enough to start thinking about the future--she wouldn't blame him, but she would feel his loss keenly.

She preemptively starts thinking through arguments to make him stay.

But we'll protect you rings hollowly, even in her own head. They'd been right there and even still...

Felipe Heredio flashes through her thoughts.

She wonders why Barba hadn't called out to her and Dodds that day on the courthouse steps--they weren't looking in the right direction but they had been so close. Why hadn't he alerted them? They could've grabbed Heredio off the streets, right then and there.

She knows it's because Barba's so goddamn stubborn.

Maybe that meant he would be too stubborn to leave, even after a violent, near death experience?

Alex wasn't, a traitorous part of her mind whispers. Alex left.

Benson rolls onto her side, pulling a blanket over her as she shifts, and she presses her eyes closed as she tries to will herself to sleep. She's tired of thinking about Alex Cabot.

- - -

Carisi sits on his couch with his laptop resting beside him. He had been working diligently on trying to find a list of classmates that Barba had gone to school with, and while he has a little collection going, he can't quite bring himself to share it with his team yet.

He wants to ask Barba's permission before they reach out.

He knows that it's not possible because it’s not protocol, and he knows that Benson would probably yell at him if she knew that he was hesitating, but there was no way to tell who Barba had been close to just by researching who graduated with him; they would need to ask Barba--or God forbid, his mother--if they wanted a good place to start.

He shuts his laptop and rubs at his eyes, exhausted.

He debates for a while about texting Rollins, just to reaffirm that they're okay again, and then picks up his phone before he can talk himself out of it.

/btw roxanne totally had that blindside coming,/ he sends, thinking that if he knows her at all she'll appreciate the casual taunt about their show.

Her reply doesn't come for almost fifteen minutes but he smiles when he reads it.

/screw u it shouldve been amber and u know it/

/she'll be next :-)/, he taps out, and belatedly wonders if the smilie face was too much.

/goddamn right/

- - -

Rollins puts her phone back in her pocket and jogs with Frannie up the stairs to their apartment, where Frannie rushes in to greet the babysitter.

Kenisha Gardener makes kissy noises at the dog and rubs her face, commenting on how cold her fur was after their walk.

"Probably going to snow a little tonight," Rollins pants out, tearing off her jogging sweater. "Be careful heading home, honey."

Kenisha thanks her, gives Jesse a quick peck on the forehead, and heads out, leaving Rollins alone with her daughter. Rollins spares a thought for Kim, who is conspicuously absent, as she raises Jesse into her arms and makes her way into her bedroom.

She needs a shower but she takes a few minutes to play with the baby and a plush pony toy before settling her in her crib.

She thinks about Carisi as she sets her cell phone on the bathroom counter and strips down. It was nice of him to reach out. She had forgiven him for his bullshit almost immediately but had been too proud to show that too readily--trading comments about shitty television was a safe middle ground for them both.

After she's showered, eaten, fed Frannie, and thrown herself down on the couch, she tries to zone out to a Lifetime movie about an Amish girl, but it's hard to turn her thoughts off.

She feels guilty for not visiting Barba.

She doesn't dislike the A.D.A., not usually anyway, but she has to admit that the man is at the center of a couple of overlapping jealousies that she’s holding on to.

Benson liked and respected him.

He had Carisi wrapped around his finger.

And even Dodds Senior seemed to take a special interest in him--she remembers the man describing, with no small amount of pride, the way that Barba had stood his ground against her former boss.

The only other person who didn't seem to have a particular bond with the prosecutor was Fin, who seemed ambivalent about him on a good day and annoyed with his theatrics on a bad one.

Rollins also has to admit that she liked Barba a lot more before Carisi had come around. She thinks that maybe they just both preferred the tall, goofy detective to one another and she can't help but feel a pang of regret. Barba had balls and wasn't afraid to speak his mind, he cared about the victims and usually detested the perpetrators just as much as the detectives did. He was one of them. She got along well enough with him and she appreciated that he pushed without crossing lines, but they just never managed to become friends over the years.

She suspects that they would've been closer if not for Carisi crashing into their lives.

But she can't be sorry that he did, because for all of his ridiculous and irritating qualities, her life was better off with Carisi in it.

She doesn't want to sleep with him, he’s not really her type, but she wasn't about to let him leave SVU without a fight, either--

Her phone alerts her to a text and she expects something else from him, some stupid comment about reality TV that would make her smile, but it's from her C.O. friend instead.

/we still on 4 tomrro?/

/when and where?/, she asks.

Chapter Text

Greene's Beans coffee shop is overheated and stuffy compared to the air outside and Rollins immediately slips out of her coat and scarf. She glances around for Adam Viers but doesn't see him, and as she stands in line she takes a moment to wonder how bad traffic was coming from Green Haven Correctional Facility.

She doesn't know what kind of coffee he likes, so she collects hers and then finds a table near the back of the café. If asked, she would deny that it was to avoid being seen, but the idea of being spotted with a correctional officer on a casual coffee date did make her stomach drop.

She's almost halfway through her cup when he finally shows up, all broad shoulders and slicked back black hair, standing a clear five inches taller than anyone else in the room.

His stern expression splits into a smile at the sight of her.

Making his way through the small crowd of patrons, he embraces her with one arm--keeping it friendly but not too friendly--and sits down across from her.

"What're you drinking, Amanda?" He asks immediately. "I'll buy you another to make up for the wait."

She doesn't protest.

He arrives back at the table a few minutes later with a fresh coffee for her and some kind of hot sugary concoction for himself. He looks a little sheepish when she asks about it.

"Chai latté," he admits. "I try not to drink coffee outside of work."

"Huh," she acknowledges, finding it a little odd and maybe a little endearing.

They smile at one another, sip their drinks, and make small talk for a while--how's work, I hear it might snow, how about that traffic huh?

It's pleasant but she can see that he's uneasy by the way his eyes shift between her and the door every few minutes, and by the way he chews his lip every time they lapse into a brief silence.

She waits him out.

It takes longer than expected for him to get to the point of their meeting, but he eventually stares down into his nearly empty cup and brings up Barba.

"I hear your A.D.A. survived."

Rollins takes a moment to chew on her own lip, wondering if, maybe, somehow, Carisi had been right. Maybe the timing was too coincidental.

"Yeah, he's going to be fine," she replies, watching his expression carefully.

Viers is clearly relieved.

"Good, that's good," he says, nodding and looking much more relaxed than he had been. She thinks that's probably a good sign.

"Have you met him?" Rollins asks, thinking maybe that would explain it, but he shakes his head.

"Nah, I don't think so."

"I think you'd remember if you did," she jokes.

"Yeah? I guess I would, I hear he's..."

A couple of things come to mind, such as an asshole, but Viers leans in close and says, "well, kind of a fruit."

Rollins bristles and he immediately leans back away at the expression on her face.

"Nothing wrong with that, though," he says, and at least he sounds genuine. It also sounds like an echo of Whitman's words.

"Doesn't matter what he is," Rollins says, taking the last gulp of her coffee with a bit more hostility than necessary. "No one deserves to be--"

"I know, I know, not what I was saying!" He holds his hands up defensively and gives her a handsome, apologetic smile. It somehow makes her like him less.

"Hey, look, I don't have a problem with it. Really. My cousin is gay," Viers reassures. Rollins rolls her eyes but doesn't get up to storm out. "He's actually a lawyer, too, but white collar or something."

"That's what you came here to talk about?" She asks sarcastically. "Gay lawyers?"

"No--" he takes a deep breath and cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair and messing up the gel.

"Then what?"

He looks at her for a long moment, visibly distressed, but then exhales loudly and scoots his chair back away from the table.

"I just wanted to see you, Amanda. You stopped coming by after Yates..."

She says nothing, suddenly just a little glad she had all but forgotten about him in the aftermath of Yates' escape.

"Anyway, I have to get back to work, but it was really good to see you again,” he tells her, clearly flustered.

She gives him her Southern Charm smile in response but hesitates when he asks if she's free again later in the week.

She doesn't commit to anything and he just shrugs, smiles nervously, and says, "I'll text you later."

- - -

The video footage of the man in the hospital hallway and the man standing outside of Benson's apartment building come into the precinct at roughly the same time.

She and her team watch both sets of surveillance tapes a couple of times through before they begin to speculate.

"Looks like the same guy," Rollins offers, but sounds unsure.

"Could be," Fin agrees with a nod. "Unless they've got some kind of crime network of boring-looking, middle-aged white guys."

Benson pauses the hospital tape and studies the NY Yankees hat and wide-rimmed black glasses, which are somehow even larger than hers. The guard had been right--they did a good job of disguising the man's face, especially at this angle--the most distinctive thing she could pick out about him was his chin. But everything about him was generic--he looked exactly like ten other men she'd seen on the streets over the last few days.

The footage quality from hospital wasn't amazing, and the security video from outside of her building was worse and he was too far away to see properly.

"It's almost definitely the same man," Benson concludes, though she can't muster much enthusiasm.

"Okay, but who the hell is he?" Fin asks.

Benson glances at Carisi, who has been unusually subdued throughout the meeting, and is tempted to ask him his opinion--she's never had to do that before, he'd always been eager to share.

"If these are the same man, and he's the one who attacked Barba..." Rollins trails off and looks hesitantly at her lieutenant. "Him following Lucy and Noah around, I don't know. I hate to say it, but he might be coming after you next."

Benson nods like she’s already come to the same conclusion.

"Think it's someone from an old case?" Carisi finally pitches in, looking concerned for her. "Maybe someone who got out of prison recently?"

Benson takes a deep breath and shrugs helplessly. Even if that were true, she and Barba had worked together on too many prosecutions for that to narrow it down much.

"Hard to say, but we should go over that list again, Fin."

He bobs his head in agreement but doesn't seem particularly hopeful.

"White dude who you and Barba went after--that's still a lot of white dudes."

Benson gives him a grim smile.

"We'd better get started, then."

- - -

Carisi's already stayed forty-five minutes past the end of his shift when Benson is notified that Rafael Barba is cleared to be released from the hospital, which means she's unable to say anything when he decides to rush over and provide the A.D.A. with a ride home.

Of course, it shouldn't come as a surprise that Lucia Barba is already at the hospital, signing the release papers.

He approaches her slowly but she barely looks up when he greets her with a polite, "Mrs. Barba," and comes to stand next to her at the nurses station.

He's trying to think of something to say when Barba is wheeled out by a harassed-looking nurse, and he notices with some amusement that both men seem tense. He wonders if Barba had put up a fight on the whole ‘you’re in this chair until you hit the parking lot’ policy.

Barba's expression shifts to confusion when he sees the lanky detective next to his mother, and Carisi watches his head fall into a questioning tilt.

Carisi clears his throat.

"Hey, Counselor. Thought you guys might need a ride."

Barba gives him a wary, amused smile but Lucia shakes her head without even pausing filling out the discharge form.

"I've already called a taxi," she states, finishing and putting the pen down just a little bit too hard.

Carisi doesn't miss the slow eyeroll that earns from her son. He can see Barba is about to protest but Lucia doesn't let him get that far--she takes over control of the wheelchair and heads briskly toward the elevators. Carisi easily keeps up, his legs making long strides as he keeps pace.

"It's no problem, really," he presses as they ride the elevator down, and he's annoyed at what a quick trip it is down to the lobby. He wants more time to convince her but she's already making her way toward the entrance.

He hears Barba say something quietly in Spanish, which Lucia promptly ignores as they push out into the frigid evening.

Carisi watches Barba try again, but he's clearly drugged and exhausted and no match for Lucia's steely resolve. Carisi feels distinctly unwelcome in her presence, but relaxes a bit when Barba manages to catch his eye and pull a face, which says something like, mothers, am I right?

Carisi smiles for his benefit but recognizes that he won't win the fight--for one reason or another, Lucia dislikes or mistrusts him, and he won't change her mind by arguing with her.

"Well," he says reluctantly, "call me if you need anything, you've got my number, Counselor."

"I do," Barba slurs tiredly, "thanks."

Lucia says something in Spanish, and Carisi's rusty, basic skill with the language is tested--he thinks she might've said something like, don't bother, which stings more than it should.

Barba and his mother begin a low, tense argument as Carisi starts making his way back toward his car, and he can't help but be grateful that they'd managed to wait that long--it was obviously the continuation of a previous fight.

He hears the word stubborn said like an accusation twice before their voices are too distant to understand.

He drives home and soothes his disappointment with three beers and some leftover lasagna.

Pleasantly buzzed, he makes plans to win over the Barbas.

- - -

He regrets his late night plotting almost immediately after he picks up breakfast for the three of them.

But he holds his nerve through the drive, in the elevator, and up to Barba’s front door, where he swallows hard, nearly turns around, and then knocks despite his anxiety.

Barba opens the door warily and manages to recover from his surprise pretty quickly--he seemed to be expecting someone that wasn’t Carisi. But he eyeballs the diner bags in the other man’s hands and quirks a smile all the same, then leads the detective through the narrow entrance hall and into the kitchen.

Carisi had brought over a healthy meal of egg whites and wheat toast for Barba, and settled on scrambled eggs and toast for himself--normally he'd have gone with something more decadent, it was just that kind of morning, but he didn't want to make Barba envious. He had brought a fried egg sandwich and bacon for Lucia, but she's nowhere to be seen.

Barba picks absently at his food and Carisi tries not to fuss over him. He glances around the upscale apartment with no small amount of uncertainty, and Barba immediately picks up on his unease.

"She's not here," he shares, sipping coffee from a teal mug. Carisi wonders if he should be drinking caffeine so soon after his hospital release, but realizes that wild horses probably couldn't keep Barba from his coffee. He'd gone without it for almost a week now.

"She was," Barba continues. "But she left for work early this morning. As for last night… she was just being a bit overprotective. I tried to convince her to go home, but she insisted.”

Carisi nods, glad that he missed most of the argument but a little bummed that he hadn't been there to witness Barba actually losing a fight to his mother.

"Well, probably for the best that someone was here."

At Barba's offended look, Carisi coughs down a gulp of his own coffee.

"I just, I mean, come on it was your first night out of the hospital!" He doesn't mean to sound so loud and defensive and braces himself for a stern response, but Barba just gives a noncommittal hum into his mug and begins picking at his breakfast again.

Carisi takes a moment to study him, to watch the way his long hands move and rest against the table. Barba had obviously shaved last night but not this morning, and a faint shadow of stubble shows through. His hair isn't styled but still rests in a relatively tame curl, brushed up and back. His profile catches the light coming in from a window, illuminating half of his face in gold.

Barba glances up and catches Carisi's tender look. Carisi has a moment to be embarrassed to be caught staring and mentally prepare an excuse--you got something on your face, Counselor--but Barba seems to accept his inspection without offense. He gives Carisi an almost knowing look and moves on, asking about the case.

Carisi's face begins to grow hot. He hates admitting that they just don't know yet. If Barba is surprised he keeps it to himself.

"I had assumed it would be Mr. Manning," he shares, sounding like he's joking.

"That was my assumption, too," Carisi agrees.

"But...?"

"But we don't have any evidence of that."

"What evidence do you have?"

"Some grainy surveillance videos from the courthouse and a few nearby buildings. He was smart enough to wear a hood and gloves, so they don't help us much."

Barba absorbs this quietly.

"The knife was never found?"

Carisi shakes his head. Barba purses his lips and looks thoughtful.

"I gotta ask, Counselor, have you been getting more threats recently?"

"Liv already asked as much. But no, not really. They died down after--" Carisi can almost see Dodds' name on his lips, but Barba twists away from mentioning him, probably thinking it was still raw for Carisi. He was right, in some ways, but the detective wouldn't lose it at hearing his friend's name.

"After everything with Munson," Barba settles on. "Whoever they were, they backed off after that moron, Heredio, was caught. It's likely that they were never going to follow through."

Carisi heaves a skeptical look at him for that.

"I'm not so sure," Carisi insists.

Barba shrugs and then winces, clearly having tugged at the stitches in his side. Carisi feels his face pull a sympathetic look.

Barba goes back to eating and Carisi goes back to staring at him. He's seen the A.D.A. in various outfits, some more casual than others, but he immensely enjoys Barba in what are likely his sleep clothes. Charcoal sweatpants, made of some thin material that looks expensive, and a simple dark-blue longsleeve shirt. His feet are bare, Carisi knows from when Barba answered the door, but they hidden by the counter that divides them now. Carisi subconsciously dedicates the look to memory. He's pleased that Barba seems so at ease with him in his home, staring openly at him in his pajamas.

"So, what happened with Lucy and Noah?" Barba asks after a minute, having finished most of his eggs and a bite or two of the wheat toast.

Carisi explains quickly and efficiently, and Barba nods, looking unsurprised at the notion of a creep taking pictures in a playground. Carisi guesses that he wasn't surprised by much these days when it came to human depravity.

"Also..." Carisi hesitates, realizing that he never mentioned the man at the hospital. He feels embarrassment burn at him--was he that distracted?

"One of the men who had been posted to your door noticed some suspicious activity."

Barba cocks an eyebrow at Carisi's cop-talk phrasing but says nothing, waiting for him to elaborate.

"A man in glasses and a hat walking by a couple of times, looking sketchy."

"That's it?"

Carisi shrugs helplessly.

"The guard found it suspicious and I mean, it's his job to notice that kind of thing."

Barba clearly refrains from making a comment about rent-a-cops.

"We watched the footage from the hallway outside of your room. The guy was weird. Yours was the only door he really seemed to turn and look at, and he was pretty spooked when he saw the security detail."

"Probably just curious. It's not every day you see a hospital patient with an armed guard," Barba says dismissively. Carisi watches him wrap his hands around his mug and notices for the first time that it's not very warm in the apartment.

"Maybe," he agrees slowly. "Liv and the guard's boss think it might've been a reporter. Someone hoping for a shot of you all cozy in your hospital gown."

"Great."

"But... there are some undeniable similarities between him and the guy Lucy saw following her."

That gets Barba's attention.

"White male, mid-forties to mid-fifties. He had a baseball hat on but graying or white hair from what we can see. A 'biggish' nose--Lucy's wording."

"You've just described half the men in New York City."

"A third, maybe," Carisi jokes, but then his grin falls away. He's worried and it shows.

"I think we should keep a protective detail on you until we catch this guy."

Barba groans theatrically.

"No thanks. Got enough of that the last time."

Carisi clamps down on his frustration.

"I know it's not fun, Counselor, but you were shanked while waiting for an Uber in the middle of the afternoon. You really going to feel safe while this guy is still running loose?"

Barba pins him with a considering look. Carisi thinks that the A.D.A. has already run through the argument in his head a few times but he can't tell what conclusions he's come to.

"I'll just have to pay a bit more attention," Barba offers lamely. Carisi can hear the doubt and his temper flares.

"You got eyes in the back of your head I don't know about? It's not your fault you got stabbed, he came at you from behind--"

"From the side, actually--"

"--and there's nothing to stop him from doing it again. Not if you don't have someone watching your back for you."

In a split second Carisi can see a scene unfold before him, like something out of a movie, in which Barba leans close and says something cheesy like, "That's what I've got you for," but the moment passes with only another eyeroll from Barba. Carisi wonders if his eyes get sore from doing that all the time.

"At the very least they could catch the guy afterward, so at least we know who to blame it on when you bleed out in the street."

It's petty and only said for shock value, but Barba's eyes widen and Carisi thinks that he's finally surprised him.

Barba opens his mouth, but closes it a moment later. He looks unsettled, although if it's from the idea of dying or the idea that Carisi could be so nonchalant about it, he doesn't know.

"You're being a bit dramatic."

"Learned from the best," Carisi quips stupidly, looking down at the marble countertop.

Like a well timed stagelight, the buttery sunlight fades, leaving the kitchen dim and chilly.

Barba looks sullen and drinks the rest of his coffee.

"What does Liv think?"

"About continuing the protective detail? She didn't seem against it but she hasn't called it in yet," Carisi says honestly. He wants to tell him that she's pushing for it, but he doesn't want to lie. Carisi thinks she'd rather put the detail on Lucy and Noah but she knows she can't swing it with Dodds.

"Look, I get it, it sucks--no one wants to be watched all the time and I know you like your privacy. But we don't have much to go on, we don't know what's going on in this guy's head. Maybe he tries again next time you leave this building."

"Maybe he never tries again," Barba counters. "Maybe we never figure it out and I'm stuck with babysitters for God knows how long."

"Maybe. But I'd rather it be that than the alternative," Carisi says forcefully.

Barba sees that that's true enough. But he doesn't give up, not exactly, and Carisi isn't surprised. Barba is nothing if not stubborn.

Asking about the A.D.A. in charge of his case, Barba puts their dishes in the sink and seems amused when Carisi starts telling him about their interactions with his temporary replacement. Carisi is a bit surprised that Whitman hadn't been in to see Barba at all and says as much.

"Oh, he's not a big fan of hospitals."

"Is anyone?"

"I'm sure he'll be dropping by any time now," Barba sighs, sounding resigned. He's suddenly looking pale and tired again, and although Carisi hasn't had the chance to question Barba about his history with Whitman and Barba's recent interaction with the Brooklyn D.A., he knows better than to push.

Carisi is pleased when he manages to convince Barba to go back to bed. Barba doesn't put up much of a fight, and Carisi is not-so-secretly happy that Barba doesn't kick him out.

He watches Barba retreat into the bedroom and stands for a moment, absorbing his living space, appreciating the modern furniture and classy black and white photography placed sporadically across the apartment. The walls of the kitchen are painted a pale gray-blue, accented with black appliances and dark wood. The living room is a warm cream, or maybe an off-white or eggshell, he thinks. Multiple bookshelves stand tall, likely filled with legal books, and a modest flat screen television is mounted to the far wall. There's a faint smell of wood and spice in the air.

Carisi dedicates it all to memory and then cleans the dishes in the sink.

He isn't sure what to do with himself when he finishes--Barba had crashed hard and fast, and Carisi wasn't sure if he should stay or let himself out. He eyes a set of keys sitting on a table in the entrance hall and considers his options. He's not due in to work for another four hours--he tries not to groan when he thinks about how late it'll be before he can collapse into bed--and he can't think of where else he'd rather be. Especially not with Barba’s attacker still out there, possibly preparing for another strike.

He walks slowly to one of the bookshelves and is surprised by the amount of fiction. Mostly classics, but also many he's never heard of. He honestly expected it to all be work related and feels a bit silly in retrospect. Barba was so secretive with his personal life it was easy to forget that he had one.

Carisi selects Animal Farm from a shelf and sinks into the comfortable black couch. He settles in and begins rereading the novel.

- - -

He's absorbed in the book and nearly misses the quiet sound of the lock clicking an hour later. Jumping up, his hand finds its way to his hip holster and he nearly pulls his weapon when Lucia Barba swings into the apartment. She freezes and stares at him, looking equal parts scared and outraged, and he quickly puts his hands up in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

"Mrs. Barba," he begins, but she silences him with a look. She is clearly less than impressed but continues into the apartment, setting a bag on the kitchen counter.

She turns to him and fixes him with a baleful glare.

"Detective," she drawls.

"Mrs. Barba," he tries again. "Sorry about that."

She eyes him up and down, and then begins removing groceries from the bag she brought, ignoring him as she goes about putting things away in Barba's fridge and cupboards.

Carisi stands awkwardly beside the couch, glancing between Lucia and Barba's closed door. He licks his lips and waits.

When everything is put away and she can no longer stall, she turns back to him. He thinks she looks less hostile than last night, somehow, but still less than welcoming. Carisi doesn’t understand it--he’d been nothing less than polite and she couldn’t possibly think he was somehow a threat to Barba.

A suspicion awakens in his mind and he feels an icy prickle in his fingertips.

"I brought breakfast. There's a sandwich for you in the fridge," Carisi offers, at a loss as to what else to say. She's still staring at him expectantly but suddenly he's in a defiant mood and doesn't immediately head for the door with his tail between his legs. "He's been asleep for about an hour."

"Good," she says, swiping her bangs out of her face. For a moment Carisi hilariously thinks that it's so that her glare isn't hidden behind them.

She doesn't look protective. She looks disgusted with him.

And some part of Carisi gets it--he's a good Catholic, too. But he doesn't make any attempt to correct her obvious mistake.

What would he even say? Whoa, hey, lady--it's okay, I'm not sleeping with your son?

Instead, he meets her stare for a few moments and then smiles like they're old friends.

"I've got to get going," he says lightly. "Work stuff, you know. Tell him I said good luck with Whitman."

He makes his escape while she blinks in confusion over his abrupt change in direction. He doesn't quite run but he definitely gets away with the last word.

With a Barba, he considers that a great success.

- - -

Benson feels a shiver of unease as she makes her way toward the precinct, anxious even though she only has a few streets left to walk. She glances over her shoulder for the fourth time that morning but fails to pick anything significant out of the crowd.

But she trusts her instincts.

She's being followed.

Ducking into an overcrowded coffee shop, she stands slightly to the side of the big glass window and watches a stream of people pass in either direction outside. No one immediately follows her into the store.

She gets in line, keeping a watchful eye on the mirror placed against the far wall. Daily specials are written across it in green and pink block letters, but she still has a clear view of the door. A couple of people enter behind her but don't give her a second glance.

By the time she receives her order and heads back out, she feels certain that they're gone. She doesn't drop her guard for a moment, though.

- - -

Rollins is having a bad day. Jesse had kept her up all night, her strange meeting with Viers was weighing heavily on her mind, and her sister was nowhere to be found when she got up. She'd been tempted to snoop through Kim's things but she had resisted--she has a strong suspicion that Kim isn't taking her medication faithfully but she dreads the confrontation too much to do anything about it. They could pretend for a little while longer.

She's running late and doesn't have time to eat or pick up decent coffee, and she reluctantly settles for a cup of the cheap crap in the bullpen. She's just settled into her desk when a uniformed officer drags a man kicking and screaming through the squadroom. She braces a hand against her forehead and feels a headache forming.

Fin strides in a moment later, looking pleased despite a split lip. She raises her eyebrows at him in concern but he just smiles.

He stops by her desk for a moment.

"Son of a bitch didn't like it much when we showed up with a warrant."

She sips her coffee and grimaces at the taste.

"He's not going to like 'resisting arrest' charges much better," she jokes and he gives an easy laugh.

"What did he do?" She asks.

"Beat and raped his pregnant girlfriend. Got the call about forty minutes ago."

She grimaces and watches as he marches after his suspect into an interview room.

She's crossing the last Rikers C.O. off of their alibi list when her phone buzzes. She ignores it for a moment, considering the list. Of the officers most likely to have a grudge against Barba, six don't have an alibi for the time of the attack. Two don't match the description--one is too short and the other too tall--and one is a woman, which leaves three men to track down and interview. They've likely already been given the heads up about the investigation.

She sighs. She hasn't even started with tracking down Muñoz associates.

She checks her phone and isn't surprised to see a text from Viers.

drinks?

She considers, and then types back, when?

The reply comes almost immediately. He wants to meet at 4PM the next day at a place that's closer to Green Haven than the precinct. She considers rejecting the offer out of inconvenience alone, but...

Viers had been acting so strangely when they met yesterday. She couldn't bring herself to think that he was involved in the attack on Barba, but nothing was outside of the realm of possibilities.

Well, hell. It was worth it to hear him out. At the very least she'd get a break from her stressed out colleagues. Benson was driving her nuts, and even Fin seemed to be feeling the pressure.

Carisi was another story entirely.

Since when were he and Barba so close, anyway? It's been bothering her for a while. Rollins knows that Carisi has a big heart and that he's loyal to a fault, but his sudden determination to glue himself to the A.D.A. blindsided her.

She knows that they had gotten closer, had settled into some sort of comradery ever since Barba allowed Carisi to shadow him on the Hodda case, but she also knows that things had leveled out. That much was evident by the way Carisi had all but bitten Barba's head off when he'd scolded Rollins over the Sean Roberts witness.

She'd felt sick when she found out that Barba had arranged an interview for Carisi with a D.A. in Brooklyn. What the fuck had he been thinking, trying to take Carisi away, right on the heels of Dodds' death?

Rollins knew, or at least strongly suspected, that Barba's tastes ran both ways--it was clear that everyone else thought that, too. But when she'd heard about the interview arrangement she couldn't help but feel satisfied in the knowledge that Barba was barking up the wrong Carisi-shaped tree.

But maybe he knew something that she didn't, because Carisi was acting like a heartsick lover and she didn't know what the hell to make of it.

She remembers Kim's pitying look from the night that Carisi had been over. She knows that her sister thinks she wants to climb that Carisi-shaped tree, too.

But she was wrong.

Rollins did have a type. She did have a tendency to get involved with her coworkers and she did think Carisi was a good person. But he wasn't... She thinks about Amaro. His masculine strength and his livewire temper. She thinks about Murphy and the handful of other macho, temperamental cops she had tangled herself up with.

She cares about Carisi, but it isn't like that with him. She's protective of him, just like he is with her. She'd be lying if she said that she had never considered it, but Carisi just didn't have the kind of raw heat that drew her in--

A loud shout and the sound of something crashing comes from the interview room Fin had disappeared into. She glances over in amusement and watches as three uniformed officers scramble over. She knows that Fin has it covered and feels almost sorry for their alleged rapist, who would be lucky to get out of a scuffle with just a split lip.

Her phone rings and Manning's officer reads off his daily report from yesterday, sounding bored. Nothing of interest to note. She thanks him and he hangs up without saying goodbye.

She thinks about her impending Muñoz project and decides to plan an impromptu visit to Manning instead.

Chapter Text

Rita Calhoun is an enigma. Elegant, intelligent, passionate--and a defender of New York's richest scum.

Carisi sits across from her in an upscale restaurant--her choice--and takes a sip of the overpriced white wine she'd ordered for them. It's not bad but he's officially on the job now and can't indulge.

She's watching him with her usual half-smirk. Carisi suspects she already knows every step of the dance they're about to do together. He thinks he'd have liked her, a lot, if she hadn't switched sides.

That being said, they have relied on her a number of times in the past, and Barba clearly trusted her to some extent.

"So, I'm sure you've heard about--"

"Ah, yes. How is Mr. Barba?" She asks delicately.

"Better. I guess I can't be surprised that you haven't visited," he says, shaking off her interruption.

"Hm. Hospitals, you know."

He nods but doesn't understand. Whatever unease he felt in hospitals or emergency rooms, the person stuck there was always more important, and he never failed to show up.

"I hear he's back at home, I'm sure I'll find the time to drop by and say hello," she says, likely knowing that he doesn't believe her.

"We're not having much luck with the case yet," he admits, hoping his honesty will inspire her to share, too.

"I've heard."

Or not.

Carisi tries again, "I've hit a bit of a wall, digging into Barba's personal life."

Calhoun looks reproachful and Carisi shrugs helplessly.

"We have reason to believe it might be personal."

"Is that why we're having lunch?"

Carisi starts.

"What? You? No--"

She laughs, and it's a high and condescending sound.

"Of course not. I meant, you think I might know someone who wants to stick a knife in Barba? Try twenty someone's. Off the top of my head."

"Want to write those down for me?" Carisi asks gruffly.

This earns him another laugh.

"My clients wouldn't appreciate that."

"He nearly died," Carisi grounds out from between his teeth, leaning forward and not caring if it was rude to have his elbow on the table. "And you're laughing about it?"

Calhoun manages to look somewhat chastised.

"Of course not. If I actually thought any of them had attacked him--"

"You'd what? Report it to the police?" He snarks, knowing the answer.

She sits quietly for a moment, then reaches for her wine glass.

"But I don't think that," she finishes after a few moments, and Carisi is reluctant to find that he believes her.

"Just do me a favor," he says, and he's all but spitting with anger. She looks up him warily.

"When we catch this guy--and we will catch him--don't represent him. No matter how much he offers to pay you."

He stands and throws his napkin on the table, glad that she's not able to muster much beyond an outraged expression before he books it for the door.

Leaving her with the bill gives him a small bit of satisfaction.

- - -

Benson tries to focus on Tucker and the generous portion of linguini alfredo that's been set in front of her, but she's exhausted and his story about a young cop with a rooftop marijuana garden isn't quite interesting enough to keep her attention.

She's thinking about Noah, and Lucy, and Barba, and the fact that she may or may not have been followed to the little Italian restaurant, where she's supposed to be enjoying a quick lunch with her boyfriend.

Said boyfriend clearly picked up on her disinterest, but he goes through the motions of finishing his tale anyway, knowing better than to push by asking what's on her mind--it's obvious. It's also been made clear that she doesn't want to talk about it.

He doesn't let himself become offended because he knows her, knows she needs some emotional space sometimes, and he does the only thing he can--he takes her hand in his and he tells his story and encourages her to smile back at him.

She does.

It's a distracted smile, but he appreciates the effort, knowing the last week has been hell on her and her team.

She curls her hand tighter around his and she's startled into a genuine laugh when he gets to the best part of the story.

He leans across the table and kisses her before her smile has a chance to fade.

- - -

Carisi knows that it's obvious that he's in a bad mood and he can't bring himself to care. He'd expected a bit more from Calhoun and he feels bitterly disappointed at her apathy. She and Barba butted heads frequently but he'd thought that their A.D.A. meant a bit more to her than that.

He splashes coffee into a 'I <3 NY' mug and puts it down on his desk slightly too hard, the cheap brew sloshing over the brim and making a mess of his desk.

He curses and goes back for paper towels.

Rollins is watching him cautiously from beneath a veil of blonde bangs.

"Went that well, huh?"

Carisi grunts, throwing the soiled paper towels away and missing the trash can.

"Well. Here's a bit more bad news: we can't find Eddie Garcia."

"He's in the wind?" Carisi asks in alarm.

"Yeah, looks like he took his kid and left town a few months ago. No forwarding address."

Carisi sits down and closes his eyes.

"So, it's probably not him," Rollins continues with a sigh, going through their dwindling suspect list in her head.

"Great."

"And... on that note, I'll see you later," she says, pulling on her coat.

"Where you off to?"

"Just going to drop in on Manning, see how the kids are doing."

Carisi nods and offers to join her, but she shakes her head.

"Be careful," he warns.

"I'm taking a unie with me, I'll be fine."

He watches her leave for the elevators, suddenly flanked by a beefy-looking uniformed officer. He doesn't have the energy to wonder if he should be hurt by that. She didn't seem angry, at least.

He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

- - -

Rollins calls in backup to Manning's residence about forty minutes later, stating that she has him in handcuffs and would like some assistance getting Mrs. Manning to the hospital.

Apparently Mr. Manning wasn't keeping as clean as his officer thought--Rollins and Officer O'Neal had arrived on the scene to find the front door ajar and him beating his wife into a stupor in the kitchen.

Carisi and Fin both gather their jackets, morbidly pleased that they're finally able to nail the bastard on something. They're out of the elevators and halfway across the lobby when Carisi's phone buzzes.

He doesn't break stride to unlock his phone to see a text from Benson, telling them to keep her updated with the new Manning development, but he slams to a halt when he sees that he has two missed calls from Barba.

He hits the telephone icon and attempts to call the A.D.A. back, but it rings through to voicemail. He disconnects and feels his stomach drop in a cold plunge when he looks at the timestamp. Barba had called him almost fifteen minutes ago, twice in quick succession.

He calls out to Fin, who has one hand on the door, and runs to show him his phone log. Carisi tries to find a way to explain why he needs to check in on Barba--it may be irrational to panic over two missed calls but he's alarmed all the same. Barba didn't just call casually--he texted--and calling twice in a row like that?

"Just go," Fin says with authority. "I've got this with Amanda."

Carisi nods, his throat tight, and Fin claps him on the arm before disappearing into the street.

Carisi glances at his phone and calls Barba's cell again, but he only gets voicemail and leaves a curt call me back message.

What the fuck was going on?

He calls three more times as he drives and receives no answer.

Carisi doesn't remember getting into his car and tearing across half of Manhattan, but he remembers double-parking outside of Barba's building and nearly shoving the doorman to the ground when the man tries to stop him. He opts for the stairs and takes them two at a time and is completely out of breath by the time he reaches Barba's door.

He knocks, hears nothing, and then twists the handle but it's firmly locked. He knocks again so hard that it feels like the skin of his knuckle splits, and he hears a low thump from somewhere behind the door. He's about to throw his shoulder against it and break it down when he hears the lock slide back.

Twisting the handle again and throwing himself through the door, he collides with Barba, who lets out a pained whoosh of air.

Carisi grabs him by his biceps and nearly shakes him.

"Barba--what? What happened?"

The apartment is dim, but a light in the kitchen illuminates enough that Carisi can see that Barba's shirt and hands are slick with blood. There's an unpleasant looking smear of red across the floor by the counter, too.

"Fell," Barba grunts, his face drawn and grey. "Busted my stitches, I think."

Carisi is already starting to pull him into the hallway--his only thought is getting to the hospital--but then notices Barba's bare feet.

"Hold on," Carisi demands, positioning the A.D.A. to lean against the wall as he darts into the apartment and grabs a pair of shoes.

"Carisi--" Barba starts to protest, embarrassed, but Carisi is already on one knee and helping him into the expensive loafers.

"Slow down," Barba continues, but his voice is so small it barely registers. "It's just a couple of stitches--"

"Let's go," Carisi says, his voice gentle but firm. There's no way in hell they're not jumping in his car and heading to the ER, immediately.

He half drags Barba to the elevator, forcing the shorter man to rest his weight against him.

"Why didn't you answer when I called?" Carisi asks as he watches the light blink down through the floors.

"I tried."

Carisi looks at him, uncertain. Barba extends his shaking hands, and the red is startlingly bright in the fluorescence of the elevator.

"Things got a little slippery."

Carisi takes a deep breath. "Put your hands back. Keep pressure on it."

"Well," Barba considers, obeying. "I probably wouldn't have died. It's already slowing down."

Carisi opens his mouth to comment on Barba's slightly slurred speech and the way he can't seem to hold himself up as they make their way to Carisi's car and past shocked onlookers. But he decides against it. It isn't the time to argue, and despite his dismissive tone Barba isn't fighting him on going to the hospital.

"More than likely, my mother would've found me first," Barba says as they settled into the sedan. "Not sure which would be worse, actually."

Carisi knows that he's joking, but it's too morbid and his stomach burns.

"Stop it," he grunts, pulling into traffic.

He's a little surprised when Barba obliges, and he glances over to make sure he hasn't passed out. But Barba's gazing back at him, looking a little lost but like he's happy that Carisi is there.

The rest of the drive is quiet.

- - -

The nurses aren't thrilled, but they share that Barba hasn't done any lasting damage to himself. They warn him against being alone for a few days and want to hold him for a couple of hours to make sure he hasn't given himself a concussion.

Carisi hadn't noticed the bruise forming near Barba's hairline and he's glad that the nurses are more attentive. Barba doesn't even remember hitting his head in the fall and can't tell the nurses if he lost consciousness or not. He says he doesn't think so.

Lucia Barba storms into the hospital about thirty minutes after they arrive, and she doesn't even spare Carisi a glance.

"What happened?" She demands, her face flushed red and her hair damp. Carisi realizes it must have started to rain again.

"Hello to you too, Mamì," Barba greets dryly. He had texted her about fifteen minutes ago and she's clearly furious that he hadn't called.

"Rafael," she warns, her accent thick.

"Just a fall," Barba says, a little weakly.

"And you send me a text? From the hospital?"

"You don't have a car. Detective Carisi is perfectly capable," Barba offers and his mother's eyebrows do an interesting dance.

"You didn't call 911? An ambulance?" She demands and then curses under her breath in Spanish.

Barba tries to shrug, the medication making him forget his newly restitched injury, but the pain is there in a flash to remind him. Carisi reaches out to grab Barba's arm when his face spasms, and Lucia looks at him like he'd just spit on her only son.

"Speed dial," Barba says and Carisi frowns at him, knowing Lucia isn't any more impressed than he is.

He removes his hand from Barba's arm and excuses himself, ignoring the A.D.A.'s betrayed look. Carisi figures that Barba can handle his mother for a few minutes, and he needs to check in with his team.

Rollins answers on the third ring.

They exchange information from their eventful evenings for a few minutes and then hang up--Rollins is back at the station, safe and sound, but she has a lot to deal with. There was no way that Manning would be able to wriggle out of this one, but she had to make sure that the paperwork was bulletproof. Manning's lawyer was already there and had threatened a lawsuit on no less than six occasions since the new arrest.

Carisi walks back to Barba's private little room in the ER, but only Lucia is waiting for him. She looks resigned at the sight of him.

"They took him back for an exam, for his head."

Carisi is relieved that she doesn't make him ask. He offers her a weak smile as thanks and follows her gaze down to his shirt, which is stained with her son's dried blood.

She looks torn between thanking him and telling him to leave.

Instead, they're escorted back to the waiting area by a nurse and they sit together in silence.

- - -

Carisi just finishes sending Benson a lengthy update via text when Barba is brought back to them. The doctor releases him to their care with strict instructions that he not be left alone overnight. Lucia rests a possessive hand on Barba's shoulder and reassures the doctor that it won't be a problem. Barba sends Carisi a comically pained look. Carisi grins and shrugs. Mothers, what can you do?

Lucia once again wheels her son out of the hospital and surprises them both when she accepts that Carisi will give them a ride back to Barba's apartment. The trip is short and mostly silent. Carisi keeps stealing glances at them in the backseat--Lucia stares out the window, watching the wet city crawl by, and Barba dozes lightly with his head reclined against the back of his seat.

They're two blocks away when Carisi's phone goes off and breaks the easy quiet. Carisi sees Benson's name and answers it without hesitation.

"Carisi, where are you?" She demands, and he indignantly begins to remind her that he's taking Barba home.

She interrupts him.

"Drop him off and get back to the precinct."

He wants to believe that they finally caught a break, maybe even caught the bastard who started all of this, but the gravity of her voice makes him doubt it. He tells her that he understands and they disconnect.

He meets Barba's gaze in the rearview mirror.

"Bad news?" Barba asks, his voice gravelly with sleep.

"Not sure, but I need to get back. I'll get you up first, though."

Benson hadn't exactly given him permission to take the time get Barba back upstairs, but he figures she won't know the difference.

He's pleased when Lucia allows him to get Barba out of the car and into the elevator. She hovers nearby and glares whenever Barba lets out little hisses of discomfort, but otherwise leaves him to his manhandling in peace. He is petty enough to be glad that she's not strong enough to get Barba up by herself.

She draws the line at letting him into the apartment, though. He starts to put up a fight, wanting to remind her that this is where Barba fell only hours ago, but she snaps at him in Spanish and slams the door in his face.

He hears the lock set and hears Barba arguing weakly with his mother. It's muffled but he sounds angry and Carisi takes some satisfaction in that.

He makes his way back down to his car and wonders what the hell else had happened.

- - -

"You took your time," Rollins teases him as soon as he steps into the squadroom.

"Yeah, yeah," he waves her taunt off, looking around expectantly. There are easily twice as many uniformed officers as usual swarming the precinct and the air buzzes with chatter.

Benson comes up behind him, her glasses perched low on her nose.

"Judge Barth was attacked an hour ago."

"What?" Carisi exclaims, stunned.

"Someone followed her to her home in the Upper West Side and pushed in when she unlocked the door. He tried to rape her."

Carisi sucks in a breath. Fin and Rollins have obviously already been informed, but they still grimace.

"Thankfully she was able to get her elbow loose, knocked him good in the face with it."

"Good," Carisi echoes, hoping she broke the bastard's nose.

"Hope she broke the bastard's nose," Rollins grumbles. Carisi shoots her an amused look.

"Did she see her attacker?"

Benson hesitates.

"No, she never got a good look at him. He ran as soon as she nailed him with her elbow, was gone by the time she got up."

"Just what the hell is going on?" Fin asks no one in particular.

"Think this is related to Barba's attack?" Rollins asks and Benson nods slowly.

"Maybe. It's probably safe to assume. We have officers out gathering the surveillance footage. Thankfully there are plenty of security cameras in Judge Barth's neighborhood."

- - -

The team reviews the footage closest to Judge Barth's home briefly and then allow the uniforms to take over. They spend fifty minutes piecing the different tapes together.

"As you can see, white male, middle aged, baseball cap," Officer Sadler points to a figure on the screen. "Follows her from the Atlantic Grill. He hangs back far enough that she never seems to notice him. He's probably done this sort of thing before."

The detectives exchange significant glances, but they don't interrupt.

They watch as the pair disappear around a corner. The man comes back into camera range within ten minutes, returning the way he came after the attempted assault.

"Unidentified male proceeds eastward, cutting across a few blocks and then enters the subway. We have him coming out here," Sadler pauses the spliced tape to point out their suspect again. "He proceeds south for ten blocks on foot before entering this building, Golden Heights Apartments."

Benson sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly.

"Do we have a list of residents?"

Sadler nods and passes out copies of a tenant list.

"The landlord gave it up pretty quick when he found out a New York City judge had been attacked."

They scan the list, but nothing sticks out to Carisi in the first hundred names.

Benson, scanning quickly herself, slams her hand on the table and her team look up at her with alarm and expectation.

"Rick Purcell?" She exclaims, sounding incredulous.

Fin curses and Rollins stands up. Carisi looks between them in confusion.

"Judge Barth presided over that case," Rollins reminds them, looking tense.

"And Barba prosecuted it."

"Who is Rick Purcell?" Carisi demands once it becomes clear that they aren't going to explain it to him.

"A rape case, from before your time," Benson tells him, sounding distant. He can see her mind racing.

"Purcell was a cameraman for a sports network. He raped one of the anchors, Avery Jordan, about four years ago."

Carisi's brow furrows.

"I remember that," he says slowly. "Wasn't Purcell found not guilty?"

Benson makes a bitter face.

"Barba did his best but... Purcell walked with time served on a stalking charge," she tells him. "He later sued Jordan for custody of the baby that was conceived during the rape."

Carisi feels sick. He hadn't read about that part.

"Jordan fled the country with her baby when the judge granted supervised visits," Fin recalls, shooting Benson a meaningful glance that she promptly ignores.

"So he blames Barba and Judge Barth--and probably you, Lieu, if that was him at the park--for losing the kid?" Carisi asks.

"It's more likely he's angry that we let Avery get away," Fin corrects.

"Yeah," Rollins leans forward, her face a mask of cold anger. "Purcell was obsessed. He used the trial and the custody battle to torture her. He probably didn't care about that baby, beyond it giving him access to her."

"But still," Carisi objects. "I don't mean to sound skeptical, but that was years ago, right? If he was going to start going after people because of what happened, why wait so long?"

It's a good question and no one volunteers a guess.

"I'm sure you can ask him at trial, Counselor," Rollins teases, but Carisi feels a jolt at hearing the title. He thinks of Barba, likely suffering under his mother's attention at that exact moment.

"Carisi, get a warrant for Purcell's apartment. Rollins, go check on Barth, she's probably back at home by now."

Fin looks expectantly at Benson as the other two leave the conference area. Benson rubs her forehead and slowly removes her glasses.

"We need to get protective details out," she tells him. "For Noah and for Barba. Judge Barth, and maybe Judge Linden as well, she handled the family court judgement. Anyone else?"

Fin looks thoughtful.

"Calhoun represented Avery in family court."

Benson nods.

"I think that's it, though," he says. "I'll get on it."

"Thanks," she murmurs, thoughts still racing. Purcell was out of control--attempting to rape a judge, what the hell was he thinking? She feels every cell in her body scream for Noah, but she can't drop everything and run to him like she wants to.

Instead, she calls Tucker. She can't keep the tension from her voice as she asks him to stop by and keep an eye on Lucy and Noah until the protective detail arrives.

His voice is a low rumble of reassurance.

- - -

Fin and Carisi lead the entry into Purcell's apartment. Benson, tasked with updating Deputy Chief Dodds, instructs Rollins to meet with them after getting Barth's statement and promises to join them as soon as possible. It's clear that she wants nothing more than to head the charge herself, but delegation is an unfortunate consequence of her position.

Carisi, Fin, and a handful of officers enter Rick Purcell's apartment in full tactical gear, weapons drawn and at the ready, but it's not necessary--Purcell's not home.

Fin and Carisi meet up with three uniforms back near the front of the apartment after the all clear is given. Fin instructs the officers to guard the entrance, hallway, and elevator in case their suspect shows up, but they don't expect the man to appear with six other officers stationed downstairs. Carisi places a call to the crime scene unit and then he and Fin begin to sort through the home.

There are photographs everywhere--they're stuck to the walls and spilling over almost every surface, and small piles of handwritten notes are scattered across the floor. Some are more legible than others.

Carisi is hesitant to touch anything, but his eyes are drawn by the of pictures of his Lieutenant and their A.D.A. He examines them and curses breathlessly at the sheer number--there are least four or five dozen photographs, plastered up like some sort of macabre wallpaper against the far section of the living room.

He swallows hard and calls Benson.

Chapter Text

There are more pictures of Benson than Barba in Rick Purcell's apartment, but the ones taken of Barba are closer, more personal. Some seem to be taken from less than three feet away.

"He was stalking them," Carisi breathes, stunned.

"Yeah, for a while from the looks of it," Fin agrees, his voice thick. Carisi glances over and they share a look of apprehension.

Purcell had gotten close enough to touch Barba on at least a dozen occasions.

He had kept his distance from Benson, but it seemed obvious that she was the initial focus of his obsession. Carisi guessed from Benson's changing hairstyle that Purcell had taken most of the pictures of her about six or seven months ago.

It was harder to tell with Barba, but from his outfits--the transition from summer suits to heavy coats--it seemed that Purcell had intensified his focus on the A.D.A. in the fall.

Carisi studies the pictures. Some are quite good, he admits reluctantly to himself. One in particular holds his attention: Barba waiting to cross a street in late autumn, the sunlight catching his eyes. His face is unguarded and he is at ease. The shocking red of his tie matches his lips, which are flushed and bright from the cold.

Carisi wonders if he could manage to get a copy of it and then feels ashamed.

Fin points out that there are only a handful of pictures of Judge Barth and Carisi isn't surprised.

"I think she was kind of a last minute thing," he says.

"Couldn't get to Liv or Barba anymore so he goes after her?"

"Looks like it."

Fin shakes his head, not disagreeing but surprised.

"I was there for the trial. Barth was lenient with him. Let some whack job doctor testify that victims of rape can't get pregnant."

Carisi's eyebrows shoot up and Fin nods grimly.

"You should've seen Barba. He was pissed. But he tore that jackass apart on the stand."

Carisi smiles in satisfaction, having expected nothing less. He wanders the room and pauses when he sees a small stack of yellow envelopes.

'WATCHING YOU', one says in bold black letters. He calls Fin over, who grumbles at the sight.

"That's exactly like what he sent to Avery Jordan."

Fin picks up an envelope and slides three pictures out, sorting through them with his gloved fingers.

Carisi pales, recognizing the lobby of Barba's apartment. Another is of Barba, talking animatedly to Benson in a restaurant. The last is taken from a low angle about a foot away, if even, showing Barba going down the courthouse steps. He'd been right behind him.

Carisi vividly recalls what Barba had said about Heredio's threat--push you down the steps and crack your head open--and feels sick to his stomach.

"He got lucky, all things considered," Fin observes. "What Purcell did to Avery was awful but it's not like he ever tried to kill anyone before. He was probably nervous and jumped at an opportunity. If he had gotten Barba alone, who knows what this whackjob would've done."

Carisi doesn't say anything.

He tries to push those words away, but he knows that they'll stay with him for a long time.

"Why not send these?" He asks, pointing at the envelopes angrily.

"Who knows. Maybe he thought we'd remember that move from Avery's case," Fin shrugs. "We probably would have."

Carisi licks his lips, agitated, and begins sorting through the rest of the envelopes.

He pauses when he comes to a picture of Barba and himself. They're walking together towards the courthouse, Barba dressed to the nines in a powder grey three-piece suit with one of his pink ties--Carisi thinks that one might be his favorite--and Carisi is surprised to find that he looks pretty good next to the A.D.A. His own suit is dark, and sharp, and compliments the long lines of his body. He nearly smiles at the sight of them together, at the way that Barba is leaning towards him as picture-Carisi says something, gesturing passionately with one hand. They're both holding coffees and smiling slightly. Carisi thinks the picture was taken in November, right before a particularly clean win in court.

Rollins' words find him: 'You look like a cop.'

But he doesn't, not in that moment, not standing next to Rafael Barba.

He looks every bit like an attorney.

- - -

"Have you found him?" Benson's voice booms out, causing the team to look up. They're still sorting through the evidence taken from Purcell's apartment--they'll likely be doing so for a long while yet.

"Fine, but keep me up to date," Benson says into her cell phone, sounding clipped. She has a two person detail at her apartment, guarding Noah and Lucy, and two at Barba's and Barth's, and one at Calhoun's and Linden's homes as well, but she can't relax.

It had been so close.

She makes her way to the conference table and leans her palms against it.

"What do we have?" She asks tiredly.

"What don't we have?" Rollins quips, gesturing at the small mountain of pictures and paperwork.

"He was stalking you and Barba. Sounds like he tried to finish Barba off at the hospital but got spooked by the guard. After that he started on Judge Barth," Fin summarizes.

Benson nods and sinks down into a chair.

"He clearly wanted to go after you first," Rollins says, looking concerned. "But I don't know, you're a cop, you've got a gun. It seems like he was scared to get too close to you."

"Yeah, so he goes after Barba instead," Carisi says grimly. "Stalks him for weeks and then takes a sloppy shot at him with a knife."

"Which he kept," Fin replies. "As a goddamn trophy."

They all glance at the photograph of the blade that CSU had taken. It had been found in a bedside end table, wrapped in a dish towel. He hadn't even cleaned the blood off.

"Makes our jobs easier," Rollins says lightly, stretching her back out. "It's not everyday you recover the weapon, complete with the victim's DNA."

They can't argue with that.

"No luck tracking Purcell down?" Fin asks.

"Not yet. Video surveillance shows him leave about fifteen minutes before you two showed up," Benson shares. "He was heading away from downtown. We lost him after that."

"How's Judge Barth doing?" Fin asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"She's fine. Pissed off," Rollins says, offering a grin.

"She's tough," Carisi murmurs with approval.

"I don't think prosecuting this bastard is going to be a problem," Benson says. "No matter what judge he gets. Not after this."

"Going after an A.D.A. and a judge... This guy isn't ever getting out once he goes in," Fin agrees.

Carisi thinks of Calhoun and wonders if she really would have ever taken Purcell's case. Probably not, if only because she likely knows a lost cause when she sees one. Not to mention the fact that Purcell could never afford her.

"Barba's going to be relieved," he says, thinking out loud. "He's probably already going nuts with his protective detail."

"They've been told to be subtle," Benson assures him. "Both plainclothes, one in a car in the street and the other inside the lobby of his building. Similar situation with Barth and Calhoun."

Carisi startles and Benson speaks quickly to cut off his protest.

"We're hoping that Purcell will take a last shot at one of them. The guys we have out there are good, really good. Purcell isn't getting past them."

Carisi hesitates, thinking about offering to go to Barba's apartment--just in case--but he sees his team exchange glances. He looks at the unsorted piles of evidence and knows that he'll be of more use at the precinct.

"Sounds like you're using them as bait," he grumbles.

"It is a bit like that," Benson admits, not repentant. "Purcell is clever but he's an amatuer. He won't get to any of them and it's our best shot of catching him, assuming he's still in the city."

Carisi doesn't like it, but he knows that fighting it is a lost cause and he doesn't want to ruin the improved team dynamic with his paranoia. He makes a mental note to call Barba--maybe even every hour, if the other man doesn't mind--to check in until his shift ends.

He debates between picking up Italian and Mexican on his way over after work and begins sorting through two months worth of pictures of Benson and Noah.

- - -

"Cancer," Fin exclaims two hours later, walking into the bullpen and throwing a file down on Rollins' desk. "Purcell has a brain tumor."

Rollins grabs the medical folder and flips through it excitedly as Carisi darts over from the whiteboard.

"Diagnosed about eleven months ago," Rollins reads, looking up at them with pleased astonishment. "That's right before he started stalking the Lieutenant, right?"

"Yeah," Carisi says slowly, picking the file up and examining it himself. "That sounds about right."

"So, Purcell learns he's dying and decides to take our people out with him?" Fin asks.

"Looks like it," Rollins murmurs.

"A tumor in the frontal lobe, that can affect impulse control, you know," Carisi tells them, feeling relief as the pieces of their investigation came together.

"Not only that," Rollins says suddenly, swiveling her laptop around to show them Purcell's bank statements. "Looks like he spend most of his savings trying to find Avery. He hired three different private investigators and shelled out a lot of money to those data tracking websites."

Fin and Carisi exchange a nervous look.

"Do you think he found her?" Carisi asks, his voice strained.

"I don't think so, but we should have Liv look into it. She might've stayed in contact with Avery after she bailed."

"I certainly hope so," Rollins says, clearly thinking about Avery's son.

"Well, Purcell didn't bring Theo back with him, so either he didn't find them, or..."

"Or he killed them both," Rollins supplies bitterly.

"No plane ticket purchases?" Carisi asks suddenly, and Rollins looks at him with realization.

"No, nothing like that, there's no evidence he's left the country in the last few years."

"Which means that unless Avery came back, it's unlikely he tracked her down," Fin concludes as they all trade looks of relief.

They go back to their respective tasks, placing calls to TARU and some of the stores that showed up on Purcell's bank statements. They move with focus and determination, all viciously delighted to be on the right trail.

An hour later, Carisi leans back in his chair and groans. The other two look over with expectation.

"Purcell's internet search history, it's pretty bad. Or pretty good, I guess, if we need any more evidence against this sick fuck."

"What did TARU find?" Fin asks impatiently.

"Purcell started googling tips on body dismemberment."

Rollins sighs.

"Well, this is going to be an easy win for Whitman," she decides. "Especially since Home Depot just emailed over a copy of a receipt from the night that Purcell was diagnosed. Garbage bags, rope, tape, that kind of stuff."

"Jesus," Fin complains. "You should really be put on some kind of watchlist for that particular shopping list."

Rollins and Carisi nod vaguely in agreement.

"TARU also found some interesting emails on Purcell's computer," Carisi says after a moment, pulling up the message again for reference. "Purcell was definitely mentally regressing. He started sending out threatening messages to his old bosses at that sports station."

Fin reads over his shoulder and shakes his head.

"This guy really was losing it. His emails are barely even coherent by July," Carisi tells them, sounding like maybe he pities the man, if only just a little bit, for just a second.

"He was spending money he didn't have, too," Rollins shares, browsing through a newly provided list of purchases from a credit card. "Looks like he was buying all sorts of weird crap and then sending it back a few days later."

"Like what?"

"Uh, looks like... an xbox with three different fishing simulator games, a cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe, two different box sets of Seinfeld DVDs, a diamond wedding ring, a couple of expensive limited-edition books, a new laptop, a very expensive video camera, an autographed baseball jersey, and..." she laughs a little, "a three pound bag of yellow M&Ms from a specialty store online that divides them by color."

"Huh," Carisi says, surprised by both the list and the idea of being able to pick candy by color.

"He didn't return the M&Ms or the video camera," Rollins clarifies for them. "But he sent back everything else within a week of buying it. Most of these purchases happened in July and August."

"Seems like the stress of his diagnosis and being unable to get to Liv really set him off," Fin observes, leaning against Carisi's desk and looking thoughtful.

"Yeah, we don't have much in the way of a paper trail after that," Rollins agrees. "Mostly just gas and food purchases. Kind of sounds like stalking Barba became his main focus."

She glances at Carisi and isn't surprised to see his mouth is set in a grim line. His eyes look distant.

"I bet you those gas stations and restaurants line up nicely with Barba's routes," Fin says.

"It's kind of amazing," Rollins says cautiously. "Purcell was able to wait and watch for so long without making a move."

"He stalked Avery for over a year, too," Fin reminds her.

"Yeah, but not with a brain tumor."

"Yeah, it's very impressive," Carisi says sarcastically, his face dark.

"I'm just saying, despite the emails and the weird spending sprees, he's still pretty sharp. If he hadn't gone after Judge Barth we might not have caught onto him."

Carisi is startled into silence and Fin mutters under his breath.

"He's devolving, that much is clear by his attack on Judge Barth, but..." Rollins trails off, watching Carisi with uncertainty.

"But we still need to be careful. Yeah. You're probably right," Carisi acknowledges, shooting her an apologetic grimace. She smiles at him, looking sympathetic, and Carisi feels a pang of gratitude.

"At least he's still smart enough to be cautious," Fin muses. "I think you were right about Purcell being afraid of getting to close to Liv. He might be dying but he's not ready to go out yet, not without a bang."

"So the protective detail should be a good deterrent," Rollins agrees.

"Except that Barba's detail isn't obvious enough to scare him off," Carisi reminds them, upset again. Knowing that his tone isn't directed at them, Rollins reaches across to touch him on the arm.

"They're good at what they do, Carisi, they'll keep him safe. Barth and Calhoun, too. These guys know what they're doing."

Carisi says nothing, but his scowl drops into a melancholic expression. Rollins and Fin can clearly see him wishing he could be there himself.

Rollins watches as a myriad of emotions shift across his face before eventually settling on what she could only describe as pining.

Something clicks into place in her head and she glances apprehensively at Fin and then back at Carisi. The idea is almost too much to contain, but she quickly decides against addressing her new theory on Carisi's behavior with him still in the room. Maybe it shouldn't even be addressed at all--

"Besides," Fin says suddenly, hoping to reassure his fellow detective. "Purcell's getting more reckless. I think it was mostly luck that we didn't catch his face on camera until his attack on Judge Barth. He's going to be even less careful now that he's on the run."

"He's probably in self-preservation mode," Rollins nods slowly, her gaze still flicking back to Carusi every few moments. "I bet he'll be caught trying to leave the city."

Carisi doesn't look convinced but he doesn't argue, either, which they take as a good sign.

- - -

They catch Benson up to date when she returns from her meeting with Whitman, who was delighted by their sudden good fortune on the case. The idea of prosecuting an attempted rape of a judge had him all but glowing with enthusiasm--he could practically see the road to D.A. paved for him.

Benson tells them that they have to stay on their toes, though--it may seem like a simple win for the A.D.A. but they can't risk a slip up. There was too much on the line.

"Still no progress with finding Purcell?" She asks, folding her arms over her chest.

"Nothing," Fin relays with disappointment. "No luck with surveillance. His car is still parked in its spot at his complex so we can't put out a B.O.L.O. on it."

"Any word from the security details?" Carisi asks, trying and failing to sound casual.

"All's quiet," she reassures.

- - -

Rollins watches Manning squirm in the same interview room as before, though that feels like a lifetime ago now. He's pale and nervous and his lawyer had left to go get lunch over an hour ago. She runs through some lines in her head, wanting to get the case wrapped up so that she can rejoin the Purcell investigation.

Her phone buzzes.

we should talk, a text from Viers reads. She's about to put it away when another comes through: its imprtant, i promise

Im a little busy, she sends, but her stomach is tight with apprehension. Something feels off.

pls?

u gotta take a break sometime amanda

She sighs and types back, I have a thirty minute dinner break at 6. Meet me in Manhattan

His agreement is immediate and he sends a smilie face a few seconds afterward, which she doesn't bother replying to.

Tucking her phone back in her jacket, she enters the interrogation room and sits down across from Manning, who has a thin sheen of sweat building up above his lip.

"Mr. Manning, welcome back."

He sneers at her but it doesn't do much to ease that scared look from his face.

"Your lawyer will be back any minute. You don't have to say anything, of course, but if there's something you want to get off of your chest now--"

"Fuck you," he growls, and Rollins shrugs with disinterest. They have him, regardless of his cooperation, and she'd rather be tracking down the real problem--Purcell--than sitting with this lowlife.

Wesley joins then a few minutes later and Rollins is pleased at the resigned look on his face. Even he has to know that Manning is done--he was caught beating his wife within an inch of her life and she was more than happy to press charges this time.

They have a brief conversation in which Wesley attempts to establish that Mr. Manning was acting in self defense and that this was just the newest in a long list of examples of the NYPD's discriminatory actions against his client.

Rollins suggests that he save it for the A.D.A. and escorts Manning back to the waiting arms of the county jail transportation team.

- - -

Rollins is starving and happy to see that Viers is already waiting for her at a small pub up the street from the precinct. He stands and tries to hug her again, but she avoids the embrace and they awkwardly sit down across from one another.

He looks almost as nervous as Manning had, sweating in that interview room.

She fixes him with a hard stare, but he avoids her gaze by looking through the menu.

"So, whats so important?" She pressures right from the start, sipping at a coke and waiting for her burger to arrive. He'd ordered a beer and is currently trying to hide behind the slender glass.

"I heard you caught the guy."

"What guy?"

"The guy that got your A.D.A.?"

Rollins tilts her head and frowns at him, and he jumps slightly when the waitress drops their plates down onto the table.

"We arrested a suspect on another charge," she says haltingly, "but he's not the one who attacked Barba."

"Oh."

Rollins watches as he takes a large bite of his fried chicken sandwich and she reluctantly starts in on her burger--her stomach aches with dread but this is her only chance to eat.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" She presses after about three minutes of silence. He glances up and then looks away, eyeing the growing number of cops who drop by after their shifts end.

"Can I trust you?" Viers asks in a low voice, and she thinks that he has to know better but she nods and meets his nervous gaze.

He takes a deep breath.

"Look, so... a few weeks ago, someone started sending these emails."

Rollins frowns, not following, but gestures impatiently for him to continue.

"They came in to the server over at Rikers. Just the public one they have listed."

He hesitates and shoots her an uncertain smile, which she doesn't return. She's pretty sure she's going to resort to threats if he doesn't hurry up and get to the point.

"Some nut started emailing them, asking if they wanted to get back at your A.D.A."

"Wait, what--"

"John Creed, did you ever meet him?" Viers anxiously continues. "Over at Rikers? He told me about it over beers two weeks ago. Maybe three, I'm not sure."

Rollins takes a deep breath.

"You think this guy was the one who went after Barba?" She asks, keeping her voice measured and just a little gentle, if only to keep him talking. She's not a lawyer, she hasn't studied like Carisi has, but she suspects that Viers has just admitted to something--conspiracy, obstruction, she doesn't know.

"Well, apparently he did mention the idea waiting at the courthouse. And that's where he got stabbed, right? So... so, yeah, yeah I think so. The guy was nuts."

"So you said."

"Creed said there was all kinds of fucked up shit in those emails, Amanda," Viers is leaning in close now, and she notices that he no longer looks nervous--relieved, maybe, at confessing.

"Said he knew where he lived. I don't know, Creed made it sound like the dude was offering some kind of... I don't know. I don't know if there's a word for it. He wanted to know if the guys over at Rikers wanted a piece of the action."

"Revenge?" Rollins asks.

"Yeah. Guess he was following the news from awhile back. What happened with Munson."

She nods and reaches a hand out to rest on his wrist. He nearly melts with relief, likely thinking he has her understanding.

He doesn't.

But she needs more information.

"Did they take him up on that?" She asks, almost casually, but Viers shakes his head immediately.

"No way, they're not that stupid. They had a few laughs about it, though," he admits, his voice quiet and his eyes guilty. "Said that they hoped he followed through with it."

Rollins feels sick and wishes Carisi were there--he'd probably punch Viers in the face and arrest him for, well, whatever.

"I never thought--of course I didn't know--" Viers is saying, shaking his head and downing the last of his beer. "Thought the guy was just letting off steam."

She thinks about the emails Purcell had sent to his ex-employers and doesn't doubt for a second it was him.

"Did they ever mention a name?"

"No. Not to me anyway."

She nods and makes her disappointment known by sliding her hand away from him. He's quick to reach for it.

"I can ask, though. I can ask, if it would help you."

"It would," she says and smiles at him, just a little bit, just enough to encourage him.

- - -

Rollins steps into the women's restroom five minutes later and calls Benson, who answers immediately.

"You were supposed to be back twenty minutes ago," her Lieutenant barks into her ear. "Where are you?"

Rollins explains quickly, just giving her a basic run-down of what Viers had told her, and listens to Benson's stunned silence on the other end.

"What should I do?" Rollins asks, "should I bring him in?"

Benson hesitates, but only for a moment.

"You said he's willing to get more information for you?"

"Yeah," Rollins confirms, nodding even though the other woman can't see her.

"Let him. But tell him to keep in touch with you. Have him call you later tonight and do not let him know that we have Purcell's name and address. Let him think you need anything you can get."

"Okay," Rollins agrees, glad that she won't have to try to cuff and arrest Viers in the middle of a crowded pub.

"Good work, Amanda," Benson says. "I'll need details on how all of this came out, but good work."

Rollins pushes down her surprise at the rare praise and promises to be back at the precinct within the hour.

They disconnect, and she takes a deep breath before making her way back to Viers.

- - -

Benson is seething.

She's glad that her office door is closed, because she doesn't want Carisi to know what they just learned and she doesn't think she can keep the anger off of her face.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a few calming breaths.

They had known.

Officers of the law had known about a possible conspiracy--a possible attempt on the life of a New York City A.D.A.--and they had done nothing.

They had laughed about it and had likely wished Purcell good luck.

Benson can't be surprised, she knows that Barba is despised by the C.O.s over at Rikers, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow.

It makes her question her faith in the system. It's not even the first time, but it hurts as badly as it had every other time a cop had failed to do their duty--or worse, deliberately put themselves on the other side of the law.

She tries to imagine how Carisi would react and the migraine comes swiftly and without mercy.

She couldn't tell him, not yet, not until they had Purcell in custody, and maybe not even for a while after that. She's not sure what he would do--quit and join Barba at 1 Hogan Place was probably the best case scenario.

Benson drops her head into her hands and then picks up the phone.

She places a call to Whitman.

- - -

Fin's chatting up a nurse when Abigail Manning's doctor informs him that she's ready for him. With a charming parting smile, which is easily returned, he promises to stop by on his way out and then heads into Mrs. Manning's room.

Her face is a puffy map of bruises.

Her left eye is swollen shut and her lip is split in two different places--her nose was clearly broken, as well as two fingers, which rest in splits on her lap. He dips his head in a solemn greeting and sits down next to her, breezing through a few obligatory statements--I'm so sorry this happened to you and we won't let him get away with this.

She tears up a little and reaches for him, and he gently takes her injured hand.

"He just went off. It was like a switch flipped," she's saying, and he nods along in sympathy.

"After Lindsay told him--she must have--I thought he was going to kill me--"

"After Lindsay told him what?" Fin interrupts quietly, brow furrowing.

Mrs. Manning hesitates, allows a few more tears slip down her face, and sniffles.

"She must have told him what I--what I asked her to say."

Fin waits, but he suddenly has an idea where this is headed.

"I told her to tell the police--to tell you..."

"That he touched her?"

Mrs. Manning's grip tightens and she rubs at her eyes with her other hand.

"I didn't know what else to do," she whispers, distraught but too tired to turn back now. "He was going to kill me. He almost did a couple of times. I didn't know what else I could do. I knew you would believe her."

Fin absorbs this and carefully picks through his options. False accusations were rare and they were terrible when they happened--he couldn't justify what Mrs. Manning and her daughter did, but he also knew that Abigail Manning was a victim. She had likely done the best she could.

"You asked Lindsay to lie about being molested by your husband to get him out of the house?" He asks, wanting to be certain, keeping his voice free of judgment. She nods slowly.

"Why have her recant?"

She meets his gaze with her one good eye, and he sees the misery as plain as the bruising on her face.

"I... I don't know, I felt guilty. I don't think I could have lived with myself if he was convicted, of something like that, because of me."

Fin doesn't know what to say.

He holds her hand and murmurs his understanding as she cries and shakes, and then he stays with her until she falls into an exhausted sleep.

He avoids the nurse on his way out, suddenly not in the mood for a flirtatious farewell.

- - -

Carisi leaves the office a little later than expected.

He'd been throwing cautious glances at Benson's closed door, hoping to check in with her before the end of his shift, but he gives up after twenty minutes.

Pulling on his coat and risking one last look at her closed blinds, he shuts his computer and heads out into the brisk evening.

- - -

Lucia Barba considers herself to be a patient woman, this Barba knows, but she is clearly reaching her limit with him and he's not sure if that's what he wants or not.

She fusses over him and he has to practice deep breathing techniques to keep from snapping at her--he's lived alone for decades and doesn't tolerate being looked after very well. The pain and the medication are making him cranky, and her constant need to scold him for not calling her the night before has him on edge.

He's not entirely surprised when she throws her hands into the air and declares that she doesn't know what to do with him by dinner time.

Clearly needing an escape route, she tells him that she's going to go to the store to pick up supplies for a traditional Cuban dish, one of his favorites as a child.

He hesitates, thinking of the twenty text messages that Carisi has sent throughout the day--Barba had agreed to having him bring over Italian about an hour ago.

"Actually, Mamí, I already have plans."

She turns sharply to look at him, her coat half on.

"What?"

"Detective Carisi is bringing dinner," he clears his throat and squares his shoulders against the sudden coldness in her eyes. "Italian. You're welcome to join us."

She says something under her breath that he he's glad he doesn't quite catch, and only wishes that were true for the next thing out of her mouth, too.

"You're lucky your father isn't here, mijo."

He freezes, not daring to look directly at her until he's able to clear the hurt and anger from his face. He's had a lot of practice at being stoic, cold even, and it serves him well--even with this, one of the final few wounds that haven't quite managed to scab over.

I wish he were, he thinks, feeling bitterness swell in his mouth. His tongue is coated in it but he doesn't indulge, doesn't describe the ways in which he wishes could hurt his father back.

He thinks about Nick Amaro and he thinks about telling his mother to leave.

He thinks about his grandmother.

He thinks about Carisi and warm pasta and he lets it go.

He gets a glass of water from the sink, keeps his back to Lucia, and he pretends that he didn't hear her bring her husband's ghost into the room.

Into his home.

Barba drinks his water and he pictures Carisi, looking agonized and hopeful at his hospital bed, pictures Benson clasping him on the arm and congratulating him on a job well done, or at least a good attempt, and he pictures his grandmother making him beans and rice on the stove of their old apartment, back when he was a child who didn't know better than to talk back, than to spit sharp words at the people he loves.

He turns and sees his mother watching him, somehow looking like she's either going to apologize or demand that he apologize instead--for being who he is, for being what he is--and he doesn't dare breathe life into that old anger.

Barba goes for levity and manages to land near casual.

He tells her what he ordered and recommends that she try the chicken piccata. He shares that he has a bottle of white wine that would pair wonderfully with it. He reminds her that it's been weeks since they've had a proper meal together.

Barba can see that she gives up somewhere in the middle of his rambling, can see it in the way her shoulders sag and her mouth draws down.

They haven't had an actual conversation about his sexuality since he was twenty-two, and he isn't about to let her revive the topic--not here, not now.

She agrees to stay, though she refuses to allow him to text Carisi to pick something up for her, too, because she can't bring herself to accept even such a small gesture.

He accepts that.

What he can't accept is the idea of her being at Carisi's throat for the rest of the evening. He finishes the last gulp of water and braces himself.

"When Detective Carisi does show up," he begins, trying not to sound like he's asking her for a favor. "Please be civil with him."

His mother blinks at him and he think he's never seen a blink so aggressive--she sets her jaw and visibly restrains herself from saying the first thing that comes to mind.

She's trying, for his sake.

"Rafael, I can't stop you from inviting men up to your apartment," she says sharply, apparently deciding that she can't just leave it alone. "But I don't have to like it."

"I'm not asking you to--"

"You know how I feel about this," she interrupts, and he's vaguely horrified to see her eyes begin to water.

"That's not what this is, he's a coworker and a friend, that's all," he reassures, but can't help but feel disgusted with himself. It's true that he and Carisi aren't dating--saying that they're even friends is a bit of a stretch, really--but he hates that he feels the need to comfort her about something like this. Something that's a part of him, no matter how much she wishes it weren't.

She's giving him a look of disbelief.

"That boy," Lucia says, and Barba winces at the emphasis there, "was sitting at your bedside for days and now he's bringing you dinner."

It's not a question so he doesn't bother answering the challenge in her voice.

"I don't see that Benson woman bringing you hot meals," she continues, pacing the short length of floor between the couch and the kitchen. "You said the same thing about her--she works with you, you're friendly--I don't see her here."

Lucia looks around as if Lieutenant Benson was possibly hiding beneath the counter or the curtains, and Barba has a moment to appreciate where his theatrical nature had come from.

"She's very busy, I'm sure," he tells his mother dryly, almost too tired to bother keeping the annoyance out of his voice. "Trying to catch the man who stabbed me, most likely."

"And yet her detective makes the time?"

Barba blames the pain medication for allowing himself to walk into that one.

"Mamí--"

"No, Rafael, I don't want to hear it," she runs her hands through her hair, soothing the short locks down.

"I'll be at Josephine's for dinner."

Barba watches as she throws her coat back on and takes care to avoid looking at him. He feels his shoulders sag with resignation and just a little bit of shameful relief.

"Text me when your detective leaves."

The front door slams and Barba leans heavily against the kitchen countertop, exhausted.

She does her best.

He knows that.

But it hadn't been enough growing up and it wasn't enough now--he doesn't have the strength to coddle her Catholic sensibilities anymore.

He waits for a few moments, hoping she'll come back, because he's willing to pretend that that conversation didn't happen if she is, but it's pointless. He surrenders to his worn out body, collapsing on the couch and thinking that he has Carisi's ridiculous enthusiasm to look forward to, at the very least.

It brings him more comfort than he'd like to admit.

It doesn't really occur to him to lock the front door.

Chapter Text

Barba's almost asleep when he hears the door quietly open and close again, and he raises his head, realizing that his mother must have forgotten something in her haste to escape his presence. He considers pretending to be asleep to spare them both from an awkward conversation, but can't bring himself to ignore her on the off chance that she's looking to reconcile.

He pushes himself off of the couch with a grunt, holding a hand against his side as the discomfort returns in full force, and slowly walks toward the entrance hall. He thinks it's strange that she hasn't come all the way into the apartment yet.

He thinks it's even stranger that there's a man standing where he expects her to be.

He blinks, as though restarting his vision will clear it up, and then realizes that it's not a trick of the light.

Barba stares in stunned silence.

The man stares back.

Barba can't think of a single thing to say, but he doesn't missed the knife in Purcell's left hand. It's probably smaller than the last one used against him, but it still does an excellent job of instilling fear in him.

"I'll gut you if you yell," Purcell's soft voice tells him, once he's sure he's seen the weapon.

A numbness collects in his belly and it takes an enormous effort not to sway right off of his feet.

"Okay," Barba says, sounding like he's agreeing with something.

Purcell doesn't give him further instructions. He just stares him down, standing at his full height in the entrance hall. It's hard to see his face in the dimness of the apartment.

"Do you want me to put my hands up, or...?" Barba asks after almost full minute of silence, somehow suddenly unable to resist saying something to feel more in control.

Purcell takes three quick steps toward him and swings with his right fist.

- - -

Carisi sits in the rustic little waiting area of the restaurant, bouncing one of his legs as he waits for the food to be bagged up and brought to him.

He stomach twists pleasantly with nerves.

He's going to have dinner with Barba.

And, well, maybe Lucia. But if Carisi had read any one of the growing number of pointed glares right, he would guess that it wouldn't take five minutes for her to leave the room--maybe even the apartment.

He wonders if he should flirt with the A.D.A. to speed up the process, but immediately feels guilty. He doesn't actually want to make the woman uncomfortable. But a part of him delights at the idea of touching Barba casually on the arm, maybe after Barba cracks a joke over pasta and wine, and Carisi nearly loses himself to that fantasy.

He's only just starting to realize what that might mean when a hostess with a peppy ponytail hands him a paper bag and gives him a blinding smile. He returns the expression somewhat shakily as she wishes him a good night.

He realizes that it’s more than a little bit embarrassing that he’s only just figured it out, and in the tacky lobby of an Italian restaurant, no less. He glances at the dozens of faces framed on the walls, at the the clippings of Italian newspapers and charmingly rendered paintings of grapes, olives, and voluptuous women, and he feels a rush hysterical amusement. It was fitting, somehow.

He pushes his way into the cool, dark evening and feels like laughing at himself.

All those recent nights of lying awake and trying to understand the pain, the hope, the uncertainty, and just like that he realizes--he wants to flirt with the A.D.A.

In front of the man’s disapproving mother.

He's halfway to his car but he stops and stares at the sidewalk and tries to think about how that makes him feel. It's a strange relief when he realizes that nothing has changed in the past ten minutes--he's still who he is, he still wants what he wants, and no lightning bolt has struck him down from above.

It's almost humiliating how easy it is to accept, now that the hot panic of the last week--and the months and months of twisting feelings before that--have a name.

A car horn honks and tires screech somewhere behind him, making him jump and realize that he should probably at least get in his sedan before trying to unpack three decades worth of self-examination. He slides into the driver's side, dumps the bag of food on the passenger seat, and glances at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

Still the same eyes, the same nose, the same thoughts and feelings.

Still the same Sonny.

- - -

Barba lays where he landed, trembling on the floor, and reaches anxiously up to touch his side. His hand comes away dry. He hasn't ripped his stitches out again but his head is ringing and his shoulder aches from his collision with the hardwood floor.

He swallows thickly and doesn't have time to look up before he feels Purcell reach down and grab him by the shirt. He hears the fabric stretch as Purcell drags him up and toward the couch.

Barba starts to say something--he doesn't know what--and then Purcell is undoing his own belt and looping it around Barba's hands, which are then cinched painfully tight behind his back. Purcell throws him onto the couch and he's forced to look up at the man, who stands between his legs and looms over him.

Purcell takes the knife out of the back pocket of his jeans again and stares at the A.D.A. with a considerable amount of animosity. Barba tries to keep his face neutral but his head is still ringing and he knows he's in A Bad Fucking Situation.

Purcell recognizes the moment that Barba realizes it.

"You're going to wish I got it right the first time," Purcell promises, and then turns away.

Barba's pulse throbs in his throat.

He watches as Purcell paces the length of the floor, and he can see can see the frustration in the taut line of Purcell’s shoulders and the bulge of his eyes. His stomach tightens with anxiety at the sight--Purcell doesn't look like a man ready to listen to reason.

Purcell steps forward and grabs him by the hair, then releases him again immediately, and Barba thinks he can see his conflict--he wants to hurt Barba sexually but he's never been with a man, maybe hasn't even thought about it. He knows that rape isn't about attraction, but Purcell didn't seem ready to cross the line with him either way, and Barba can also see that Purcell's confidence is shaken.

Avery Jordan never fought back, she froze up when he had pushed her down, so it must have been a shock when Elana Barth's elbow came for him.

And now, although Barba is injured and restrained, Purcell is in unknown territory. He's more likely to slit the A.D.A.'s throat than rape him, but Barba's not sure how much comfort he can find in that.

He lets out a shaky breath, his heart hammering. He is mentally prepared to endure an assault from Purcell--as prepared as someone could be, anyway--but he can't stop the way his muscles twitch and shiver.

He's exhausted and in pain and afraid. He isn't ashamed of his fear, he knows what Purcell has done--Benson had updated him on the man's little crime spree only a few hours ago. He also knows that Purcell is smart enough to realize that he won't get away this time, and he tries to feel satisfied with the knowledge that Purcell will be caught and captured either way, no matter what happens to him, but it feels hollow.

He doesn't want to die.

Purcell is waving the knife and talking about Avery Jordan but Barba tunes it out. He knows that he should engage and try to stall for time, maybe build up rapport, but his tongue is thick in his mouth. Whatever adrenaline his body had pumped out at the sight of Purcell standing in his hallway was long gone, leaving him shaky and feeling carved out inside.

Suddenly Purcell is back in his face, and before Barba can register what the other man had been saying Purcell pulls his fist back and punches him hard in the mouth.

His lip splits and he splutters out blood, reeling.

"You took her away, you took her from me, you piece of shit," Purcell snarls, his hands shaking and his eyes bugged out. Barba leans away and shakes his head, but doesn’t argue, and Purcell seems to calm down.

He paces away again, laughs to himself, and taps the flat of the knife against his hip.

Barba’s sluggish brain tries to keep up as Purcell alternates between taunting him and questioning him about Avery Jordan, but it’s something of a lost cause either way.

Barba doesn't know where Jordan is. He knows that Benson and Calhoun conspired to let her get away, but he didn't ask any questions--he didn't want to know.

He briefly considers telling Purcell about Benson's involvement, thinking that maybe if the man was irrational enough to leave and go after her... Benson was tough, far tougher than Barba at the moment, and she'd see Purcell coming. Barba could warn her before he even got close.

But then Barba thinks about Noah and knows he could never risk it. He didn't doubt that Purcell would hurt a child if it meant getting at his target. And Lucy...

A low groan of pain escapes before he can stop it, and Purcell turns to him, pausing mid-rant. He watches Barba closely now, picking up on his tremors and his paleness where he had missed them before.

"You're not looking so good, Mr. Barba," Purcell says softly, and Barba is alarmed by the change in pace. Purcell's not just angry now--he's curious about the feeling that it gives him, to have power and control over a person.

"I don't like violence," Purcell continues, looking almost uncertain at the situation for a moment. "I didn't rape Avery--she invited me in, she wanted me!"

"I suppose this is a consensual hostage situation, too, then?" Barba gasps.

Purcell's face is blank. Barba's not positive the other man even registered his remark except for that fact that he turns and puts the knife on the table.

Somehow that doesn't make Barba feel better.

Purcell grabs him violently by the throat and then there's a heavy-handed but friendly knock on the door.

Purcell and Barba both freeze, watching each other in surprise, and then Purcell clamps a clammy hand over his bleeding lips and squeezes his fingers into the flesh of his face.

"Remember, I'll--" Purcell whispers, but then falters, as if afraid to speak.

Barba hasn't forgotten his threat. Wanting to keep all of his organs inside of his body, he nods his head and Purcell moves quickly to the kitchen. He returns before Barba can process his options and crams a blue dish towel into Barba's mouth.

Barba was any leds afraid, he would be insulted by the cliché.

The knock comes again, and Carisi's worried voice calls out.

'He'll think I've fallen again,' Barba realizes. 'He's going to try to break through that door and when he does--'

Barba looks at the knife on the table.

The chilly whisper of fear is back in his stomach because he knows that Purcell would make gutting him his last act, given half a chance, and would try to take the detective out, too.

"Counselor, you okay in there?" Carisi's muffled voice calls, and even through the heavy door Barba can hear his concern.

He closes his eyes.

- - -

Purcell weighs his options.

There's a good chance that there's either a cop or another attorney at the door.

The man had used a title, not a name.

He hadn't expected to have so little time and he can't think through the possibilities fast enough--

He'll lose control if the police break the door down. He'll lose the element of surprise if he makes himself known. He thinks he could probably take down one officer, if he hides and is quick with the knife. But what if the officer isn't alone? Didn't they usually travel in pairs?

An attorney would be easy, but... Surely a security detail had been set up? There had been an armed guard at the hospital. Was this part of a routine check-in?

Purcell glances at the A.D.A., bound and bleeding, and wonders if it was it worth it to drag it out. Barba wasn't beautiful, he wasn’t alluring in the way that women often were, but there was something there. Something about the way his fear and pain make his face ashy and his eyes bright.

The A.D.A. deserved to suffer.

To suffer the way that he had in jail, waiting for trial. In the courtroom, enduring Barba's interrogations and accusations. In the aftermath, when that bitch cop had let Avery and son--his baby son--slip away--

It wasn't enough to come this far and give up.

But didn't it make more sense to just kill the man, and then take out as many officers as he could?

But he doesn't want to die. He's afraid and he's not a fighter. He would be lucky if he killed one cop before they shot him to death.

He should just surrender.

But as much as he doesn’t want to die, he doesn't want to rot in prison, either. Those seven months of jail he'd endured while waiting for his trial were one thing, but... They would never let him out, not after this.

And there's no way out of the apartment except through the front door.

Maybe he could make a deal?

But he knew that those never worked outside of movies. The only deal he'd get was that they wouldn't shoot him on sight, if he would just surrender peacefully.

His head rushes with blood.

He decides that he's not going to let those sons of bitches win. He wasn’t going to give up. Not after getting this far.

He walks to the door, his footsteps deliberately loud, and leans his head against the cool surface.

If this was a routine check-in, maybe they wouldn't know Rafael Barba's voice? He thinks imitation is probably his best bet. He tries to make his voice low and just a bit raspy, like he's just woken up.

"This isn't a good time, can you come back later?" Purcell asks the man on the other side, feeling annoyed with himself when his voice quakes, just a bit.

There's a long pause.

"Who--" The officer sounds bewildered and Purcell briefly wonders if he can pull off a different ruse and get him to leave. Pretend to be a friend, or even an uncle, maybe?

He opens his mouth but the officer beats him to the punch.

"Rick Purcell?"

Purcell freezes, stunned at being figured out so quickly, but he's a little reassured to hear fear in the officer's voice, too. The other man sounds aggressively upset, which is satisfying on some level.

He suddenly wonders if the cop would shoot him through the door.

"Mr. Purcell?" The officer tries again, louder this time. His voice is harder and the edge of fear is neatly hidden. He's all cool, commanding authority now.

Purcell says nothing. Anger burns deep inside of his gut. He glances back at the A.D.A., who has his head turned as much as his neck will allow and is clearly listening.

Purcell considers dragging him over and disemboweling him against the door so that the cop can hear.

The idea of it doesn't really disturb him, although some buried part of him does wonder if it should.

He suddenly thinks about Avery again.

He thinks about his son, who was surely walking and talking now, who had no memory of his father--

His vision blurs over and he struggles not to cry. He focuses on the anger, instead, and that helps.

"Mr. Purcell, my name is Detective Carisi and I need you to open this door. Right now."

A detective and not an officer, then. Most likely alone.

He had made the wrong choice--maybe he could have taken out one detective, if he had caught him by surprise.

Damn.

- - -

Barba hears Carisi pound on the door and shout for Purcell again, and then it gets very quiet. He assumes Carisi stepped away to call for backup and he's immensely grateful the detective didn't try to cave the door in.

It's clear from the exchange that Carisi was caught off guard. Barba pictures him standing there, holding a bag of takeout for them. He wants to laugh and he wants to cry, just a little, because he's just so tired.

Purcell steps back into his line of sight and Barba can't read anything from his expression. Purcell pulls the dish towel out of his mouth and throws it on the floor, watching Barba's face, which is a grim mask of distress.

Purcell knows he's trapped now.

Barba can't tell if Purcell has anything left to lose but he hopes so, because it certainly won't end well for him if he doesn't.

Purcell's hand goes around his throat again, resting lightly against the skin, not quite squeezing.

"Tell me to stop," Purcell breathes, his eyes glassy and wet.

Barba tries to swallow around the pressure of Purcell’s palm but his throat is too dry. He can feel fibers from the towel on his tongue. He tries to ignore the erection growing in Purcell's jeans and he says nothing.

"You think everyone's a victim, huh? You think she didn't want it?" Purcell taunts, his voice rough. He lets go of his throat but then backhands him, and Barba reels away from the strike.

"What about you? Here's your chance--tell me to stop."

Barba barely hears him, his head a buzzing hive of white noise. All of his experience, his years of working with SVU, and he draws a blank on what to do.

In most cases, compliance will get a victim out alive. But Purcell doesn't want a mute, docile victim right now. He's trapped and angry and is only aroused by the distress of another human being. He wants a fight and Barba doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

He looks Purcell in the eye and lets his silence speak volumes for once.

Purcell hesitates, obviously disappointed. This isn’t the way he'd wanted it. It’s not how he’d pictured it. He grinds his teeth together and strikes him again.

Black and green and red spots begin to dance in Barba's vision. He thinks he makes a noise, but he isn't even sure anymore.

"Beg me not to kill you," Purcell demands, breathless with anger and anticipation.

Barba wishes that Purcell was closer--maybe he could've scored a headbutt, or maybe he could've bitten his throat out.

But he can't do either, so he trembles and tries to sink deeper into his couch, which he'll probably never be able to look at again, assuming he survives the confrontation.

Purcell grabs him violently by the hair again and Barba hysterically realizes that he’s going to die--with Carisi standing right outside--as the other man wraps his other hand around Barba's throat for the third time.

Purcell flexes his hand and squeezes hard.

Barba hisses with pain and is dismayed when he feels more blood dribble out of the cut on his lip. He can feel it on his chin and knows there are stains on his shirt and he morbidly feels a pang for the detectives who will no doubt recover his body after this is over.

He tries not to think about the look that would be on Carisi's face.

He hopes that Benson would have the sense to keep him away.

"Beg me," Purcell orders, louder now, his grasp on Barba's hair and throat almost unbearably painful. "Beg me to stop!"

Barba isn't sure if Purcell knows that he can't speak around the iron grip, but a small part of him is glad that he can't possibly comply. The bruising force of Purcell's fingers chase away what little fight he had left.

It doesn’t take long for his lungs to start burning, but no matter how he arches and squirms he can’t find relief. Purcell lets go of his hair and then there are two hands choking him.

He thinks about the bruises it will leave.

He thinks that his mother will have to identify his body, as per protocol, even though any Manhattan cop could do it for her.

He thinks it’s not fair that they had had their first fight in years--and now this.

Mercifully, it's only another few seconds before he's not thinking about anything at all.

- - -

Purcell feels calmer afterward, despite the fact that he came in his pants like an overeager teenager.

It feels a little like a cleansing.

Barba's head jerks up and then slowly sinks back down again. He seems disoriented and hasn't said anything since Purcell climaxed and let go of him.

He wants to say something devastating to the prosecutor, who looks like he's about to pass out again, but nothing comes to mind. He admires his work for a moment, thinking it's an okay start, and then collapses back to sit on the table, his knees brushing against Barba's.

Barba manages not to flinch but it clearly takes an effort.

"There," Purcell says lightly, just to say something at all.

They sit in silence for another few minutes and Purcell feels great satisfaction at the way the A.D.A. isn't able to meet his eyes.

Dominance. The appeal of it goes beyond sexuality and age and apparently even gender. Purcell feels drunk off it.

He looks at the knife, resting beside him on the table, and wonders if he could really follow through with cutting into another human being.

He’s suddenly not sure if he’s willing to find out.

He barely looks up when the knocking on the front door suddenly resumes. He ignores it and moves to Barba's window instead, moving the curtains aside to glance down at the street below. He doesn't see any police cruisers yet, but he knows it's only a matter of time. Purcell thinks that they're too high up for the window to be an access point, but he closes the heavy grey curtains all the same, casting the apartment in a dark haze.

He can smell fear and his own musk in the room.

He picks up the discarded dish towel, cleans himself roughly with it, and then throws it back down again, knowing it’s too late to do anything about his underwear now.

He feels thirsty.

He goes through Barba's cupboards and pulls down a short glass, filling it with water from the sink. He drinks it, refills it, and then takes it back with him when he returns to his spot on the table.

Purcell doesn't miss the way Barba's eyes track the water momentarily, but then he looks away, staring past Purcell at nothing.

"Thirsty?" Purcell asks, as if he would consider giving the other man a sip if he begs for it. But Barba doesn’t acknowledge him, so Purcell shrugs as if to say, 'your loss.'

- - -

Carisi is panicking. He'd stepped further into the hall to call Benson, but he's barely able to get his phone unlocked.

He almost misses when he tries to tap Benson's name and has a brief moment of panic when he nearly hits Bella's number instead, the two stacked on top of one another in his call log.

He watches the door of Barba's apartment and forgets to breathe until he hears his lieutenant's clipped voice in his ear.

"Benson."

"Lieutenant," he gasps. "It's Purcell, he's here--"

"Where?" She demands, and alarm colors her voice. "Carisi, are you at home? Wh--"

"Barba's, I'm at Barba's, he won't let me in--" Carisi starts, realizing he's not being very clear but unable to organize his thoughts. His mind is inside of that apartment, whirling through an increasingly bleak list of possibilities. "Purcell's inside."

He hears Benson take a deep breath.

He hears Fin's low voice somewhere in the background.

He realizes that he's still got a death grip on a bag of takeout. He lets it drop to the floor of the hallway and paces further away from Barba's apartment, his wild eyes unable to settle on anything.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" He tries not to shout, not wanting Purcell to hear him panic.

"What do I do?" He asks, pleading for guidance and feeling like it's his first day as a cop again. "Should I kick the door in, or--"

"No. No, Carisi, listen to me," she says, and he falls quiet, heart pounding. "Do not break that door down. Do not give Purcell any reason to--"

"How do we know he's even still alive?" He interrupts. "That he's not killing him right now while I'm standing here talking to--"

"Carisi, do not touch that door. Listen to me," Benson's voice is cold and full of authority and he feels his whirlwind fear bend to her will.

"If you break that door down, if he hasn't killed Barba yet, he will. We have to assume he's still alive," she continues.

He closes his eyes.

"Purcell will want to use him to negotiate," Benson tells him, and in the background he can hear officers mobilizing. "Keep him talking and wait for us, we're on the way."

He trembles and he fights down the urge to throw up.

He thinks about Mike.

He feels dizzy and realizes that Lucia is likely being held in there, too. Probably terrorized and possibly hurt.

"His mom," he breathes into the phone, "Lucia Barba is probably in there, she was staying with him."

Benson curses quietly and says something to someone else, maybe Fin, maybe a random uniform, he doesn't know.

"Talk to him, ask if everyone is okay, stay on the line."

He mutters an acknowledgment before creeping back toward Barba's apartment. He lowers the phone and presses his ear against the door instead, but he can't hear anything--he doesn't know if it's too thick or if there just isn't anything to hear.

His palms sweat.

He taps gently on the door and waits a moment, then calls out in a firm voice.

"Mr. Purcell?"

There's only silence--maybe a footstep, maybe a moan, he doesn't know, oh God, he doesn't know--

"Mr. Purcell, this is Detective Carisi again. Is everybody okay in there?"

He keeps trying for another minute but the apartment stays stubbornly silent.

Carisi paces back toward the end of the hall and frantically tells Benson that Purcell isn't responding.

"Okay, okay Carisi," her voice soothes. "Listen, Fin just called Lucia, she's not in the apartment. She's with a friend. She's not there."

Carisi can't figure out if that's a good thing or not.

He's glad that Lucia isn't in danger, but the thought of Barba, alone, trapped with that psychopath--

"Carisi, just--just stay there. Keep trying. You'll need to go down to the lobby once backup gets there--you'll need to brief them."

He pants into the phone and struggles with the idea of leaving the hallway, even for a moment.

"We're on our way, but they're going to get there first. Can you do this?"

"Yeah," he's breathless but the adrenaline is starting to fade. He's terrified for Barba but he needs to stay calm if he's going to be of any help to him.

He disconnects with Benson and then goes back to the door.

His continued attempts at getting Purcell to talk to him are useless, but it's still nearly impossible to tear himself away when he's notified that his backup has arrived. He rides the elevator down to the lobby and says a quick prayer with his hands clenched into fists.

He briefs the men who arrive, and they try to reassure him but they don't have the tact for it, there’s nothing they could possibly say to make it better.

They balk when he tries to go back up once the debrief is done, and he nearly punches the officer who grabs him by the bicep and accuses him of being reckless.

They're having a shouting match when Fin and Rollins arrive, and they're quick to pull Carisi across the room.

Benson storms in moments later, her expression tight with fear and determination, and Carisi doesn't have to say anything--she can read the blame on his face.

'I told you--You promised--'

She turns away from him and begins planning with the entry team, and then the hostage negotiator when she shows up a few minutes later.

Carisi buries his face in his hands.

- - -

"Mr. Purcell?"

Barba stirs slightly but doesn't look up. His head feels heavy and he wonders if he fell asleep--his temple throbs and he wonders how hard Purcell had hit him earlier. He's had some recent near-misses with head injuries and hopes he dodged another bullet, but his vision is a bit blurry when he tries to track Purcell from beneath his eyelashes.

His attacker paces for a moment, his movements quick and nervous. He doesn't answer the feminine voice that calls out to him from the hallway.

"Mr. Purcell, my name is Jane Weaver."

Purcell moves quietly toward the door.

Barba feels his head dip down toward his chest. The dried blood on his neck feels abrasive but it barely registers--he's so tired.

"I'd like to talk to you. We have your cell phone number, is it okay if I call it?" He hears Weaver say, but she sounds far away, like a television that's been left on in another room.

He thinks he hears the cheerful chime of a ringtone, but then everything fades into a pleasant hum of nothingness again.

- - -

Purcell answers the call on the fifth ring, moving away from the door and into the kitchen. He feels safer there, away from the entry point and the windows.

"Mr. Purcell?"

Weaver's voice is calm and soothing, and Purcell makes an affirmative noise to let her know that he's listening.

"Thank you for answering, Mr. Purcell. This is Jane Weaver," she says slowly, like she's talking to a spooked animal. Purcell is offended by this but can't deny that it does have a calming effect.

"How are things going in there?" She asks, almost casually.

He swallows and finds that his throat is sore.
"Everyone's alive," he says harshly, and then winces at the sound of his voice.

He's thinking remarkably more clearly now that he's climaxed. He's scared. He doesn't want to die in this fucking apartment. He can't think of why it had been so important to come in the first place.

"I'm glad to hear that," Weaver says genuinely.

"I'd like to keep it that way," he tries to be curt but his voice quivers.

"Of course. We want the same thing, Mr. Purcell. Thank you."

There's a pause.

"Can Mr. Barba talk? We want to make sure he's okay, too."

Purcell glances over toward the couch. The A.D.A.'s head is resting against his chest and his eyes are closed. Purcell steps closer. Barba's lip has stopped bleeding but an angry-looking bruise is forming on the left side of his head from the first time he'd been punched.

The collection of bruises on his cheek and throat seem inconsequential.

"He's... asleep," Purcell tells her lamely.

Silence.

Afraid that they'll assume the worst and barge in, guns blazing, Purcell slaps Barba lightly across the face with his free hand and holds the phone closer to him.

Barba sluggishly raises his head and doesn't seem to register the device at first.

"Talk," Purcell commands. "Talk to them!"

Barba peers at him blearily and finally notices the phone, but seems at a loss for what to say.

Purcell looms closer, threateningly, sweat beads popping up on his brow.

"I'm... here," Barba manages weakly, and is clearly relieved when Purcell puts the phone back to his own ear and walks back into the kitchen.

"Like I said, we're all alive in here," Purcell says.

"Thank you. Thank you for waking Mr. Barba up, Mr. Purcell. Did he hurt his head?"

"He's fine," Purcell wets his lips. "Look, he's fine. I want to walk out of here and I want my lawyer, do you understand?"

"I understand, Mr. Purcell. We'll call..." There's a pause as Weaver evidently is told his lawyer's name. He guesses that he can't be too surprised that they've been digging into his life. "Mr. Costa, is that right?"

"That's right."

"Will you open the door? I'd prefer to talk face-to-face, if that's okay with you."

"No. Not until my lawyer gets here."

"Okay. Alright. Will you stay on the phone with me while we wait?" She asks, sounding like he'd be doing her a personal favor.

He hesitates and shakes his head, even though he knows she can't see.

"Call me when he gets here. Don't come up before that," he tells her and then hangs up.

He drops his cell phone on the marble counter and braces his arms against it, breathing deeply.

He's so fucked.

- - -

"Barba's alive," Benson declares and Carisi nearly collapses with relief. He feels weak and angry and he'd shake her by the arms if he could find the strength.

"Weaver get him talking?" Rollins asks in a low voice. She rests her hand resting on Carisi's shoulder and sits down next to him on the lobby's couch.

"For a second, yes. He's alive but she suspects he's sustained a head injury--Purcell said he was asleep but was able to wake him up."

Rollins nods and Fin looks over at Carisi, who is bracing his elbows on his knees and has his head ducked. Fin glances at Benson and they share a look. Rollins rubs Carisi's back but he shifts slightly away from her and she drops her hand.

"Purcell asked for his lawyer. Seems he's come to his senses," Weaver says, walking over to their small group. She's good at what she does and she wants to take a moment to reassure them. "It's a good sign, a great sign. He wants to walk out of this alive."

Carisi's hands clench and Benson takes a moment to wonder if he should be around when Purcell is led out.

She regrets that she had pushed the topic of his infatuation with their prosecutor off. She wishes she had just talked to him--last week, yesterday, or even just a few hours ago. It might have made this easier.

"So he's not going to try to put Barba down," Fin supplies, sounding relieved.

Weaver nods.

"He cut off contact, wants to wait for his lawyer to arrive, but he seems to be of sound mind. He won't kill Mr. Barba. He probably thinks that he won't get out of there without getting shot otherwise."

Benson thanks her and Weaver nods before leaving to talk to the entry team, who are geared up and armed to the teeth.

Carisi closes his eyes and resumes praying.

Chapter Text

Adam Costa sweats and looks around wildly as he's escorted him into the cop-crowded lobby. Carisi watches with hooded eyes as the lawyer talks to Weaver and then nervously places a call to Purcell. Carisi can't hear the words but it isn't a long conversation--they probably exchange three sentences before he hangs up and looks at Weaver anxiously, and Carisi watches as she places a comforting hand on Costa's arm and then gestures toward the elevators.

He jumps to his feet when Costa and the entry team move toward the metal doors.

Benson puts a hand on his shoulder and he quickly shrugs her gentle grip off. He knows he can't go with them but--

"Carisi," Benson warns, but he doesn't look at her--he can't.

"It'll be okay," she murmurs.

He thinks he'll be happy if he never hears those words out of her mouth again.

- - -

Purcell opens the front door slowly.

Costa's anxious face greets him on the other side, and Purcell can see the fear in the quick dart of his eyes and the sheen of sweat that covers his forehead. He's flanked by four men, dressed in black and heavily armed, and Purcell starts shaking at bit at the sight of them.

Two guns are aimed at his chest.

He feels weak and breathless and he regrets opening the door. If there was a way to backtrack--back into the apartment--back to before he'd entered it in the first place--

"Rick," Costa says--squeaks, really--from behind the shoulder of one of the cops, and Purcell suddenly understands what they're waiting for.

"I surrender," he tells them, wide-eyed.

His lawyer nods with great relief and is pushed back by the officer. Another lowers his weapon cautiously and asks him to step out into the hallway.

Purcell breathes through his mouth and hesitates, unwilling to leave the relative safety of the apartment, but he thinks that they wouldn't kill him, not here, not now--not in front of Costa.

There's no other choice.

Not now.

He holds his quaking hands in front of him and steps out.

Rough hands grab him securely around his forearms and then he's on the ground.

- - -

Benson is ready when the entry team radios in that Purcell is secured and heading down in the elevator.

She glances at her own team and is glad to see steady resolve in them--even Carisi looks focused. Fin gives her a grim nod when their eyes meet, and she hopes that he knows it'll be up to him to grab Carisi if the detective makes a move for Purcell.

There's a faint, pleasantly cliché ding and then the elevator doors slide open. They barely get a glimpse of Purcell as he's lead away, blocked in between two muscular officers who make a beeline for the door. Purcell keeps his head down, but Benson can see the astonished, naked fear even at a glance.

Carisi is a blur of motion and she nearly grabs at him as he darts in front of her, but his gaze is set on the elevator, not Purcell.

She's not sure he even spared the man a look.

She sucks in a breath, relieved, and follows him, watching out of the corner of her eye as Fin breaks off to follow Purcell out and to the waiting cruiser, clearly not wanting to let the man out of his sight. Rollins keeps her gaze on Carisi and stays close to Benson, hovering like there's something she wants to say, but she can't find the words.

- - -

They pile into the elevator and ride it up in a tense, uncomfortable silence. Carisi is the first one out, Benson on his heels as he takes long strides toward Barba's apartment. One of the officers from the entry team stands guard at the door, and Carisi sees another by the couch when he storms into the apartment.

He freezes. He can see the back of Barba's head. There are faint, sickening combination of smells in the apartment--sweat and come and blood.

Benson pushes past him and loops around the couch, where she crouches and reaches out to Barba. He doesn't turn to look at her and Carisi wonders if he's still alive.

Feeling like he's been kicked in the chest at the thought, he takes the place of the other officer, who nods at them and joins his colleague in the hallway to exchange quiet words.

Carisi sees things in fragments: Barba, unconscious but breathing. Blood on his face and his shirt. A clean knife on the table. A half-finished glass of water sitting next to it. A soiled dish towel on the floor.

The images are disjointed and he can't put them together beyond the obvious--Barba is alive. Everything else falls away.

Benson unbinds Barba's hands from behind his back but he doesn't stir, and Carisi's eyes catch on the worn leather belt that drops to the floor. Benson murmurs the prosecutor's name and touches the side of his head, where an obvious bruise is painted over his temple.

It draws Carisi's gaze to the other marks along his face and neck, where the skin is red and raw and dark. He doesn't doubt that finger-shaped bruises will bloom there overnight. He swallows hard and steps closer, wanting to reach out and touch him, but he's terrified that Barba won't open his eyes and look up at him, and in that moment there are few things that seem worse.

He barely registers when EMT asks him to move aside, and he jumps when a firm hand lands on his bicep. Carisi allows himself to be pushed out of the way, but he can't look up at Benson as she backs up to let the paramedics to their job and glances his way.

He hears her draw in a breath, can all but feel it when she decides against speaking, and he nearly fills the space with an accusation--it didn't matter if it was fair or even true--but instead he keeps his mouth shut and his gaze fixed on the young EMT tending to Barba.

The redhead turns and nods at them, tells them that there's a pulse but that the A.D.A. likely has a concussion and possible damage to his windpipe.

It's good news, all things considered.

It doesn't feel like it.

A second paramedic joins them and they prepare to transport Barba to the ER, talking quietly amongst themselves as Benson and Rollins begin looking around the apartment, securing the evidence of Purcell's presence.

Carisi knows that it's important but he doesn't make an effort to help them--he keeps his eyes on Barba and he follows the EMTs out, and then he follows the ambulance to the hospital.

He doesn't bother asking Benson for permission.

- - -

Barba floats his way back to the surface of consciousness. Sleep clings to him, a black, sticky thing, the kind that doesn't come with good rest, and he can't bring himself to open his heavy eyelids.

He drifts.

Sometimes he's not sure if he ever left the hospital earlier that week, other times he thinks that maybe the last couple of decade had been a dream--he's a young man, a child really, in to have a spiral fracture taken care of. His mother's face is a stoic mask and she tells the doctors nothing about how his father had pulled him across the kitchen and twisted--

He's in, and he's out, and then he's blinking overbright light out of his eyes.

He groans and tries to turn away from it, but it's all around him and suddenly he can't breathe--

The room dims.

Barba breathes in.

There's a familiar voice and then a large, warm hand rests on his shoulder and his brain takes him back to the street outside the courthouse--his side is on fire, a gaping wound, and the same hand guides his body down to the ground.

"Carisi?" He croaks, and feels a warm puff of breath against his face.

"I'm here," the detective's choked voice answers from above. "I'm here, Counselor."

Barba thinks it's ridiculous that Carisi is sticking to his title at a time like this--but what time is it? He doesn't know when he is.

He remembers, suddenly, Rick Purcell with his fingers in his hair--around his throat--and his chest burns as he squeezes the air out of his lungs.

He's not coherent enough to be embarrassed about the pathetic sound that escapes him.

Carisi's hands find him again--they hold him at the wrist, the shoulder, and then one cups around the side of his head as Barba tries to lift it abruptly to look around.

He's disoriented and overwhelmed.

Where was Purcell?

It's a relief when darkness rushes in from the corners of his vision, and he collapses back into nothingness.

- - -

Rollins sits in Barba's apartment and stares at her hands. The CSU techs had already been by and taken their pictures and collected their evidence, and now she's the last one left.

She's not sure what makes her linger, but it feels a lot like guilt.

Maybe if she had paid more attention to Viers, if she had been able to coax it out of him before, maybe they could have caught up to Purcell.

Maybe they could have arrested him before he attacked Judge Barth, before this--

She rubs a hand over her mouth and stares at the couch.

It's definitely guilt.

It was preventable--Noah and Lucy being stalked at the park, Barth getting pushed into her own home and nearly assaulted, the second attempt on Barba's life. She still hasn't had the chance to disclose all of the details about Viers to Benson yet, but she doesn't have to think too hard about how that's going to go over.

Rollins stands and paces slowly through the apartment, mentally laying out a map of Purcell's likely movements. They still don't know what happened, not exactly, not in its entirety, but as she glances over the few remaining signs that there was even a disturbance she recognizes that she won't get anywhere tonight. Not on her own.

She glances at her cell phone, grimaces, and decides to head home before the guilt drives her into the soothing familiarity of a bar.

- - -

Barba peers out at the world through slitted eyes. He remembers the last time he was awake and tries to take it slower--the room is dark now, and he thinks that it must be nighttime. He tries not to wonder how much time has passed.

He practices a calming breathing technique an old girlfriend had taught him back in college, knowing it had helped a few times over the years.

Breathe in for four seconds. Hold that breath in for four seconds. Exhale for four seconds. Hold that breath out for four seconds. Repeat.

It helps.

He opens his eyes again and lets them adjust to the near blackness of the room; light comes in from under the door and the machines that surround the head of his bed give off a phantom glow.

The pain in his throat is unbearable. He struggles to sit up a bit, hoping to find a cup of water within reach, but freezes when he notices a figure slumped over in the chair to his left.

His brain picks up the little cues--long legs sprawled out, hair slicked back, the faint scent of a reasonably priced cologne--and he realizes that it's Carisi.

Barba sinks back down into the pillow with relief. A machine gives a small, shrill beep at the change in his heart rate, but the detective doesn't stir and no nurses rush in.

Barba licks his dry, split lip and listens.

Beyond the door he can hear two female voices, talking slowly and in soft tones, and he immediately recognizes one as Benson. He assumes the other is a nurse or his doctor.

He tries, but he can't make out what they're saying.

He drifts back to sleep, soothed by the low murmur.

- - -

Benson's voice wakes him up, maybe a few minutes later, maybe a few hours--he has no idea.

She's not talking to him though, she's nudging Carisi awake and trying to convince him to go home. The tall detective shifts and tells her, in no uncertain terms, that he's fine where he is.

Barba is surprised by the coldness in his voice, but Benson doesn't seem to be. She's not too put off by it either, apparently, because she sighs and starts to list off reasons why Carisi should leave--to eat, to shower, to sleep.

Barba turns his head slightly, not even meaning to, and Carisi must notice because suddenly he can feel a warmth radiating to his left and the light from the hallway is blocked by the other man's body.

"Barba, hey," Carisi soothes, running a hand over his shoulder, and Barba is reminded of the last time they were in that position. He feels a pang of embarrassment, remembering his vulnerability.

"Detective," he rasps, and reaches a weak hand up to touch his throat. It hurts to talk.

"Take it easy," Carisi tells him, even though Barba isn't struggling. "We're right here, you're okay."

He hears Benson take a few steps closer, but when he opens his eyes he can only make out her silhouette, standing at Carisi's side.

"Liv," Barba greets.

She doesn't seem to know what to say, and there's something heavy in her voice when she does manage to speak.

"Can we get you anything?"

"Water...?" He manages to request, desperate for something to soothe his throat.

"Carisi, can you--" she lays a hand on Carisi's arm but Barba can see the way the younger man twists away from her grasp. Carisi seems torn--he clearly doesn't want to leave Barba's side but he doesn't know how to tell Benson no either.

So he settles for a sullen silence instead, his open palm still resting on Barba's shoulder.

Barba senses more than sees Benson turn to look at him, and without another word she slips into the hallway.

Carisi sits back down and runs his hands through his hair, and Barba nearly manages to laugh at the way it makes the gelled strands stick up, illuminated by the golden light from the barely-open door.

Barba tries to form a sentence but Carisi beats him to it.

"She used you as bait. For Purcell."

Barba is quiet for a moment, the drugs and exhaustion making his tongue slow, but he can't resist the need to defend his friend.

"She told me, before," he tries.

Carisi nods but his obvious anger doesn't relent.

"Carisi, it's--"

"Don't you dare say it's okay," the detective snaps, and Barba is taken aback. Carisi hasn't spoken to him like that in a while.

He feels a flicker of annoyance.

"She didn't know."

"She should have."

"How--" Barba struggles to find his breath. "How did he get in?"

"He'd been stalking you, for months. He'd been inside your building before, did she tell you that?"

Barba says nothing, because he can't remember if she had, but thinks that it doesn't really matter.

"He got in through the back. The employee door, for the manager and the leasing agents. They leave it open on their breaks and he got in. Because he's been watching you for months and he knew--"

Carisi's voice nearly breaks and Barba wants to reach out, but he can't summon the strength.

"There was a guard in the lobby. We don't know if he missed Purcell or if he let him pass by. There should have been someone upstairs with you--"

"It's okay," Barba murmurs, his head aching at the ferocity in the detective's voice. "Carisi, it's okay."

He doesn't necessarily mean about Benson--Barba doesn't fault her for her choices about the security detail either way, but that's not what he means. He tries to find a way to explain but Carisi seems to understand, because he bows his head and doesn't fight him on it.

Benson returns with a small plastic cup and instructions to drink slowly, which Barba almost manages to follow. It burns, but it feels better than that aching dryness.

He nods in gratitude, too exhausted to thank her properly, and he almost misses the way she leans toward Carisi to quietly tell him that they should go, citing Barba’s need for rest.

"It's okay," he slurs before he can think better of it, not wanting to go back to sleep yet, but then he hesitates. He feels safer with the other man at his side, but Carisi clearly needs a proper night at home--he looks drawn and haunted.

He tries to backtrack.

"I'll be fine, you can both go."

But it's too late, because Carisi knows him--maybe knows him better than Benson does at this point--and digs his heels in.

"Nah, I'm good," Carisi tells them, his accent thick with dismissal. Barba sees Benson shake her head, but he doesn't know if it's in anger or surrender without seeing her expression.

She comes to Barba's side in the dark and her fingers touch his cheek.

"I'm glad you're alright," she mumbles, clearly exhausted, and Barba tries to smile at her. She probably can't see it anyway.

"I'll be back in the morning," she tells them both, gathering her coat, and then lingers in the doorway.

"Get some rest."

It's not clear who she's talking to--probably both of them, in a way. Her footsteps recede down the hall and Carisi all but melts into his chair in relief.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while.

Barba wants to ask him something, but he falls asleep before he manages to articulate it.

- - -

He wakes up at some point in the night to Carisi touching his hair.

The movement is slow, soft, and obviously not meant to disturb him, so he keeps his eyes closed.

Carisi murmurs something, it almost sounds like an apology, but Barba drifts off again before he can focus on the words.

- - -

He's more or less coherent by the time morning comes. It feels late, maybe around ten or eleven, and the room is empty.

Barba feels the loss keenly.

He answers questions for a nurse, manages to eat some chicken broth and red jello, and lies awake in discomfort for a while--he wants to go back to sleep but his throat is a constant ache that prevents him from relaxing now that the pain medication is wearing off.

He thinks.

The events from the previous evening play across the inside of his eyelids and he feels mortified. He's not afraid, not now, not in the smoky morning light--he knows that Purcell is in custody--but it's humiliating to remember the fear, the helplessness, and the pitiful resignation he'd arrived at by the time Purcell had wrapped both hands around his neck.

His pulse quickens at the thought.

His forces his mind to drift to Carisi and the way the younger man had refused to leave his bedside, even going so far as to defy Benson and probably hospital regulation as well. He thinks about the secret, intimate way that Carisi had touched his hair when he thought that Barba wasn't awake to feel it.

He thinks about the breakfast Carisi had delivered a few days ago--his wide, worried eyes--his slow smile--the way his hands seemed to automatically find their way to Barba's shoulder during the Hodda trial--the way that Carisi had leaned in close to reassure him at Michael Dodds' wake.

Barba's known for a while.

He's actually surprised that the rest of the team either hadn't picked up on it or had had the tact to leave it alone, but more than anything he's startled that Carisi himself seemed to finally clue into the situation.

Barba had never dreamed that Carisi's infatuation would turn into anything other than guilty, longing looks and denial.

But Carisi's hands had been warm and sure when they rested against his head in the middle of the night, and Barba allows himself to indulge in the possibility of it, if only to chase out less pleasant thoughts.

- - -

Whitman doesn't look up when Benson steps into his temporary office at 1 Hogan Place, but he gestures for her to sit across from him.

He finishes his phone call and gives her a grim smile, which she doesn't have the strength to return.

"Lieutenant Benson," he greets, leaning back in his chair and picking up a pen. "Thank you for coming."

She nods absently and watches as the Brooklyn A.D.A. jots something down on a notepad.

"How's Barba?"

"He's going to be fine," Benson says, with just perhaps a bit more confidence than she feels. She thinks about her long recovery after William Lewis and decides that maybe she should offer to have her therapist give Barba a referral--that hadn't worked out with Rollins, but Barba would need to see someone after this.

"Good. Good, he's tough, that's good," Whitman says, approval evident in his voice.

He puts the pen down, takes a deep breath, and finally makes eye contact with her.

"We won't be bringing those C.O.s in," he tells her, looking like he's bracing for an explosion, but Benson just nods and closes her eyes--she'd expected as much.

"I'm going to go after their jobs, their pensions, but even that's a long shot based on what we have--which is almost nothing."

"It's not right," she says, but her heart isn't in the protest. She hates that she's already resigned herself to this outcome.

"It's not," he agrees, bobbing his head. "But this is where we are."

She allows her silence to convey her acceptance.

He waits for a few moments, and then they discuss Purcell--his incarceration, his scumbag lawyer, the possibility of a trial later in the year--and Benson suddenly decides that she likes Whitman. He's no replacement for Barba, but he cares and he knows what he's doing, and at the moment that's all that she feels like she can ask for.

They shake hands, promise to keep one another updated, and she leaves his office with the knowledge that she's going to have to talk with Carisi about the C.O.s, about the fact that it had been kept from him, and that they wouldn't see jail time for their apathy.

It's not something she's looking forward to.

- - -

Carisi walks back into Barba's room shortly before noon. His body is relaxed but his expression can't seem to decide between anxious and fond when he lays his eyes on Barba. He all but throws himself down into the hospital chair, which creaks a bit under his weight.

Barba smiles at him.

It's probably a dopey smile, because a nurse had reupped his pain medication not too long ago, but Barba thinks that's probably okay, if the pleased look on Carisi's face is anything to go by.

"Thank you," Barba says before the detective can get a word in. "For being there."

"Hey, of course--"

"And for staying last night."

Carisi blinks at him with something like wonder.

"It was reassuring, having you here."

"Purcell's in custody," Carisi says after a brief hesitation. He's leaning toward Barba in the way that a flower turns toward the sun, single-minded and seeking warmth. "You don't have to worry, you're safe."

"I know."

Carisi swallows hard, his smile just a little too small, and Barba wants to chase away the doubt and the guilt in his eyes.

There are a lot of things Barba wants to say, but none of them seem appropriate for a hospital visit. His desire to address the nature of their relationship is almost overwhelming, and he knows that it is his door to open--he can't imagine that Carisi would have the nerve to bring it up--but this isn't the time or the place.

"Listen," Carisi says suddenly, startling Barba out of his thoughts. "Listen, Barba, I just want you to know--"

He looks up at Barba, his eyes red-rimmed but hopeful, and he realizes that maybe Carisi has more courage than he's given him credit for.

But Carisi stalls out, obviously at a loss as to how to start that particular conversation. He licks his lips and seems confused. The look he's giving Barba is nothing short of pleading.

"I do know," Barba says slowly, and he's a little disappointed when he suddenly has trouble meeting Carisi's eyes. Something like embarrassment keeps them glued to Carisi's violet tie instead.

"Oh."

Carisi's voice is small and he seems to shrink down into himself.

"I don't think--" Barba starts, but then hesitates, feeling off balance. He had never allowed himself to consider the possibility of Carisi before that morning--the man was about a decade his junior and he was a coworker. It wouldn't be appropriate.

But...

He takes a deep breath and prepares to try again, but the sound of heels against the tile of the hallway catch up to them.

Barba closes his eyes and curses his mother's timing.

When he opens them again, Carisi is giving him a plaintive look, and Barba wonders if the younger man feels as sick as he looks. Barba realizes that his acknowledgement of Carisi's feelings and then his subsequent hesitation probably read as rejection.

The door opens and Lucia enters alongside a tall black man with sharp eyes and an authoritative presence. They both look a little surprised at the scene--Carisi angled dramatically toward an awake, somewhat panicked-looking Barba.

A couple of things flash through the A.D.A.'s mind and he sees a variety of outcomes in a split second--almost all of them end with Carisi fleeing the room. The idea of it makes Barba's hand shoot out and grab the other man's wrist where it had been resting against the handles of the hospital bed.

His mother and Carisi have matching expressions of shock. He ignores Lucia in favor of pinning Carisi with a stern expression--don't you dare leave is conveyed as clearly as a shout. Carisi glances back and forth between Barba's face and his hand, which slowly releases him and slides back to the bed as the doctor makes his way over.

"Mr. Barba, I'm glad to see you're awake," the man greets, standing at the foot of the bed and reviewing his chart. Lucia lingers by the doorway.

"I'm Dr. Teller, I admitted you last night," he continues, glancing up. "Do you know why you're here?"

Barba watches Carisi shift uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye, but he focuses on Teller and parses memories of his attack from the bad dreams.

He clears his aching throat.

"A man broke into my apartment," he begins, trying to stick to the facts. He wants to provide as many details as possible so that Carisi doesn't have to interview him about it again later, but now that he's started he realizes that he can't quite bring himself to describe anything but the bare bones of what happened. "He punched me in the face and I fell, but my stitches held. He hit me a few more times. He put his hands around my throat and I blacked out."

Dr. Teller nods along.

"You sustained a concussion and you'll have significant bruising for a while, but there isn't any permanent damage done to your head or throat."

Lucia sags with relief, even though the doctor had already nearly told her as much during the walk over. She crosses the room to sit across the bed from Carisi, who keeps his head ducked.

"How are you feeling?" Teller asks, placing the chart back into its place.

"Tired," Barba admits. "Sore."

Teller nods again and begins running through some information--his next meal will have solids, he'll be cleared to go after dinner, he'll stay on his current medication with no need to additional painkillers. Barba acknowledges the instruction that someone should stay with him for a while and then the doctor is gone.

An awkward silence fills the space.

- - -

Lucia looks between her son and the detective, who has had his chin nearly tucked against his chest for the entirety of the time that she's been in the room.

She wants to be angry with him but it's hard to fault him for sticking around. And, if she's honest with herself, she's afraid that if she opens the door to confrontation, to demands that he leave, he'll bring up the fact that she hadn't been there--she had left the apartment, had left her son vulnerable and alone.

The guilt of it was nearly overwhelming.

They'd fought and she had left, and then her only son had nearly died at the hands of a madman. Again.

When Detective Tutuola had called and notified her, she had nearly collapsed because the idea of losing him, so soon after her mother--

She's embarrassed when she has to sniffle and she does her best to look dignified when her son glances up at her. His face is pale and tired, and his eyes are dull.

She reaches out and soothes down his hair with her hand, reaching out with her other one to touch him on the arm.

Lucia wants to apologize, wants to yell at him, wants to cry, but she doesn't. She can't allow herself an outburst like that in public, especially not in front of Detective Carisi, who can't even work up the nerve to look at her.

She strokes her son's hair and takes short, deep breaths to keep from saying anything, because she knows that if she opens her mouth nothing pleasant will come out.

She resents Carisi and she's never been good at hiding her feelings.

She knows her son, knows who and what he is, and she's not ashamed of him. She also doesn't insult him by thinking that his preferences--or lack thereof--are a phase. If it was, it would be a long-running one, because growing up he'd had his eye on as many boys as girls.

He may have been attracted to boys, had even dated a few in college, but she knows that her son loves women--Yelina wasn't the only one, though she had been the first--and she knows, as she had often told him over the years, life was simply harder for two men.

She wants him to have a better life than that. She wants him to succeed, free from stigma and shame.

She's a religious woman but she doesn't necessarily believe that homosexuality is a sin--her church is progressive in that way, at least. But the thought of her son with another man was not an ideal image, all the same, and certainly not a man like the detective slouched across from her.

He's young and he's gangly and from what little Rafael had said about him when they first met, he's overexcitable and something of a kiss-ass.

She can't even picture them together.

In fairness, her son's complaints about Carisi had tapered off over a year ago, but that hadn't turned into glowing praise--he had simply stopped mentioning the detective at all.

And yet, somehow, the man was dogging her every step now.

He was at the hospital, her son's apartment--every place that Rafael was, Carisi was suddenly there, too.

She had nearly asked Rafael about it a dozen times over the last few days, but as much as they loved one another, those types of conversations didn't happen with them--especially not when he could sense her obvious disapproval.

She knew that he had to think it was a general disapproval of his choice to occasionally sleep with men, rather than just a specific distaste for Carisi. A part of her couldn't deny that both were somewhat true. But if she had to pick a man her for son--

She watches as Rafael turns to look at the detective, like he's trying to say something without saying it, and she pulls her hands back into her lap. She instinctively knows that they want privacy, that there had been something between them in the moments before she entered with Dr. Teller, but she doesn't acknowledge it. She doesn't get out of her chair because it's too soon--too much--she needs to keep her aching eyes on him just a little bit longer.

- - -

Carisi really wishes that Lucia Barba would take a hint, because if he can't ask Barba about that soft, meaningful look in his eyes he's going to go crazy. He shifts in his chair and wishes he could ask her how long she planned to chaperone them.

But that's not the only reason he's frustrated--he also wants to ask her why Barba had been alone last night. The nurses had been explicit about the A.D.A. not being left on his own with his possible head injury, but she hadn't been there when Purcell had--

He clenches his teeth and looks down at Barba's blanket, which is the same blue as last time, and he tries to focus on the color and texture of it.

Benson had warned them about Purcell, he was sure of it; his lieutenant had called only hours before the attack to give them the heads up about their suspect and the low key security detail, so why had Lucia left--?

Had Barba even told her what Benson had shared?

Barba shifts and wheezes slightly, drawing two sets of eyes and two identical frowns of concern.

Lucia reaches out again takes one of his hands in hers, and although Barba doesn't pull away, he doesn't look especially appreciative. Carisi wonders if Barba is trying to send a not so subtle message, but if he is, Lucia sure as hell isn't picking up on it.

Carisi indulges in a brief fantasy, in which he reaches out and takes Barba's other hand, but the image is too ridiculous to maintain.

Maybe if they were alone in the room.

Carisi thinks that maybe he could have managed that.

As they sit in a somewhat pleasant silence, Carisi picks over the moments before they'd been interrupted. Barba had said, 'I know', and Carisi thinks of course he did. Some of his favorite things about Barba include his intelligence and his observational skills--they're part of what made him an incredible prosecutor. So it was only natural that he'd pick up on the fact that Carisi had transitioned from I want to be you to I want to be with you somewhere along the way.

He most definitely knew before Carisi, who somehow hadn't even acknowledged that change inside of himself until about eighteen hours ago.

He swallows and wonders if he'll ever work up the courage to tell Barba that he'd had that particular revelation while staring at a collage of someone else's family and waiting for a bag of Italian takeout.

As he watches Barba doze off, he hopes he'll have the chance to make it a good memory.

Chapter Text

"Try not to say anything, Detective Tutuola," Whitman advises, straightening his tie as they follow a guard down the brightly lit hallway of Rikers prison.

"Just here to observe," Fin agrees amicably, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

They stand and wait as the C.O. unlocks a metal door, which swings open to reveal a gaunt-looking Purcell and his lawyer, already ready and waiting.

Whitman unbuttons his suit jacket and slides into the metal chair across from Purcell, who rubs his wrists where the handcuffs had bitten into his skin. Fin sits across from Costa and folds his arms over his chest.

"Prison orange doesn't suit you, Mr. Purcell," Whitman quips, opening his briefcase and pulling out a thick file.

Costa gives him a dirty look but doesn't comment. Purcell doesn't respond at all--his eyes stay fixed to the stainless steel table.

"Mr. Whitman, are you here to offer my client a deal?" Costa asks, briefly clasping Purcell on the shoulder, which seems to wake him from his stupor slightly.

Purcell looks up at Whitman and blinks, his eyes distant.

"Well, we have quite the list of charges. Two counts of assault with a deadly weapon, attempted homicide, false imprisonment, attempted rape--of a New York City judge, no less--plus about half a dozen stalking-related charges."

Costa doesn't look impressed.

"My client was acting under extreme duress, his diagnosis--"

"Doesn't excuse anything."

"--shows a pattern of irrational behavior that demonstrates that he is not of sound mind--"

"Mr. Costa--"

"Mr. Whitman, look," Purcell's lawyer leans forward, lowering his voice to an intimate level, like they're coworkers having a drink in a bar, not two attorneys sitting across from one another in a prison interrogation room. "We both know that Mr. Purcell has done some terrible things. We also both know that a judge isn't likely to find him fit to stand trial--"

Fin snorts, disgusted, but manages to refrain from speaking his mind. He hadn't really expected anything else--of course that was their defense--but it still pisses him off to hear it said out loud.

"Hold on," Whitman protests, narrowing his eyes. "Your client isn't insane--"

"I think we can all agree that he isn't sane. Look at what he did. You think any rational-minded person would do the things he's done?"

Annoyed and clearly seeing the future course of their defense strategy, Whitman shakes his head but doesn't bother arguing--it's not up to either of them, it'll be up to a judge. At least he knows how to prepare now. He'll have to structure his argument around the cancer diagnosis and convince the presiding judge that it made Purcell reckless, not incompetent.

"Your client is going to serve some serious time, either way," Whitman tells him firmly. "You want to avoid a trial? Fine. So do I. But Purcell's not walking out of here, not in the next twenty-five years."

Fin thinks about Purcell's diagnosis and takes morbid pleasure in the idea that he's never going to be walking out--not in five years, certainly not twenty-five.

Purcell sucks in a breath and his eyes dart between Whitman and Fin.

"It was just a mistake," he says weakly, and Costa reaches out to touch him on the arm, obviously trying to caution him against speaking out. It takes a lot of self-restraint for Fin to resist sending his fist across the table--for Purcell to dismiss everything that had happened, just like that--it makes his skin crawl.

Costa and Whitman go back and forth for a bit--Costa wants the attempted murder and rape charges dropped but Whitman isn't going to budge on that, and he's insulted that Costa even thinks it's a possibility.

Whitman makes it almost forty-five minutes before he completely loses his patience. He slides Purcell's file back in his briefcase and stands, nodding at Fin, who has looked half asleep since minute twenty.

"We'll be in touch," Costa says, having agreed to discuss the options with his client. Whitman nods and starts to turn to leave, but Purcell raises his head, his eyes suddenly sharp and feverish, and it makes him hesitate.

"It's not so bad in here," Purcell murmurs, and his voice is so quiet that Whitman almost misses it. Fin makes a sour face and Purcell's mouth curves in a tight-lipped smile at the sight.

"The guards like me," Purcell shares, sounding to Whitman like he's high on something. "They say I'm off limits--for a job almost well done."

Costa leans over and mutters something angrily in Purcell's ear, but Whitman can only stare, stunned and sickened.

He glances at Fin, whose hands are curled into fists, and he briefly wonders if he'll have to restrain him. But Fin just shakes his head and pounds a hand on the door, signaling the guard on the other side to open up, and he slips out into the hallway without a word.

- - -

Carisi's enjoying watching Lucia try to convince her son to stay at her apartment when his phone vibrates. He eases it out of his jacket pocket and frowns when he sees a text from Fin, asking him to return to the precinct for a bit.

"You're not staying at a hotel, Rafí," Lucia says with dry certainty, just a hint of warning in her tone, which elicits a truly exceptional eyeroll from Barba. The nickname catches Carisi's attention and it takes a monumental effort not to comment on it, but he sets aside a special place in his mind for it.

"You don't have the space--"

"I'll make the space. I have a couch."

"Mamí, don't be ridiculous," Barba sighs. "I'm not going to take over your bed. You're not going to sleep on your couch."

"No tomes ese tono conmigo," she warns, and although there isn't any bite in her voice she's deadly serious. She isn't going to tolerate any backtalk, not about this, not now.

Carisi clears his throat and receives two annoyed sets of eyes in his direction, and he bites down a grin at how similar they look in that moment.

If only he was brave enough to take a picture.

"Hey, listen, I gotta head in for a while. Fin needs me, but I'll be back," he shares, putting his phone back in his jacket.

"Oh," Barba nods, but looks put-out at the idea of him leaving. "Don't bother coming back, they'll be releasing me after what will surely be an exceptionally lackluster dinner."

"Right. Right," Carisi frowns and automatically looks at Lucia, who meets his imploring glance with a venomous expression.

He swallows hard and hesitates.

"Call me," Barba offers, apparently not even needing to look to know that his mother has don't you dare even think about inviting him into my home written plainly across her face.

Carisi grins, his stomach twisting pleasantly at the simple offer, and nods eagerly.

"Yeah, of course, soon as I'm done."

Barba's eyes are warm and dark and Carisi is suddenly glad to get some space from him--he's got to think about what he's going to say. He can't just stumble into the conversation and hope for the best--no--he'll find a way to make his argument. He'll come at it like a lawyer. He'll feel out the opposition and find ways to overcome objections before Barba could even raise them.

His phone vibrates again and he glances at it.

u get my message? from Fin.

Carisi taps back a quick, on my way, and blasts both Barbas with a blinding smile before making his escape.

- - -

Benson wants nothing more than to collapse face-first back into her comforter, but she's too wired to fall back asleep.

Between a mad dash from Barba's apartment, to the hospital, to the precinct, she didn't make it home until almost 7AM, and even then she couldn't rest--Lucy had finals and had to be gone by 8AM, which meant Benson was tasked with getting Noah fed, bathed, and packed up for daycare. It was rare that they utilized the service, but this would be one of those times.

After dropping him off, she'd endured an earful from Deputy Chief Dodds, who was furious that Purcell had been given the opportunity to take another shot at their A.D.A., and somehow had saved most of his anger for Benson instead of the actual perpetrator.

Another hostage situation.

It must've brought up a lot for him.

She understood but she'd stood her ground, because as guilty as she still felt about failing Mike, she refused to continue being his father's punching bag.

She'd told him as much and he had hung up on her.

There would be fallout later, but for the moment she forces herself to find the silver lining: Barba was alive, Purcell was in custody, and Noah was out of danger.

She'd managed about two hours of sleep, but only after lying awake for more than twice that staring at the ceiling.

She has another two hours before Lucy is due to pick up and return Noah for her, and she's a little lost as to what to do with herself.

Benson rubs her forehead and glances at the clock, debating if it was too early in the afternoon to invite Tucker over. She decides it's worth asking, and she'd pleasantly surprised when he picks up on the second ring and promises to arrive at her apartment with good booze inside of thirty minutes.

He follows through and arrives about fifteen minutes early with a 1986 bottle of bourbon, and she laughs when he proudly displays it as he crosses the threshold into her apartment.

"You got him," Tucker growls, pulling her close.

"Yeah, we did," she agrees, chuckling when he kisses her and then buries his lips into the crook of her shoulder.

"I never doubted it," he says and pulls away in order to set the bourbon on the counter. She misses his warmth immediately and decides to press up against him as he grabs two glasses. She's not normally so physical outside of the bedroom and Tucker gives her a long, knowing look, his mouth curving into one-sided grin.

"I didn't realize you called me over for some afternoon delight," he says like he's half joking, clearly testing the waters. They had barely even seen each other in weeks and the idea of intimacy was an alluring one.

"It's not the only thing on my list," she quips, nodding toward the unopened bottle of alcohol. "But it is up there."

"You're off duty for the night, right?"

"Mmhm," she murmurs, kissing the thick column of his neck. "Back in the morning, but until then..."

His palms spread over her hips and she leans into the pressure of his grip, soaking up the heat that his hands give off.

She moans when he licks her collarbone and pulls her down to the couch.

- - -

The nurses wish Barba an exasperated farewell and tell him not to come back anytime too soon, and he can appreciate the sentiment. He's had about all that he can stand of hospitals, and he hopes that this will be the last time until his stitches are ready to come out.

At least Lucia lets a burly nurse push his wheelchair out to the taxi this time.

She waits until he's settled inside of the cab to start fussing--was he warm enough, was he sore, was he thirsty--and Barba's relieved when the driver tunes in to a cheerful radio station and turns the volume up. He's a little old for the whole routine and an audience didn't make it any less embarrassing.

But he lets his mother cluck her tongue and murmur to him in Spanish, because he understands that she's struggling.

Barba's perceptive enough to know what thoughts keep her hands close to him, and as much as he wants to reassure her it'll have to wait until he's had a bit more sleep--it's not a conversation he wants to jump recklessly into, he has to be firm and clear with her at the start--it wasn't her fault and he's glad she wasn't there and there's nothing she could have done--

He jolts awake, his neck protesting as he bobs his head and looks around.

Lucia's paying the driver, who's making a tired joke about traffic, and Barba glances out the window to find that they've already arrived at her building. It's in a nice area, one he'd helped her move into the moment that they could afford it, which was almost fifteen years ago. He's suddenly very glad that he chose a complex with an elevator.

Barba manages to get out of the car before Lucia swings around and folds her left arm under his right, supporting him even though he's perfectly capable of walking inside.

The walk from the elevator to her door is another matter, though, and he finds that he's dizzy and winded by the time she gets the key in the door. Once inside, he sheds his shoes and coat and makes a beeline for the couch, only to have his mother grab him by the elbow and march him into the bedroom, like he's three and she doesn't trust him to make it there on his own.

Barba settles his aching body down on top of the blankets and she makes a face.

"I'll get you some fresh sheets later," she says after a moment of watching him melt into the soft mattress--a birthday gift he'd wisely given her three years ago. "Get some sleep, mijo."

She crowds close, kisses him on the cheek like she had when he was a child, and he closes his eyes. As reluctant as he had been to come, he's suddenly glad she'd talked him into it--Purcell's visage won't find him here, not in these old blankets, not surrounded by the familiar scent of his mother's perfume.

He's asleep again before he knows it.

- - -

"So, what's so urgent?" Carisi complains, dropping his soaking coat on the desk. It had started pouring on the way over and the brief jog from his car had been miserably wet and cold.

Fin looks up from some paperwork and frowns at the sight of him, and then stands up and stretches out his back.

"Come on, let's use Liv's office," Fin offers, and Carisi is immediately on guard. Fin's relaxed behavior tells him that they're not in crisis mode, but Carisi's not sure his heart can take another twist--he's pretty certain the stress of the last week has already shaved a few years off.

All the same, he follows Fin into the office, watches him close the door, and waits with apprehension.

Fin sinks down onto the couch and gestures at the seat next to him, but Carisi opts to turn a chair around and sit directly across from him instead.

"Look, Carisi, this isn't a conversation that I want to have with you," the older man says, and he looks appropriately dismayed. "But Liv's got enough on her plate and I guess I'm just stepping up."

Carisi's stomach loops itself into a tight knot. He presses his lips closed and clasps his hands together.

"There are a couple of things you don't know. I'm going to clear it up for you, you're gonna listen. You can ask questions afterward."

Carisi opens his mouth in protest, decides against it, and then nods grimly.

"First off, you should know that Amanda has a contact over at Green Haven. Guard by the name of Viers. She got him to admit that Purcell had contacted the C.O.s over at Rikers."

Carisi's eyebrows pull in together and he rears his head back a bit, startled. Fin takes a deep breath and braces his elbows on his knees.

"Purcell wanted to get them in on it. Getting back at Barba. They didn't take him up on that generous offer, but they knew it was probably gonna happen."

Carisi stares at the floor and feels his heart pound in his throat. He shouldn't be surprised. He really shouldn't. But a haze of anger settles in deeply beneath his skin, and his stomach burns with it.

"Those sons of bitches," he starts, nearly wheezing with the realization that they had direct knowledge of a likely attack but had done nothing to prevent it--they had allowed it--had maybe even encouraged it by omission, if not directly--

"Yeah," Fin agrees bitterly. "Whitman's aware. He and Benson had a talk about it. He... tried his best, but he says he can't go after them for it. Not based on what he has."

As if knowing about Carisi's impending outburst and looking to head it off, Fin raises his hands and quickly continues.

"He thinks he can take their jobs, maybe their pensions if we're lucky, but unless we find evidence otherwise, they had nothing to do with any of this."

Carisi bites the inside of his cheek and shakes his head.

"And they're supposed to be the good guys?"

"Not this bunch," Fin says warily. "We already knew that."

Fin rubs a hand over his head and looks tired.

"Also, I took a trip to Rikers with Whitman this morning," he continues, knowing that this bit won't go over any better than the last. "We saw Purcell."

Carisi looks up, his brow furrowed.

"Looks like they're going to claim he's not competent to stand trial," Fin divulges, ignoring the angry puff of air that the other detective lets out. "Whitman doesn't want a trial either. He thinks that Costa will settle with twenty-five if they drop the attempted rape of Judge Barth, but it doesn't matter anyway."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"You saw Purcell's medical file, Carisi. What do you think. Dude's got another year before he kicks it, maybe two max."

"It's not about that," Carisi says, gritting his teeth.

"No? What is it about, then?"

"He should be tried and convicted for what he's done!"

Fin watches him gesture angrily with his hands and doesn't seem convinced.

"You want Barba to have to sit through the wrong side if a trial, just to make sure Purcell gets an extra few years tacked on? Years he's never even gonna serve?"

Carisi ducks his head, chastised, and sits in quiet contemplation for a few moments, picking at some lint on his pants.

"I didn't really think about it like that," he admits, deflating. "Of course I don't want him to go through that."

Satisfied that he's successfully navigated the 'anger' phase, Fin risks a joke.

"You never know, maybe Barba'd like it, getting to be the witness for once. He'd probably call his own objections from the box."

Carisi looks surprised and runs it through his head before allowing a small, begrudging smile.

"Yeah. Probably."

Folding his hands over his stomach, Fin watches the younger man and looks thoughtful. Carisi senses the question and suddenly thinks that maybe getting out in front of it would be best.

"I know I've been a little crazy lately," he says slowly, playing with a button on his shirt in favor of looking at Fin for a moment, but then glances up and lets weight fall into his tone. "I know. It's just--he means a lot to me, you know?"

Fin looks startled at the confession and Carisi feels his stomach plunge in horror. Maybe Fin hadn't been about to ask after all. Had he just--to Fin, of all people--for no reason?

His mouth goes dry.

Fin must understand the look of panic because he carefully schools his face into a neutral expression.

"I didn't, no," he drawls, keeping his smile friendly and open. "To be honest I thought you were just being a bit squirrelier than usual."

Carisi flushes.

"But that's fine, it's cool," Fin shrugs, like his coworker had just admitted to preferring Pepsi over Coke and not to having feelings for their decidedly male Assistant District Attorney.

When Carisi fails to look reassured, Fin tries to find a way to comfort him without being dismissive--he's not about to hug it out with the younger man, but he wants him to understand.

"Relax man, I don't care, none of us do. Why would we?"

"Yeah," Carisi says unconvincingly. "Of course."

"Seriously, Carisi," Fin leans forward and fixes him with a pointed stare, his eyes suddenly heavy and serious. "It's all good."

The younger detective lets out a shaky breath and slumps down into his chair, nodding.

"My son's gay--you know Ken, right? Don't get any ideas though, he's happily taken."

Carisi lets out a bark of laughter, looking surprised with himself, and Fin grins, happy the joke landed.

"What? You don't think my kid's hot? Too young for you?"

Carisi's mouth pops open and his expression shifts to mortification.

"Too soon for daddy jokes, huh?" Fin teases, unable to resist and wondering if he's ever seen Carisi so red in the face before. "Alright, that's fine, we'll get there, man."

He heaves himself up and off the couch and clasps Carisi on the shoulder, his eyes friendly and mischievous.

"I got work to do. See you later, Carisi."

Fin tucks his hands into his pockets and leaves Carisi in stunned silence, sitting in Benson's office by himself, feeling blitzed.

It was a lot to process.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he glances at the door and realizes that Fin had closed it behind him, probably thinking that Carisi needed a bit of space and privacy to sort through things. He feels embarrassed and grateful at the small gesture.

He takes out his phone and texts Barba.

- - -

"You did what?"

"Calm down, Liv, it's cool, it went well," Fin reassures her, turning on his windshield wipers as he pulls into traffic. He hears her take a deep breath, the phone line crackling. "I'm going to be taking that sergeant's exam soon. If I pass I'm going to be helping take some of the stress off you. Consider this practice."

Benson sighs, and Fin hears a male voice in the background--Tucker, probably--and then rustling.

"Did I interrupt something?" He asks, flabbergasted at getting a few too many glimpses into his collegues' private lives that day.

"What did he say?" Benson demands, ignoring his question. Fin hears what sounds like a coffee-maker beep and come to life.

"Not much. He's upset, for sure, but he didn't go ballistic. He studied law, remember? He knows better than any of us what kind of battle Whitman'd have to fight to charge those C.O.s."

"Right," his lieutenant answers, but he thinks she still sounds upset.

"Look, Liv, I'm sorry if I overstepped--"

"No, no, it's fine, Fin. Really," he hears her let out a breathy laugh. "To be honest I'm relieved that I don't have to be the one to inform him. But I do still have to have a conversation with him."

Fin frowns and wonders if he should give her the heads-up about Carisi--about Carisi and Barba--or, well, the fact that Carisi wants there to be a 'Carisi and Barba'--but decides against it. He speeds up to make it through a yellow light and figures that she probably already knows, because she and Barba are tight like that.

But even if she didn't, he trusted her to react appropriately when Carisi did decide to disclose.

"Anyway, I'm just grabbing some dinner. Just wanted to let you know."

"Thanks, Fin, I do appreciate it," she says, finally relaxing and letting some warmth back into her voice. "You're going to make a great sergeant."

He rolls his eyes, grins, and tells her to enjoy her night with Tucker before hanging up. He pulls into the narrow lot where his favorite taco truck is usually parked, happy to reward himself for a successful heart-to-heart conversation with not one but two coworkers that day.

- - -

Rollins shuffles down the hall of 1 Hogan Place, peering at the nameplates and feeling less than relieved when she finds the one she's looking for.

She didn't get nearly enough sleep to be enthusiastic about meeting another A.D.A.

But she knocks politely and only enters once a low, feminine voice gives her permission.

The Korean woman behind the desk stands and comes around to shake her hand, and Rollins nods appreciatively at her firm grip and studies her handsome, stern features.

"Detective Rollins, it's nice to meet you, I'm Jessica Perlman."

Rollins nods and accepts the seat that Perlman offers, watching as the prosecutor returns to the plush leather chair behind the desk. The other woman risks a friendly smile.

"Perlman is my husband's surname," she shares, and Rollins lifts her eyebrows. "In case you were wondering."

"I really wasn't," Rollins answers honestly, and she notices Perlman relax, just a fraction.

"I recently transferred from New Mexico--got that question a lot down there."

Rollins grins and gives her a sympathetic nod.

"How are you liking it here?" She asks, glancing around at the framed photographs of Perlman meeting politicians, noting that they're the only thing that decorates the otherwise spartan walls.

"I liked it a lot better before rapists went around stabbing my coworkers," Perlman tells her dryly, taking a moment to jot something down.

"Ah," Rollins acknowledges, trying to hide the fact that Purcell is the last thing she wants to talk about.

"You work pretty closely with Barba," Perlman continues, and Rollins recognizes that it's not a question. Perlman's teeth show in a cheeky smile as she glances up and puts her engraved pen back down. "That must be rough."

Rollins lets a bubble of laughter escape, pleased by the fond, knowing way that Perlman speaks about their usual A.D.A.

"He's a handful."

Perlman bobs her head in agreement and then adopts a more focus look, and Rollins recognizes that the pleasantries are over.

"I'll be taking over the Owen Manning case from here. He had nothing to do with Barba's assault, so Brooklyn doesn't want to waste their resources on something we can handle in-house."

"Yeah, Whitman told us the same."

"Good. So," Perlman sighs, leaning back and propping her elbows on the armrests of her chair
"I met with Manning and his lawyer a few hours ago. They've agreed to a plea deal."

"That was fast."

"Mrs. Manning--that is, soon-to-be Ms. Abigail Weeks again--agreed to testify, which put enough pressure on him. Mr. Wesley wisely counselled his client into the best deal he's ever going to see. So here we are."

Perlman lowers her voice, as if to prevent eavesdropping even though her door is shut.

"Abigail is moving back to Washington state with the kids. Her parents are out there."

Rollins nods, feeling relieved. She thinks about Manning's family, about Max and Lindsay and their smiling, dead-eyed mother, and she's happy for them.

"Is there anything you need from us?" She asks, but Perlman shakes her head.

"No, not unless Manning changes his mind between now and his court date on Monday. In that event, I would need you and your team to testify. But otherwise, I just wanted to keep you in the loop."

Rollins appreciates that, and says as much. She shakes Perlman's hand again, welcomes her to New York, and heads back out into the freezing rain in a much better mood than when she'd walked in.

- - -

Rollins drops into her chair with a sigh, happy to be back in the bullpen, with all of its centralized heating glory.

She watches as Fin finishes up a phone call, and from the way he's smiling she thinks he must be talking to Ken. She turns on her computer and shoots off a quick email update to the team about Perlman and Manning. Fin plops down into Carisi's empty seat when she finishes, and she cocks her head at him in curiosity.

"You look tired, Amanda," he observes, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. She thinks that's a little funny, because she knows that none of them had gotten much sleep recently.

"Been better, been worse."

They talk about Manning for a minute and Rollins shares that she likes the D.A.'s newest assistant.

"Perlman, huh? Haven't met her. Sounds like you're already a fan, though--hoping Barba retires after all this?"

Rollins is taken aback and is quick to shake her head.

"No, 'course not. Perlman's going to be good to have as an alternate, though. And... I wouldn't blame him--if he did leave."

"Doubt Carisi would be happy to hear that," Fin says, and she can't ignore the gravity in his gaze.

So. He'd figured it out, too.

"Guess I wouldn't be too surprised," she replies cautiously, returning his knowing look. "He is awfully attached to our good counselor."

"Funny, we were just talking about that," he says as if to acknowledge that they're on the same page.

"Who?"

"Me and Carisi," Fin says, and then frowns at the look on her face. She recognizes the exact moment he realizes his mistake.

"You and Carisi were talking about... what? His little crush on Barba?" She asks quietly, mindful that their privacy is only relative to what volume they keep the conversation at.

Fin rubs the back of his neck and looks embarrassed--or maybe guilty.

Rollins swallows thickly and glances back down at her computer, stung by being left out of the loop. She hears Fin roll closer in Carisi's chair.

"Hey, Amanda, it's not like we have a usual gab session. It just came up. I don't think he meant to let it slip like that."

She looks up at him, her bangs obscuring part of her face, and she thinks that she trusts Fin to tell her the truth. He always had in the past.

"I guess I wouldn't be surprised--him being too stupid to keep it quiet forever."

Fin chuckles, relaxing a bit at the begrudging amusement in her voice.

"You should've seen him."

She shakes her head and gives him a genuine grin.

"Oh," she says, "I can imagine it. Deer in the headlights look? Beet red? Staten Island accent kicking into overdrive?"

Fin throws his head back with laughter.

"Got it in one," he agrees, wiping an imaginary mirthful tear from his eye. "Poor kid."

Rollins sighs and leans back in her chair and tries to ignore the way that Fin watches her closely.

"So you figured it out on your own then, huh?"

"Uh, yeah," she laughs. "About around the time he bit my head off at the mere mention of Barba's name."

Fin rolls his eyes, still grinning.

"He's a bit old for puppy love, but it suits him, I guess."

Rollins makes a face at that, and it's somewhere between a smirk and a grimace.

"God!" She exclaims suddenly. "Can you even imagine--the two of them?"

"No. Bad enough when they didn't get along. But hey, seems like maybe we won't have to use our imaginations soon enough."

"What--you think Carisi's actually going to pull the trigger and ask Barba out? No way."

Fin tilts his head and considers, and she follows suit, trying to picture it.

What was Carisi's ideal first date, anyway? The movies? A walk in the park? Corndogs on Coney Island?

She's surprised at the envious pang in her chest at the thought of it. She wasn't attracted to him, not sexually, but romantically... she realizes that maybe she had wanted that part of it, the part that Carisi was probably best at--excessive hand holding, sending flowers on a Monday, bringing soup at 2AM for a cold, and all the other silly romantic gestures straight out of a rom-com.

Maybe she was a bit jealous.

Fin's phone vibrates and startles them both out of their thoughts, and she quickly blinks away the aftermath of her melancholy little realization.

Fin sighs and stands, complaining about following up on his side case, and goes for his coat.

"You should talk to him," he says, then shrugs at the sudden scornful look on her face. "Take him out to dinner or something. He's holed up in the conference room right now, working on making Purcell's case airtight. He could probably use a break."

"Thanks for the suggestion, Fin," Rollins replies, her voice slow and dry with sarcasm. The last thing she wants right now is Carisi thinking she's coming on to him--she doesn't exactly love the thought of being rejected in favor of a pissy middle-aged attorney.

"Hey, I'm serious," he says, brows furrowing as he leans closer and lowers his voice. "Not sure he got the message that gay is a-okay growing up. Catholic boy and all that. He was pretty shaken when he let it slip to me."

That doesn't surprise her.

"Just... he could probably use some support. That's all I'm saying."

She nods solemnly, suddenly regretting their playful mockery of his feelings. He was a grown man, but sometimes he was just so goddamn vulnerable, it was honestly ridiculous.

Fin pats her shoulder, recognizing that she gets it, and then stalks out of the bullpen to pursue his lead.

Rollins swivels back and forth in her chair for a few minutes, thinking through her options, and then reluctantly gets up to find their stocky detective.

- - -

Carisi is smiling down at his phone when she peeks into the conference room, surrounded by boxes of evidence taken from Purcell's apartment and leaning forward against the table, which has photographs and papers scattered over every inch of its surface.

"Hey," she greets softly and his head snaps up, like he's been caught doing something he's not supposed to be doing.

Texting Barba, probably.

Her smile is a bit too sharp, but she enters and puts her hands on her hips, looking at the chaotic spread of their impending court case.

"Hey, Rollins," he says, smiling guiltily but looking more relaxed than she'd seen him in a while--since before the Manning case, even--and she reaches over to pat him on the back.

"Let's go get some dinner, I'm starving."

His face does an odd shift between amusement and uncertainty, and his eyes dart down to the phone as if Barba can see them.

Rollins rolls her eyes at him.

"Come on, all this can wait for an hour. I'm craving Italian."

"Uh, oh, okay," Carisi nods, looking flustered and uncomfortable. He straightens some papers back into a file and stands, and he seems embarrassed as he pulls his coat on. "How about Chinese, though? I'm not really feeling Italian tonight."

Rollins blinks rapid fire at him, stunned.

"Never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth!" She jokes, but her grin falls away at the look on his face, and then she remembers--the takeout bag in Barba's hallway, the statement he'd reluctantly given to Benson about picking up dinner for the A.D.A.--and she gets it.

"Whatever," she agrees nonchalantly, clapping him on the arm. "Chinese food's better anyway."

"I wouldn't go that far," Carisi says, giving an offended huff, and she laughs as they make their way toward the elevator.

- - -

They go to their usual place, which is greasy and cheap and fast and therefore right up their alley. Rollins sighs and sinks into the comfortable booth, which is soft and worn with age, and doesn't even have to look at the menu.

She's a little surprised when Carisi opens his and studies it intently.

"Not in the mood for your usual?" She asks, dumping three packets worth of sugar into her tea cup and stirring it into the weak brew.

"Uh, nah, I'm still getting the chow mein, I'm just looking."

Rollins' mouth purses slightly and she's suddenly exasperated--how had she never noticed just how transparent he was?

"I think Chinese is a little too greasy for him right now. Give him a day or two," she says dryly, leveling him with a pointed look.

He glances up, eyes wide, like a kid caught in a lie.

"Uh," Carisi starts, then sets the menu down, clenches his jaw, and looks ready to stand in front of a firing squad.

Her annoyance at his preoccupation with Barba melts away at the edges.

"You want to talk about it?" She asks, keeping her voice low and friendly. She had invited him out with the intention of pushing--of demanding--of accusing him of keeping it from her--but she can see the doubt and the shame in the twist of his mouth and the set of his eyes.

She's not that cruel.

"Fin tell you?" He asks and, to his credit, only looks mildly betrayed.

"I figured it out. A few days ago. Around the time you chewed me out for acknowledging Purcell's stalking skills."

"Oh," he mutters, face blotchy and red with embarrassment. "Listen, sorry about that, I--"

"Forget it," she says, waving her hand dismissively and smiling at him.

"And, sorry, for not saying anything."

"When did you figure it out?" She asks, an eyebrow quirked as if convey that she knows it was a recent revelation.

He scratches the back of his neck and glances around the restaurant, and although he's clearly uncomfortable she's pleased that the shame has receded from his face. She thinks that it probably had more to do with keeping it secret than actually feeling it.

"Right before."

"Before what?"

"Before Purcell," he says after taking a deep breath. "Before he got in."

"Ah," she nods, feeling a pang of sympathy for him, because that was a hell of a time to realize it. "That must have been hard."

Carisi lets out an explosive sigh, like he's been holding it in for days, and shakes his head, and his grin has both pain and relief in it.

"You have no idea, Rollins," he replies, and she thinks that that might be true.

"But hey, he's going to be alright. I hear he's already out of the hospital and back at home?"

Carisi nods and finally relaxes back into the seat, long fingers playing with his empty teacup.

"At his mom's, actually."

"Oh yeah?" She laughs. "He's got to be loving that."

"Probably not," he agrees, but his smile is small. "I... we've been texting, a bit, seems like he's mostly sleeping."

Rollins nods, thinking that's not at all surprising.

"I'm glad, though," he continues. "That woman's a spitfire but he was gonna go to a hotel."

"His place still a crime scene?"

"As far as I know. Can't imagine he'd want to be there right now anyway."

Rollins sees his shoulders droop and his eyes go distant, and recognizes that he's going down an unpleasant road of thought.

"When were you going to tell me?" She asks playfully, and she'd slug him on the shoulder if she could reach.

"Uh--"

"I mean, Fin, really? Before me?"

"It wasn't like that," he complains loudly, but she knows that he's playing along with her teasing now.

She smiles with her teeth and he looks grateful, probably relieved that she isn't angry. She thinks back to his last visit to her apartment and feels a hint of annoyance with herself for not realizing it then--he'd been smitten for a while, but because of his gender, and Barba's gender, it hadn't even occurred to her.

She considers apologizing but doesn't know how to phrase it--sorry we assumed you were straight? Or I never would have guessed and that's kind of messed up?

A harassed-looking waiter makes his way over and Carisi seems to remember that he'd been trying to pick something out for Barba, but he doesn't order anything extra. Rollins thinks that was probably a smart move. Painkillers and Chinese food weren't a great combination.

As they wait for their respective dishes, Rollins tells him about Manning's family and their potential new start out West, and his smile is bright at the news.

It dims considerably once they start discussing Fin's visit to Rikers.

"Do you think the judge will find him incompetent?" She asks, trusting his expertise.

He takes a deep breath and looks anxious, but holds off on answering when their waiter arrives with their chow mein, broccoli and beef, and a heaping plate of chicken fried rice.

They serve themselves in silence and Carisi pushes things around on his plate while he thinks it over.

"I don't," he says at last, but sounds uncertain. "After what he did to Barba and Barth, I don't see any judge in this state going easy on him."

She nods, relieved, and starts eating, but pauses with a mouthful when she notices that he hasn't done the same.

"I'm more worried about compassionate release," Carisi admits when he realizes that she's staring in concern.

"Are you serious? Carisi--there's no way they're letting him out. Not even when he's on death's door."

He shrugs and she's alarmed to see his eyes suddenly look red and wet.

"How does that even work? You just said that a judge won't be lenient with him--"

"It's not always up to a judge. Sometimes all it takes is one doctor giving the okay."

"It can't be that simple," she says, stunned.

"Sometimes. It still takes weeks, months even, but it's possible."

"Even after everything that he's done?"

Carisi chews on his lip, looking lost.

"I doubt it. They'd have to be nuts to even try. But there's a chance," he mutters, and she looks down at the table, horrified by the prospect.

Noticing the look on her face, he reaches out across the table and lays his hand near hers.

"Hey--sorry, Rollins, didn't mean to kill the mood. You're right, there's probably no way."

She nods and bites at the skin on her lip, thinking about Viers, and she forces a smile for Carisi's sake.

"Yeah, 'course."

"Anyway, how's Jesse?"

It's not a smooth transition but she accepts the distraction all the same, grateful to have a reason to fight back a guilty outburst. She knows that Fin had told Carisi about Viers, about it all, but it still sits heavily in her gut and it's hard to stifle the impulse to apologize.

She pulls out her phone and shows him a few pictures of Jesse eating spaghetti from a few nights ago. He grabs the device out of her hand and grins down at the photos, his dimples showing.

He hands her phone back and asks about Kim.

Rollins sucks in a breath and watches him dig into his chow mein, his mood obviously improved, and she briefly considers lying.

"Kim's... well, she's Kim," Rollins says, and she's glad that he doesn't pry. He's never been nosy. Curious, yes, but he always seemed to know when to back off.

They eat and she tells him about an episode she'd watched of a new show, and he jokingly berates her for enjoying a program about a British time-traveling psychic.

His phone buzzes and he's quick to grab it up, and she watches as his face splits into what could only be described as a goofy grin.

Barba.

She smiles at the look in Carisi's eyes, feeling a bit lonely, but she's glad that she's able to feel genuine happiness for him. She waits while he types back a quick reply, and she's pleasantly surprised when he puts his cell phone back in his jacket and gives her his undivided attention again.

Rollins realizes that he'll still be her friend, no matter which direction his relationship with their surly A.D.A. goes, and she thinks that that's enough.

She laughs when Carisi excitedly shares that Barba wants him to drop off some egg flower soup.

Chapter Text

Carisi doesn't quite bounce up to Lucia Barba's door, but it's a near thing. He shakes out his nervous limbs as much as possible without dropping Barba's soup--with an extra portion for his mother, just in case--and hesitates as he stands before her door.

He licks his lips and thinks about Barba's apartment.

Logically, he knows that Rick Purcell is locked up in Rikers, far away from this pleasant neighborhood and the A.D.A. waiting inside, but the chow mein sits heavily in his stomach as he raises his hand to knock.

The wood is cool under his knuckles.

He hears Purcell's soft voice in his head.

Lucia's face appears in the doorway, and he's impressed with the way she can manage to look so stoic and haughty at the same time. He thinks he's seen a similar look on Barba's face a dozen times in court and that makes it easier to smile at her.

He clears his throat.

"Mrs. Barba," he greets.

"Detective,” she replies, and although her voice is dry it’s at least free of malice.

He feels his palms grow sweaty, because she still hasn't opened the door all the way or invited him in, and he's horrified at the prospect of her taking the egg flower soup and leaving him out in the cold.

As if sensing his thoughts and begrudgingly realizing that's not an option, she moves back and lets the door swing open, and he gingerly steps inside of her home.

It's simple and elegant at its core, and not unlike Barba's apartment--neutral, pleasant colors and modern lines--but Lucia has clutter spilling over almost every available surface. Work papers and knick-knacks and letters, by the looks of it. Carisi thinks that her son's home had looked sterile by comparison.

He tries not to let his eyes catch on the framed photographs of Lucia's family, which adorn a shelf near the dining table, but his hungry gaze seeks out any hint of Rafael Barba as a baby.

Lucia takes the bag containing the soup out of his hand and gestures at a seat before he can find what he's looking for though, and he settles his gangly limbs into the old wooden chair.

She's seated him with his back to the pictures and he can't help but wonder if that's intentional.

Out of spite, he examines the rest of her apartment as she puts the soup in the fridge, and he's a little bewildered because Barba is nowhere in sight--the ornately patterned couch is empty and the bedroom door is closed--and she's not only allowed him into her home, she's put him at the table, and he feels sweat break along his hairline at the idea of being alone with her.

Lucia's eyes are sharp as she settles down into the chair across from him.

"My son is sleeping, but I thought you and I could have a chat," she tells him, and although her voice is bland his stomach gives a roll of protest at the mere suggestion.

"Okay," his dry mouth says, without permission from his brain.

"I don't doubt that you're a fine young man, Detective."

He considers saying something like, thanks? but keeps his mouth shut.

"Rafael is an adult and I can't make his choices for him. He's a smart man," Lucia tells him, like Carisi might not know that. "But he can be a weak man, too."

Carisi feels a shiver of anger, and some of it must show on his face because he's never been that good at hiding his feelings, but she doesn't react to his shifting expression.

"His abuela always said that he would be a judge someday."

Carisi frowns at her, not following the jump in conversation and trying to remember if Barba had ever expressed any ambition for it.

"She always wanted that for him, and that made him happy."

"Okay," Carisi says again, because he doesn't know what else to say, but then he abruptly catches on to her point.

His face burns.

"What it is you want from him," Lucia says slowly, and to her credit looks somewhat sympathetic to the pain on his face. "It would ruin him."

"That's--"

"If you care about Rafael, you won't do this to him," she interrupts without raising her voice, and he's not sure if it's to keep from waking her son or because she doesn't feel the need to yell. She's calm and confident and in control.

Carisi gets the impression that she's thought about this a lot.

He wonders if she’s given this speech to other men in Barba’s life.

He swallows and bites back the first reply that comes to mind, for Barba's sake, even though it twists and hardens something inside of him to keep it quiet.

"Mrs. Barba, no offense but that's bullshit," he settles on, keeping his voice just as low as hers but not bothering to hide his hurt and his bitterness. "It's 2016, and it's New York City, it doesn't matter if he's straight or gay or whatever. He's a good A.D.A--a great one--if he wants to be a judge he'll be a judge."

Lucia's face goes white, and then it goes red.

"He said you were naive," she mutters quietly, but it's a vicious thing to say and they both know it.

"Maybe, but he's not," Carisi counters, and if his voice gets just a little bit too loud, he can hardly be blamed for it. He's well aware that Barba has had less than pleasant things to say about him in the past. "Have you even talked to him about it?"

Lucia’s glare is bitter and guarded.

"Have you even asked--?"

"Detective," Lucia huffs in warning, and her dark eyes are cutting into him, tearing away the anger and leaving him feeling stripped and raw.

He hasn't even had a conversation with Barba about it, not really, and somehow here he is, subjected to this from a woman who doesn't know him at all--

The bedroom door opens and Barba appears from the gloom behind it, looking sleepy and sloppy in oversized sweats and an old Harvard sweater.

Carisi considers making a run for it.

The pleased, warm surprise on Barba's face stops him as he stands up and tries to make an excuse to bolt, and suddenly he remembers the way that Barba had grabbed his wrist less than forty-eight hours ago, looking lost and hopeful in that hospital bed.

Lucia fixes her eyes down at the table and wraps her hands together. She's said what she'd wanted to say, but she'd just lost the opportunity to really drive the point home.

"Hey," Barba greets, shuffling closer and glancing between the two of them. Even on pain medication and half asleep he can read a room, and the tense atmosphere doesn't escape his notice.

"You bring the soup?" Barba asks while running a hand through his hair, which is a bit wild where it's longer on top. Carisi's chest hurts at the sight and he doesn't know exactly why.

He hesitates for a moment too long and Barba's mouth quirks in a knowing grimace, but the A.D.A is smart enough to play ignorant.

"I think I'll have some now," Barba decides nonchalantly. "Joining me, Detective?"

Carisi glances at Lucia, who examines her expertly painted nails and says nothing. Barba doesn't wait for an answer and goes for the fridge, which suits Carisi just fine because he's not sure what he would say anyway. He adjusts his tie and watches as Barba opens the container and wince as he reaches for two bowls in a cabinet above the counter, and Carisi has to resist the impulse to get them for him.

Barba turns and starts pouring a liberal amount onto each, and Carisi swallows hard at the violent violet lines across his neck, which are suddenly made stark. He sucks in a breath. The bruising had gotten worse over the last six hours, which he logically knew was a natural progression, but it just looked so fucking gruesome in the friendly yellow light of Lucia's kitchen.

He examines the rest of Barba, feeling his pulse jump with anger as his gaze roams over the black eye and split lip, at the way he still looks pale and shaky and exhausted.

Carisi looks away to find Lucia watching Barba too, and he takes no pleasure in the misery on her face.

He suddenly understands why she had accepted the soup--and him inside, by extension--in the first place. She had wanted to give her son some small bit of comfort. Berating and intimidating Carisi apparently hadn't been her sole intention, although that didn't make him feel much better.

He clears his throat.

"Table or couch?" He asks, smiling a little nervously as Barba glances up. The prosecutor sends him an approving, tired smirk.

Don't let her bully you, you're okay, you're wanted here, Carisi interprets, and prays that he's still fluent in Barbaisms.

"Couch," Barba decides.

Lucia stands and seems to immediately settle back into Detective? What Detective? mode--her eyes glide right past Carisi as she leans against the kitchen counter and studies her son, who gives her a resigned, reproachful glance.

They speak quickly and quietly in Spanish, and Carisi manages to get the gist of it--she was going to take a shower and he was due for more medication in an hour.

Carisi retreats to the couch, settling down and resting his elbow on a muted red pillow that's rougher than it looks. He tries not to watch out of the corner of his eye as Lucia retreats to the bedroom and closes the door more gently than he would expect.

Barba joins him after cutting a rather clumsy path from the kitchen, and Carisi is quick to accept the offered bowl before Barba spills it.

He holds the warm ceramic in his hands and studies the slowly swirling contents, and he's a little mortified to feel his face grow hot when Barba takes his place beside him. They're not touching, not quite, but it's closer than Carisi had dared to hope for--not enough to crowd him, but there's nearly an entire seat free to the other side of Barba, who may or may not be pretending not to notice their proximity.

Carisi risks a glance at his face, and he's a little concerned to see a glazed look in Barba's eyes.

"What do they have you on?" He asks, and Barba angles his head toward him with an easy smile. Carisi notices that the bruising looks even worse up close.

"Vicodin, mostly."

"Looks like it's doing the trick. You feeling any pain, Counselor?"

"Not for a few hours now. You don't have to eat it," he segues abruptly, looking at the full bowl in Carisi's hands.

"Uh--"

"You're probably not hungry."

"It's fine," Carisi says quickly, even though it's true that he's still full after stuffing his face with Rollins less than thirty minutes ago.

He hears the water turn on in the other room and instinctively relaxes, knowing Lucia isn't listening in.

"Sorry," Barba slurs a bit, noticing his reaction. "She's..."

"Hey, I get it."

He does, and he doesn't.

"What did she say to you?"

Carisi chews the inside of his cheek and averts his eyes to the television across from them, as if he could find the right thing to say on its blank screen.

"She's worried about you."

Barba bobs his head and sips gingerly at a spoonful of his egg flower soup, misunderstanding.

Carisi almost lets it go, but that suddenly feels a little too much like lying. And maybe he wants to hear Barba defend the idea of them, because last Carisi had heard, Barba was uncertain about it, too.

"About your career," he clarifies, and watches as Barba's eyebrows immediately drop. “And your choices.”

"What?" He asks, turning to Carisi with such a distressed expression that he immediately regrets letting Lucia get to him. He should have left it alone.*

"Nothing--it's just--you being a public figure and all--"

"Carisi," Barba warns, eyes hooded by annoyance at having to interpret his stammering.

Carisi shrugs and sinks down into the couch, taking a few spoonfuls of his own soup for the simple excuse of having a full mouth. He feels Barba's eyes on him, but he's in avoidance mode now.

"Look, don't--she's wrong," Barba tries, but he's off balance and getting more flustered by the moment. It's clearly important to him though, and while Carisi recognizes and appreciates that that, he knows that this isn't the best place to hash out the evolving nature of their relationship.

Or lack thereof, maybe.

"Hey," he says, sounding brighter than he feels and utilizing his ability to switch gears on a dime. "Have you watched Kingston Crossing yet?"

Barba's indignation immediately morphs into confusion.

"Okay, so look, it sounds stupid, I know--but there's this lady psychic, Zoey, right?"

He knows he's on the right path when Barba blinks at him, baffled and distracted, and he puts the bowl in his lap so that he can gesture with both hands for maximum razzle-dazzle purposes.*

"So, she's investigating the death of her brother when she finds this gateway to a series of other timelines--"

"Carisi--"

"And look, I haven't seen it myself, but Rollins swears it's not half as bad as it sounds."

Barba rolls his eyes and then resumes sipping carefully at his soup as he listens, which is definitely cool enough after its journey from the restaurant, its brief stint in the fridge, and sitting out over the last few minutes.

Carisi realizes that maybe Barba wasn't all that hungry either.

He translates that subtle Barbaism: I'm using this soup as an excuse, same as you.

So he sits there and he tells the A.D.A. all about the plucky young protagonist that Rollins had described to him earlier, even though he has no intention of watching it himself.

By the end of his synopsis, Barba's caught on and has clearly decided to play along, nearly nodding off to sleep as Carisi eases the half-full bowl away from him and starts talking about the blindside he'd seen on Last One Standing with Rollins last week, just to keep talking.

Lucia enters in sweats and a brown bathrobe somewhere around the time that he starts babbling about his niece, and they briefly make eye contact over the back of the couch.

Barba's all but asleep, only throwing out vague comments when Carisi pauses to take a breath.

He thinks that Lucia looks just a bit more tired, just a bit more beaten down, and maybe just a little bit surprised by his ability to lull her son into a comfortable, complacent doze.

She serves herself a small portion of the egg flower soup and quietly eats it at the table, and Carisi thinks that that probably counts as some sort of apology, or a compromise at the very least.

We can coexist, maybe, he hopes it means, as opposed to I can insult you and eat your soup, too, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

He leaves about fifteen minutes later, after Barba rouses himself enough to thank him for the takeout and promises to text him in the morning.

- - -

i lost my job because of you

you stupid bitch

Rollins sighs and tucks her phone back into her pocket, not bothering to reply to Viers' second round of texts. The first had been a bit more pleasant, at least, but the man was clearly transitioning from disbelief to anger.

Tucking her chin into the top of her zipped-up jacket, she braces herself against the freezing air and heads into her building, which is mercifully warm and empty.

She's suddenly not in the mood for socializing.

Her dinner with Carisi had gone well, but Viers had been blowing up her phone from the moment she got into her car, and his increasingly hostile messages hadn't ceased in the time it took her to get her things from the precinct and head home.

As she climbs the stairs up to her floor she feels another text alert vibrate and suddenly feels a jolt of empathy for Barba.

It was bad enough being harassed by a known entity, because while Viers was irritating she knew where to find and arrest him if things escalated. She can't imagine what it had been like for Barba, getting those threatening messages and hang up calls for months.

Her skin crawls at the thought as she unlocks her door and steps into her apartment, welcomed by the happy trills of her child and the greeting of her babysitter.

"Thanks for staying late, Kenisha," Rollins says, collecting Jesse from her and wishing her a goodnight as Kim saunters into the living room.

Rollins rocks Jesse and eyes her sister warily as she flops down onto the couch. Kim aims an unpleasant smile her way and reaches for the television remote.

"You were out late."

"It's not even eleven," Rollins replies, making her way into the kitchen. She grabs a Coke can from the fridge and then sets Jesse down near the couch, where a blanket and plush toys are laid out.

"Have fun with Sonny?"

Rollins maneuvers Frannie's back legs out of her way and sits as far away from her sister as possible, then cracks her soda can open and sips at it. She's begrudgingly amused that Kim had correctly guessed why she’d been delayed in getting back.

"Yeah, actually," she admits, pleased that her casual tone doesn’t have to be an act.

Kim's smile twists.

"That's good. Why didn't you stay over at his place? I would have watched Jesse. You know I love my niece."

"Yeah, Kim, I know," Rollins sighs. She’s aware that her sister is fishing for details. "Just like you know I'm not comfortable with that."

The smile is a sneer now, and even though Rollins can see the hurt behind it she doesn't make an effort to reassure her.

"Well," Kim drawls, "poor Kenisha had plans, did you know that? Her momma is sick and she was set to drive down to New Jersey tonight to visit. Probably too late for that now."

Rollins isn't sure if that's true or not. She hopes Kenisha would have said something if it was.

"Just think if it was you," Kim continues, never one to give up until the point is driven home. "Sitting in someone else's home, watching someone else's baby, while your mother is suffering all alone--"

"Okay, Kim, I get it," Rollins snaps, annoyed with the theatrics.

"I'm just saying, I hope the heavy petting session with Sonny was worth it."

Rollins snorts and takes a long gulp of Coke. She thinks it's almost funny how much that dig would have bothered her just a few days ago.

She wishes she could tell Kim--wishes she could delight in the reveal that her coworker was gay and possibly feeling up one of the grumpiest men she'd ever met at that exact moment.

But she knows that she's not going to out him just to spite her sister.

Instead, she takes comfort in the fact that there's nothing to be jealous of, and she nods her head at the television.

"Anything on?" She asks calmly.

Kim watches her hawkishly, ready to pounce on the first quiver of uncertainty, but there's nothing to find. She tucks her hair behind her ear after a few moments and clicks the TV on.

Rollins smiles into the rim of her can when Kim settles on a competitive dating show.

- - -

Carisi turns on the light after his second nightmare that night.

He scoots up the bed until he's leaning against the headrest and he keeps his eyes open to clear out the lingering images that lurk behind his eyelids--Purcell, raping a pregnant Bella, with Benson dead and gutted in the hall.

He picks up his cellphone and unplugs it from the charger, and tries browsing through news articles to calm down. When that fails, he taps in the URL to a legal forum that he's cruised before in his free time--it's dry and boring but it had helped to soothe his nerves before.

But the nightmare had been too real, too intense, and his heart still pounds when he gives up a few minutes later.

Carisi glances at the clock in the top right corner.

4:23AM.

He hesitates, scrolls through his contacts, and gazes down at Bella's smiling face in the little bubble next to her name and number.

He nearly taps it, thinking that maybe he could pull off a hey whoops looks like I buttdialed you, but while I have you on the line, how are you doing?. It wouldn't even be the first time--he'd called her in the dead of night before, after particularly bad cases when he'd first started out, but she has a young child now. She needs her sleep.

He exits out of his contacts and brings up his gallery instead, and looks at the pictures on his phone until his eyes ache. Images of his family at his parents' dinner table, of Rollins and Jesse at the park, of Benson and Fin laughing in the break room, of stolen snaps of Barba in court--it all helps.

He looks at the clock again.

5:01AM.

He's not ready to go back to sleep, but he squeezes his tired eyes and he lets his mind drift.

Carisi starts to think about Benson because he knows he'll have to face her at some point later in the day, but her role in his bad dream is still fresh and his anger over her careless handling of Purcell is still raw, and he shifts his thoughts over to Barba instead.

He's disappointed when that does little to ease his anxiety.

At some point on the drive home from Lucia's apartment he'd realized that he hadn't considered the reality of his feelings.

He cares about Barba.

He wants him to be safe, and whole, and happy.

He gets what his sisters would probably describe as butterflies in the belly when he hears his voice.

And days ago, in that damn Italian restaurant, he'd realized that those things meant that Barba was different--he wasn't just a coworker, or even just a friend. He had quietly fallen into the category of more.

The fact that Barba was a man was less of a problem than he would have expected, and he's even a little proud at how easy it is to accept at face value.

But last night, on Lucia's couch and all but pressed against Barba, he'd had his first whisper of doubt.

What was it like, kissing another man?

He tries to picture it. Barba's usually clean-shaven and his lips look soft enough so it probably wouldn't be too different than kissing the handful of girlfriends he'd had in the past.

Carisi pushes his experimental fantasy deeper.

He doesn't have to imagine what it feels like to run his fingers through Barba's hair, because he'd already stolen that moment in the hospital. It had been nice, comforting, and just a bit surreal. But he had touched Barba out of concern and fondness--it hadn't been a passionate gesture.

He imagines giving a firm tug on Barba's hair, angling his head to expose his neck, and he likes that--Barba's skin there would probably be soft and warm.

Carisi feels a bit of heat pool in his belly as he tries to picture what kind of noises Barba would make.

But his interest flags into unease when he tries to continue the scenario--he's never touched another man's bare chest, not outside of locker room shoving when he was a middle-schooler. He pictures his fingers running over chest hair and feels a confusing rush of arousal and disgust.

Carisi blinks his eyes open and swallows.

He tries to pinpoint his discomfort but his tired mind shies away, and he turns on his phone's screen to glance at the time again.

5:44AM.

Still too early to call Bella.

Carisi tries to backtrack, to go back to thinking about kissing, but he suddenly can't ignore the roaring schism inside of him.

The idea of kissing Barba was good--great, even--but the idea of putting his hands on a naked man made his heart pound and his stomach twist with unease.

It reminds him of the feeling he'd had back in high school. It had been the first time he'd seen his best friend strip down to his boxers and jump in the ocean.

It's not a good feeling.

Carisi staggers out of bed and gets a glass of water.

He stands in front of the dirty window in his living room and sips at it, shivering because he'd forgotten to turn the heat on when he'd made it home and thrown himself into bed. It's unpleasant but it's also grounding, so he doesn't move toward the thermostat.

Instead, he finishes his water, puts the glass in the sink, and goes back to the warm cocoon of his blankets. He doesn't bother looking at the clock.

He thinks about Barba in the squadroom, Barba on the courthouse steps, Barba in court--he thinks about the way he moves, the way he walks, the way his large hands deftly unbutton his suit jacket when he stands up and approaches the witness stand.

Carisi feels a familiar rush.

He pictures those hands on him and suddenly he's flushing and his stomach burns. He bites his lip and decides to commit by letting the images run freely through his head, and he hears Barba’s voice--breathy and low and rough--as he thinks about the other man’s cologne.

His hips give a promising jerk.

He reaches under the blanket and touches himself and pretends it's Barba's eager, warm hand instead.

- - -

Carisi takes a shower afterward and isn't sure if he should feel proud or guilty that he'd just gotten off on the fantasy of another man.

The one thing he can settle on is relief--he wants Barba. The complicated process of unpacking his shame and figuring out what he was comfortable with could come later.

He shampoos his hair and remembers a conversation Benson and Rollins had had after closing up a case--a gay man had assaulted his partner and had screamed slurs at him while doing so.

Internalized homophobia, Benson had called it.

Carisi wonders if he should google it later.

He dries off, dresses in grey slacks and a crisp white button up, and sits at his cramped kitchen table and stares intently at his phone.

It's 6:57AM.

He'd unlocked his screen with the intention of calling Bella, but instead he's distracted by where he'd left off in his gallery: a picture of the side of Barba's head, sitting in Judge Barth's courtroom.

He feels a tug in his chest.

He calls Bella, but Tommy picks up instead.

"Hey, Sonny," he greets, and he sounds more alert than Carisi would expect for seven in the morning.

"Hey, Tommy. Bella up?"

"Oh, yeah, she just took Izzy around the corner."

Carisi smiles at the thought of his sister pushing the toddler around in a stroller right then--she had never been an early riser and she was likely chugging coffee on the way to the park.

"How is my favorite niece?"

"She's great, Sonny, did Bella tell you she caught her hiding under the table and eating peanut butter straight out of the tub the other day?"

Carisi laughs, and Tommy gives a chuckle too, clearly remembering the moment with fondness.

"That's Isabelle for you though," his brother-in-law sighs happily.

"She's something else," Carisi agrees, and means it in a good way.

"Anyway, what's up? You at work?"

"No, not yet, heading in soon, though. Just wanted to check in."

There's a pause.

"We're all good here, man. How're you doing? Bella told me about Mr. Barba."

Carisi licks his lips and thinks about Purcell, and just like that his mood dampens.

"I'm fine--and Barba's doing better. He's going to be okay."

Tommy lets out a sigh of relief.

"Thank God. We were worried," he says, and Carisi's pleased. "Mr. Barba did right by us. I wanted to go see him at the hospital, but Bella said that you said he couldn't have visitors."

"Not outside of immediate family, not at first," Carisi confirms, smothering the impulse to laugh at the image of Bella and Tommy crowding an annoyed Barba in his hospital bed.

"So he's back home?"

"Sort of. He's staying with family."

"That's good," Tommy says, and then clears his throat. "Bella's been talking about making him something. As a get-well-soon kind of thing, you know?"

"Uh-oh," Carisi jokes, earning an immediate bark of laughter.

"Yeah, she didn't inherit your mom's cooking skills like you did, so I said, maybe a fruit basket?"

"Probably a safer bet," Carisi teases.

"But, hey, you know what? We should do something, to celebrate his recovery."

"Like what?" Carisi thinks it sounds like a nice idea, but he's not sure if Barba's ready to be subjected to his family quite yet.

"I don't know, our place is a bit cramped. But if we use your apartment, you can make the food and we could bring some wine," Tommy suggests, sounding increasingly eager at the prospect of doing something nice for the man who exonerated him.

"Uh, yeah, maybe."

"He'll get to meet Isabelle, too."

Carisi bites his lip, suddenly warming to the idea a bit more.

"I'll talk to him," he agrees, trying not to get excited--Barba might say no.

"Great, cool. Just let us know," Tommy says, and then sighs. "Look, I gotta get going, Sonny, early move today, but I'll have Bella give you a call later."

Carisi agrees and they hang up after a quick goodbye. Realizing he's going to be late for work, he makes some toast and puts on one of his newest ties--a thick, expensive lavender piece that makes his eyes stand out.

He shrugs on a vest that matches his pants and puts his coat on over that, puts his keys in his pocket, and abruptly remembers that Benson has the morning off--he feels his shoulders droop with relief, because he still hasn't figured out what he's going to say to her.

The ember of anger in his chest hasn't given any sign of going out and he dreads the thought of facing her.

- - -

Fin and Whitman and chatting when Carisi makes it in it with a tall cup of coffee, and he’s relieved when they don’t tense up at his approach--no bad news, then.

He nods in greeting and sits at his desk, watching as Rollins paces back and forth and talks quietly into her cell phone.

When she hangs up, she puts her hands on her hips and studies him.

“Well? How did it go?”

His face splits into a grin.

- - -

Benson's already managed what she hopes is the hardest part--asking Carisi to a quick lunch with her--but now that she's waiting in a pizzeria booth for him she wonders what she's going to say.

She mulls it over, texts Tucker and Lucy, and then wonders if Carisi would dare stand her up.

He shows up about five minutes later, fifteen minutes late in total, and she winces in sympathy because he looks like shit.

The lanky detective collapses down in the booth cushion across from her and sighs.

"You look exhausted," she observed, folding her hands together on top of the table. "I would think you'd be sleeping better now that Purcell is behind bars."

He looks offended. She tries to ignore the stab of hurt that finds its way into her chest, because he's never looked at her like this, like she's a stranger, not even on his first day at Manhattan SVU.

"Yeah, well..." he starts but then gives up, shrugging and looking away. She wants to ask him if he's having nightmares, wants to mention therapy, but she senses that it's not the time for it.

Not now, not when he can barely look her in the eye.

"Look, Carisi. I just wanted you to know that I did the best that I could."

He looks up at her sharply, startled, and he opens his mouth but doesn't manage to reply before a bored-looking waiter comes to take their orders.

Carisi sits, sullen and quiet, after he leaves.

"I don't want you to think that it was the wrong call," she explains, picking up where she left off, and winces at his immediate protest.

"You don't think so? Really, Lieu?" He demands, slapping a hand down on the table and looking stricken. "You nearly got him killed--that fucking useless detail--"

He cuts himself off and looks ashamed when a mother and her young son glance over from across the way. He rubs the back of his neck and tries to ignore the sting in his eyes.

He had trusted her.

She had betrayed him.

Benson recognizes that without needing him to put it into words. She takes a chance and reaches across the table for him, laying her fingers gently across the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry. I am," she murmurs. "I'm sorry that Purcell got through. I did my best with the information that we had. He shouldn't have gotten in, but he did, and if he hadn't felt confident enough to try--who knows--we know now that he wasn't going to give up."

Carisi doesn't pull his hand away, but his gaze doesn't lose its hard edge, either.

"He would've tried again," she repeats, wanting him to understand. "We've got him, he can't hurt anyone else."

"What if I hadn't been there?" Carisi asks, and she thinks that maybe that's what's been keeping him awake at night, the what ifs.

She knows that routine well enough.

"You were," she murmurs, choosing not to focus on the dark road of speculation he was headed down. She squeezes his hand gently. "You were there."

Carisi gulps in air and she can see the strain of the last two weeks in his face. And the worst part is, it's true, because if he hadn't shown up... Lucia might not have returned for hours. Purcell could have had hours--

"It doesn't help," she tells him softly. "Thinking about what could have happened. It didn't."

He stares at her, his face softening slightly, and looks down at their joined hands.

The waiter drops off their pizza slices--Italian sausage and mushrooms for her, a classic pepperoni for him--and they eat in silence for a few minutes.

Benson can see that he hasn't forgiven her, not really, but he's too tired to keep up the fight. It's easier to relent. She knows that this isn't the last conversation that they'll have about it, but it's not a bad start.

"I care about him," Carisi tells her suddenly, and she's startled by the honesty and grief in his eyes. "A lot."

"Have you told him that?"

"Sort of," he replies, shrugging with one shoulder and taking a bite of crust. "He knew."

Benson gives him a small smile.

"Good for you," she says, and means it. She's proud at how far he's come and she wants him to know that.

"Did you know?" Carisi asks, suddenly unable to look her in the eyes again and she weighs her options.

"I... suspected," Benson admits, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "I wasn't sure, but I thought it was possible."

He looks embarrassed.

"I hadn't really ever thought about it, you know?" He shares, pushing his plate around a bit. "I had always just assumed, because I like girls, I love them--"

She opens her mouth but he breaks off before she can find a way to reassure him, and his cheeks flush with discomfort. This isn't really the way that either of them had wanted to have this conversation, but now that he's started it seems hard for him to stop.

"I guess I just don't only like them," he finishes lamely, and she can't really blame him for not being able to put it into words.

She makes a quick decision.

"Sometimes... some people are exceptions," she says, and he nods quickly. "As you probably know by now, sexuality isn't black and white--it's not as simple as gay, or straight, or even bisexual sometimes."

Carisi tilts his head and looks into her eyes, like he gets it, and she gives him a lopsided smile.

"I had, well, a thing with an A.D.A. once, before your time--before Barba's time," Benson shares, her brown eyes all but twinkling. "It wasn't for long, it wasn't serious, but she was... special, in a lot of ways."

Carisi's eyebrows shoot up and he shifts in the booth, stunned that she had just admitted something so personal--and to him of all people.

"Oh," he says, and he chances an uncertain grin.

They sit quietly for a few moments, and Benson can see him struggling not to launch into a dozen questions.

"Does Tucker know?" He decides on, and it's her turn to tilt her head thoughtfully.

"It hasn't come up, but it's not a secret."

Carisi nods and then stares down at the table, clearly deep in thought. When he looks back up at her, she catches a glimpse of the old Carisi, the one that needed constant validation to get through the day.

"Would it bother you? Me and..." he trails off, his face filled with apprehension and doubt.

"You and Barba? No, of course not. Not personally," she tells him, then hesitates. "Professionally, it's something we'd all have to discuss and figure out."

She pauses, realizing that she knows how Carisi feels but that she's clueless about Barba. Maybe he would have told her about feelings for Carisi, but that would have been a while ago, before Barba had found out about Tucker--they had gotten over that fight, but he had closed parts of himself off after that, had stopped sharing what little he had begun to trust her with.

She thinks it's nothing less than she deserves for hiding her relationship from him, but it hurts all the same.

She considers asking Carisi about Barba's thoughts on all of it, but realizes that maybe he had already told her, in his own way--he had said that Barba knew, that they'd spoken about it, and Carisi had all but just asked for her permission to start a relationship with him. She decides those are a good sign.

Carisi sighs and finishes off the last bite of his pizza, back to looking exhausted and spent.

They're able to make some small talk last a little while as they discuss Manning, which is finally a safe topic, and then they talk about the forecast for snow over the weekend.

She suggests that he takes a few days off as a reward for a job well done, and although he levels her with a skeptical look he doesn't argue.

She takes that as a good sign, too.

Chapter Text

Barba wakes up to the sound of his mother chattering in the other room, and it takes him a moment to find his place in time.

His mouth is dry, his eyes are sore, and he's woozy when he sits up and struggles out of Lucia's blankets. She doesn't have a clock in her room and he has no idea where his phone is. He pushes himself off the bed and staggers into the bathroom, cupping his hands under the faucet and drinking from the sink with no small amount of desperation.

His throat burns when he swallows and he takes care to avoid looking at himself in the mirror.

He know it's not a pretty sight.

Abruptly, Barba remembers the soup--the visit--the look on Carisi's face--and then a bizarre story about some program that Rollins had apparently enjoyed.

He rolls his eyes even though no one is there to appreciate his exasperation.

He wants to collapse on the floor of the shower and let the water run over him, maybe for hours at a time, but he presses a hand to his side and makes his way into the kitchen instead.

His mother's eyes find him immediately and he bobs his head vaguely in greeting. His mind feels gummy and loose from the vicodin, and he sighs when he realizes that he's probably due for the next dose.

He glances at a clock and confirms his suspicions--it's already 1:12PM.

Lucia's watching him like a hawk but she continues on with her conversation, and from the easy, teasing lilt of her Spanish he assumes she's talking to one of her cousins. He opens the refrigerator and is a little dismayed when he sees the new carton of orange juice--the doctor and his mother had both prohibited coffee for the next few days, and he'd nearly forgotten Lucia's oath that he wouldn't have a drop under her roof.

He pours himself a glass of juice and makes eye contact as he gulps it down.

Lucia's smirk isn't quite triumphant, but it's pretty close.

He sits at the kitchen table and glances around blearily, trying to collect the hazy pieces of his memories from the night before.

Carisi had come by, had brought soup that neither of them actually wanted, and Barba had been certain that they were going to manage to talk about it--but Carisi had balked again.

Not that Barba blames him.

He glances at his mother, who sits on the couch and watches him back, and he isn't surprised that Carisi had been reluctant to speak his mind, but...

Barba feels the first flash of doubt.

Maybe he'd been misreading the situation.

Maybe Carisi was just that nice of a person.

Barba struggles to remember their exact conversation from the hospital. It's elusive. Had he cut Carisi off? Had Carisi actually said anything, explicitly, about being anything less than straight--anything more than just an overly considerate coworker?

Barba absently touches his hair and is forced to ask himself if maybe that late night caress had been a dream, some strange, medication fueled illusion brought out by the way that Purcell had threaded in his fingers and pulled, hard--

His vision blurs and his heart speeds up.

Lucia, either seeing the distress on his face or being in possession of impeccable timing, ends her phone call and crosses the room to kiss him on the forehead.

"You're finally up," she grumbles, teasing but looking concerned. "I was about to call the doctor."

Barba blinks stupidly at her and is grateful that she'd held off.

"I'll make you something," she insists suddenly, gliding into the kitchen. "You overslept and missed your dose, you can't take it on an empty stomach."

"Okay," he murmurs, too tired to disagree. His insides already ached from the pain medication and she was right, taking more without food wouldn't help.

She turns on the radio and hums while she cooks him breakfast, and the afterburn of Purcell recedes in reluctant measures.

- - -

Benson pulls into the precinct behind Carisi and she's pleased when he waits for her. They ride the elevator up together and she pats his arm as she heads into her office.

She watches him settle into his desk through the blinds and smiles at the way that Rollins leans in close to him and glances apprehensively at her door--Rollins clearly knew about their little lunch date and she was concerned about where Carisi and their lieutenant stood.

Benson takes that to mean that they've made up again.

She wonders if he's told her about Barba, and although she has a moment of doubt, she realizes that she can see the shift in their relationship. Rollins is relaxed around him in a way that she hasn't been for weeks, and Carisi's shooting her shy, meaningful looks.

She observes them, wondering, and hopes that Carisi had had the sense to tell her, because he would need all the support he could get soon--assuming that he and Barba would make the leap.

Benson considers her options for a few moments and then picks up her cell phone.

- - -

How are you feeling? Let me know if you're feeling up to dinner.

Barba quirks a smile down at his screen and he considers what to say. Benson had kept him pretty up to date on the case and she'd visited the hospital a handful of times, but she'd also been distant. He knew it was partly due to the chaos of the investigation, but he also knew it wasn't just that.

"Is that your detective? Looking to bring some lunch?" Lucia snarks.

"It was nice of him. To bring the soup last night," he tries, but she only gives him a withering look. "I hope you weren't rude to him--"

"Rafael," his mother admonishes sharply. "You know how I feel about all of this, and you invited him here anyway. I'm allowed to be upset."

He feels a familiar blend of hurt and guilt. All of this loops around his ears and hangs heavy in his chest.

"He was just dropping it off," he says, his tone clipped. "Did he force his way inside? Or did you invite him in, in the hope of scaring him off for good?"

Lucia snorts.

"Mamí--" Barba starts, but then changes tactics. "You can be angry with me. You're right. I shouldn't have asked for the soup."

Her face softens, just slightly, because that's not what she meant, and he presses on.

"But you don't have to take it out on him."

"I'm not," she protests half-heartedly.

"Aren't you? I heard you bring up my career," he lies, and she grimaces.

"If you heard, then you know I wasn't rude to that boy. I was telling him the truth--do you really think you'll be elected, as a homosexual Cubano with a history of pissing off his bosses?"

Barba has an argument at the ready--hell, he has six--but he ducks his head and frowns at the table instead of launching into a tirade about how he's more than that--for every time he's failed or defied the wishes of the D.A. and City Hall, he's triumphed on their behalf three times over.

He also thinks that the people of New York City wouldn't cast their vote for someone else just because of his heritage--they'd been more than ready to elect Alex Muñoz as mayor up until Barba and the SVU unit had obstructed his path.

Besides, he stands up for what he believes in, and he's confident that that would matter more than who he dates. Nevermind the fact that he was a private person--once the initial interest in his sex life died down, it's not like he planned to flaunt his arm candy to the press--

Lucia abruptly leaves the table and puts an old-fashioned kettle on the stove, and Barba tracks her with his eyes but doesn't breathe life into his protests.

This isn't open court, it's his mother's home, and he loves her too much to subject her to his explanation about exactly how wrong she was.

He'd largely kept his mouth shut for decades, what was another few days?

He'd stick it out and go home and they'd go back to normal, back to her pretending that his preference for women would win over some day, back to him pretending that knowing how much she wanted that didn't eat away at him inside.

Lucia prepares two cups of camomile and he tries to ignore the familiar ache.

Barba was willing to sacrifice for her.

He wouldn't change who or what he was--he couldn't--but he also wouldn't ask her to accept it.

Lucia sets the steaming mug in front of him and he wraps his hands around it, obscuring the Monet print banded around it.

"He said I was full of shit," Lucia says, settling back into her chair and watching him closely over the rim of her own cup. "Did you hear that part, too, Rafael?"

Barba's head snaps up and he looks at her in horror until his brain catches up. It's almost laughable. Dominick "Call Me Sonny" Carisi, saying something like that to someone else's mother? To his mother?

"He didn't," Barba retorts dismissively, and sips at the tea even though it's still too hot.

"He may as well have."

"What did he actually say?"

"That my concerns are bullshit, and I'm quoting this time."

Barba sighs and wishes he could stagger back into bed and sleep for another three days.

He wants to say, they are bullshit, but he doesn't.

"I'm surprised that you missed that part," she says, sounding accusing. "He practically shouted it."

He can tell that it's a low key call out and he hopes that she's done.

"Pretty amazing, that you heard me worry about your career, but you missed him raising his voice at me."

Of course she's not done.

"Or did you not hear me say that, either?"

He takes a deep breath and admits nothing. He can see that she knows and he's not going to insult her by lying about it more than he already had.

"Did he cry to you about how mean your mother was?"

"Hold on--"

"Did he tell you that I hurt his feelings?"

"Mamí!"

She lowers her eyebrows and he's startled by her intensity--she's never approved but she's never been this vicious about his potential partners. Granted, she had only ever met two, but...

"You really dislike him that much?" He asks quietly, but she avoids his imploring gaze.

"He's not right for you, Rafael. He's--"

"Okay, stop," Barba holds his hands up, his head pounding. He doesn't want to hear this.

"You're my son and I love you, but you're not thinking with your head, mijo! That boy is naïve--has he ever been with a man? Are you willing to be his experimental phase?"

"He's not a boy," Barba snaps, putting his mug down slightly too hard. "He's thirty-six years old and only ten years my junior. Your husband was twelve years older when you met him--"

"Don't you dare compare that to this," she warns, and he blinks at her, stunned.

"Why not?" He demands after a moment of asking himself if he actually wants to know the answer. "Because he's not a woman?"

His mother twists her mouth and says nothing, which is an answer in and of itself. His chest feels tight again and he realizes that he can't do this--can't have this conversation in vicious bits and pieces over the next few days.

He wants to go home.

- - -

Carisi's riding shotgun in Fin's cruiser when his phone vibrates, and he pulls it out of his jacket and feels a curl of panic at the name that shows up.

"Barba--hey, what's wrong?"

Fin looks over sharply at his tone but doesn't comment. He does slow down though, as if expecting to have to make a wild u-turn at any moment.

"I'm fine, Carisi, nothing's wrong," Barba's voice reassures, and he angles his head to nod at Fin, signifying it's alright. Fin relaxes and focuses on navigating New York traffic.

"Listen--are you busy?"

Carisi bites his lip, glad that there isn't an emergency but alarmed by the despondent tone in Barba's voice and the simple fact that he called instead of texting.

"Nah, in the car with Fin, we're just heading out to serve a warrant. Nothing to do with--with your case," he clarifies, but stumbles in his avoidance of using Purcell's name. "It's no big deal, should be done in twenty minutes, tops. What's up?"

Barba hesitates and then Carisi hears a low sigh, which is made tinny by the bad reception.

"Any chance you can give me a ride, later on tonight?"

"Uh, yeah, of course, Counselor," Carisi is quick to agree, but his thoughts race ahead of his mouth. "Where to?"

"Home, actually."

It's Carisi's turn to hesitate as he pictures Barba, back in his apartment, alone--

"If it's a problem I can take an Uber--"

"No! No, it's fine, of course," Carisi protests, wanting desperately to ask questions but very mindful of Fin's presence. He doesn't want to accidentally violate Barba's privacy.

"When were you thinking?"

"Whenever you have the time."

"Okay, I get off at six, that okay?"

"Of course, that's fine. Thank you, Carisi."

He's a little bit thrown by the stilted, polite way that Barba's speaking, but he can only make a mental note to ask about it later.

"Sure, anytime," he says, and means it. "I'll see you at six, Counselor."

Barba murmurs a goodbye and hangs up, and Carisi frowns down at his phone as Fin pulls up to a run-down apartment complex across from a church.

"Everything okay?" Fin asks, putting the sedan in park and shifting in his seat to watch Carisi, who still hasn't put his phone away.

"Yeah, yeah, he just needs a ride later."

"Uber not taking his calls anymore?" Fin jokes, his eyebrow cocked in curiosity and maybe just a bit of amusement.

Carisi gives him a forced grin and then pushes his door open, stepping out into the icy afternoon and slipping his leather gloves on.

"Well, at least it'll give you two some quality time together," Fin concludes, clapping him on the back as he makes his way into the dimly lit complex.

Carisi can only hope so.

- - -

Barba's waiting by the curb when he pulls up a few hours later and he nearly slams on his brakes at the sight. He throws the car into park and closes his door a bit too hard before he rounds the hood and looks the A.D.A. up and down in concern.

Barba smiles grimly, pale beneath the way the bitter cold makes his cheeks flush. He's got a grey duffle bag resting by his feet and Carisi's almost too baffled to ask about it.

Did she kick you out? is the first thing that comes to mind, as if Barba is some wayward teenager who crossed a few too many lines.

Carisi leans and takes the bag and glances up at Lucia's building, wondering if maybe that wasn't too far from the truth.

A few decades delayed, maybe.

Barba nods his head in gratitude when Carisi holds the passenger door open for him, and Carisi swallows a question as the other man sinks into the seat and lets his head collapse against the leather backing.

Carisi drops the bag off in the back and then quietly tucks his long legs into the driver's seat. He licks his lips and glances at Barba, who has his eyes closed and his fists clenched.

Carisi blasts the heat and tries to ignore his pounding heart.

He pulls into traffic and manages to wait two and a half minutes before opening his mouth.

"You okay?" Is all he comes up with.

Barba gives him a noncommittal hum, but opens his eyes after a few moments.

"I'm fine, just ready to go home," he shares, but his voice is just a little too flat to pull off nonchalance.

Carisi does some quick calculations in his head.

Less than twenty four after he'd dropped off soup, argued with Lucia, and cozied up to her son on her couch, and Barba was running for the hills?

The sour taste of guilt fills his throat.

"Sorry," he says, and then feels stupid, because Barba hadn't been privy to his internal conclusions.

Barba angles his head toward him and looks annoyed.

"What kind of mental gymnastics are you doing that you arrived at the need to apologize to me?"

Carisi's bizarrely relieved at the snark and he can't quite smother a pained smile.

"If it was something I did--"

"It's not."

Barba'a tone invites no challenge, but Carisi's had too much practice with self-blame to let it go that quickly.

"I thought you were staying there all weekend? Seriously, Barba, if I need to say sorry to her--"

"No, it's--" Barba sighs and turns his head to look out the window. It's dark and it's just started to rain again, and Carisi watches him watch the way the city lights illuminate the water drops on the glass pane.

"It's not you," Barba eventually settles on. "Thank you for the ride."

"Anytime, seriously," Carisi answers earnestly.

They ride in silence for a few minutes, and then Carisi chews his lip as they sit at a red light.

"You sure you want to go back?" He asks carefully, staring straight out the windshield, afraid he'll lose his nerve if he looks at Barba. "I mean, your place was a crime scene as of, like, a day ago. Do you really--"

"It's not a problem," Barba says sharply.

"Cause if you need a place to stay--"

"I have a place to stay. That's why I pay rent."

Carisi blinks a couple of times and is a little bit too slow when the light changes, which earns him a long honk from the impatience taxi driver behind him. He resists the urge to pull over in order continue the conversation properly.

Trapping Barba in the car with him wasn't really the best way to encourage honesty, so he tries to think quickly as he makes a right turn.

"Counselor, you were nearly strangled to death in there. It's only been a few days, I don't know why you'd--"

"Carisi, please. Stop," Barba groans, exasperated. "I'll be fine. I have to go back someday, what does it matter if it's today or Monday?"

"Of course it matters," Carisi argues, bordering on petulant. "And--you shouldn't be alone yet."

"Are you offering to stay the night?" Barba asks sarcastically, and Carisi's a bit taken back by the bite in his voice.

He glances over and finds Barba struggling to soothe his hurt into a neutral frown.

Carisi sucks in a deep breath through his nose and can't concentrate enough to sort through the various outcomes that branched before him. He makes a decision, and his hands tighten on the wheel only fractionally as he figures out how to put it into words.

"What--you think you're getting rid of me that easy?"

Barba's head angles sharply back toward him, and he's backlit in raindrops and red light. Carisi lifts his eyebrows and meets his eyes with more confidence than he feels.

"No way, Counselor. You're stuck with me for now."

Barba's brow furrows and Carisi has to look back at the road before he can decipher the wave of surprise, annoyance, and relief that makes its way across Barba's face.

Carisi waits for the backlash, the I'm not a child, Carisi, or a bitter laugh, at the very least.

But Barba seems to deflate instead, sinking back into the seat and favoring the window with his attention again.

Carisi's teeth worry his lip, but he doesn't offer a retraction, like only if you want me there, of course, which would only be polite. He's probably overstepping, but... the idea of Barba sleeping alone in that apartment... it made him sick to his stomach.

But Carisi doesn't push his argument--Barba's offered no protest and he doesn't want to test his luck, so he lets his not-offer sit between them as he circles the block around Barba's complex to find a parking space.

Barba doesn't speak as they make their way into the lobby, but Carisi senses a moment of hesitation as the elevator doors open to his floor. Carisi feels nervous, too, and he adjusts the strap of the duffle and follows just a bit too closely as they approach Barba's door.

- - -

Barba studies his apartment from the space between the entry hall and the kitchen, where he can have an eye on everything if he turns his head enough.

It looks the same.

The crime scene techs were either courteous enough to pick up after themselves or Benson's squad had done the honors--a few things are moved, slightly out of place, but otherwise his apartment looks untouched.

He senses Carisi's about to say something, so he glides into the kitchen and pulls down a glass. He fills it with water from the refrigerator door but doesn't drink it.

He only glances up at Carisi when the detective gingerly sets his mother's gym bag on the counter and looks anxious around the room.

Barba bites the inside of his cheek, unsure if he wants to demand that Carisi leave or reassure him of his welcome. Instead, he slides the faintly tinted green glass across the counter toward him, and Carisi blinks at it as if he's never seen a cup of water in his life.

"You don't have to stay," Barba says evenly, but he's only able to find the words because Carisi looks even more apprehensive than he feels.

"I want to," the other man mumbles, and then takes the glass as if it's a condition of his welcome. "I like sleeping on couches, actually, always slept on them back home--sometimes my parents would let me sleep on it on Fridays, so that I could wake up and turn on Saturday morning cartoons--"

He's rambling and Barba holds in a sigh.

"I mean, made things easier for my parents, right? You know kids. Waking up in front of the TV meant that I didn't run into their room first thing in the morning."

Barba blinks at him, a little bemused and a little saddened at the implication that Carisi's parents found him to be bothersome on weekend mornings. His own mother hadn't been thrilled at being woken up early, but he can't even imagine her allowing him to sleep on the couch just to make his access to morning cartoons easier.

"Anyway," Carisi says, bashful at the tangent. "All I'm saying is--I want to."

Barba considers that.

"You'll have to find the remote for your cartoons in the morning," he jokes. "I lost it weeks ago."

Carisi's eyes bulge in mock surprise.

"You mean you actually watch this thing?" He quips, looking at the flatscreen like he's astonished it's there in the first place.

Barba quirks a reluctant smile at that and rolls his eyes for extra effect--they're both playing at casual and he's fine with that. It was easier than honesty.

"Hey, you hungry?" Carisi asks suddenly, glancing at his Apple watch. "It's almost seven--we should get something."

"You didn't already eat with Fin?" Barba asks, only surprised for a moment. Of course he didn't.

"Nah," the detective says dismissively, and even though it's clear that he'd been waiting to eat with Barba neither of them bring it up.

Barba feels his chest grow tight and warm. It was easier to doubt Carisi's affection for him when he wasn't in the room, but being the same space, catching every quick glance and the way his hands skitter nervously when he's not sure what to say--well, it was obvious.

"What are you in the mood for? Do you have any diet restrictions?" Carisi asks quickly, a bit unnerved by the fact that Barba hasn't replied. "I saw a Thai place around the corner but I don't know if that's--"

"Maybe not Thai," Barba agrees and Carisi looks ready to collapse with relief that he didn't say something like I'm not hungry or actually, Carisi, why don't you go home?

"Sandwiches?" Carisi suggests. "They're pretty bland and easy on the stomach, depending on what you get."

Barba's honestly not that hungry but he's also not cruel enough to make Carisi eat alone.

"Sure," he agrees after pretending to consider for a moment. "There's a Sampson's a few streets over. They have a decent variety."

Carisi's nodding and already pulling out his phone to google their menu. Barba tries not to smile and comes around the counter to sit at the table. Carisi only hesitates for a moment before following his lead.

Carisi reads off the variety of soups, salads, and sandwiches that Sampson's Sandwiches offers, talking just a bit too fast, and although Barba already knows what he wants he lets him finish. It's comforting, listening to Carisi list off different deli meats and toppings in that ridiculous accent of his, and Barba think he'll never fail to be surprised at how fond he's grown of it.

A few minutes later and Carisi's placing their order, and when he hangs up he seems to sink back into a state of nervous energy.

"They don't do delivery. Do you want to stay here, or--"

"If you don't mind, I think I'll stay," Barba answers, and musters a tired smile when Carisi shoots him a concerned look. "I could use a shower."

Carisi frowns and looks a little like he's worried that Barba's not going to let him back in if he leaves, but he wisely doesn't argue.

"Alright," he says instead, his eyes screaming reluctance. "I'll be back in a few, lock the door?"

Barba would have been insulted if the suggestion--and the painfully soft way it was said--had come from anyone else, but somehow Carisi's mother-henning doesn't bother him as much as it should.

"Of course," he agrees, following Carisi to the door. Carisi shoots him one last glance before he leaves, and Barba doesn't doubt that he lingers outside just to hear the lock slide into place.

He keeps moving after that, afraid that he'll fall into introspection if he loses momentum, and showers and dresses again quickly. He unpacks the handful of clothes that Lucia had gathered for him during his second stay in the hospital, and then he collects two extra blankets from his linen closet.

He stands in front of the couch with them in his arms, but he feels rooted to the spot.

Despite his best efforts, Purcell is summoned from the depths of his mind, and Barba can't quite seem to drop the blankets onto the cushions.

Was he really going to have Carisi sleep there?

After everything that had--

A knock at the door startles him badly, and even though he knows it's Carisi he can't help but freeze up.

"It's me," comes Carisi's uncertain, muffled voice, and it still takes three deep breaths before Barba can set the blankets on the coffee table and let him in.

Carisi's anxious eyes follow him as he sets the bag of food on the kitchen counter. Barba can tell that the detective sees that he's shaken, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Barba hopes he'll leave it alone, but as he pulls the sandwiches out he can see Carisi's gaze flicker around the apartment and land on the blankets.

Barba watches, morbidly fascinated, as Carisi pieces it together. Barba would be impressed if not for the way that the realization makes the other man's expression tighten with pity. Barba brings the sandwiches to the kitchen table, ignoring his guest as he loudly unwraps his and sits down.

Carisi returns to his own seat and stares down at the foil with a frown, looking nearly lost in thought. Barba tries to think of something to say--nearly anything would do--but Carisi's quiet voice beats him to it.

"I can sleep on the floor if you want."

Barba's eyelids flutter in a series of rapid blinks. It was a ridiculous suggestion and they both know it.

"It's fine," Barba reassures, but he sounds a bit choked, because he doesn't want Carisi on that couch--hell, he doesn't want that couch at all--but there is no alternative. Carisi wasn't going to sleep on the floor like some kind of dog--and life wasn't a rom-com, they wouldn't be sharing a bed, either.

Barba starts eating because he doesn't know what else to say, and Carisi slowly follows his lead. They eat in near silence, only speaking to comment on the bread or the spread, and Barba can feel himself getting increasingly tense.

He gets up and throws away his half-finished sandwich, and jumps when he turns and finds Carisi not far behind.

"Sorry," Carisi says quickly. "Didn't mean to crowd you--"

"It's fine," Barba says just as fast, and winces when Carisi makes a face. He's lost count of how many times he's said that that day.

Carisi throws his empty wrapper away and shifts his weight like he's stalling, and then meets Barba's eyes with easygoing determination.

"Hey, you know what? My place actually isn't that far, and I know where my TV remote is, so, there's that," Carisi tells him, and Barba feels his stomach twist.

He'd never admit it, but he's completely in control and of sound mind when he leans forward and up and kisses Carisi on the mouth.

Carisi makes a noise of surprise and Barba pulls back, uncertain, but Carisi's hands wrap around his arms in a tight grip.

The detective's eyes are wide with surprise and anxiety. Barba's just starting to think he miscalculated when Carisi's expression settles on relief.

Barba sucks in a breath and takes a step back, forcing Carisi to reluctantly release him.

"Sorry," Barba says, confused by Carisi's lack of response. He hadn't kissed back, but he'd held on, but he hadn't said anything, but the look on his face--

"No--no, don't be sorry, it's just..."

Barba's doubt comes flooding back, along with a heady mixture of embarrassment and frustration.

"It's just what?" He challenges, and immediately regrets his confrontational tone.

"It's just," Carisi starts, then has to sigh and fill his lungs again before he can continue, his eyes darting everywhere except Barba's face.

"Why did you do that?" Carisi mutters, his eyes finally settling on his shoes.

Barba's mortified beyond belief.

"What do you think?" He demands quietly, shifting further away from Carisi. "Do you need a diagram, Detective?"

Carisi chews on his lip and finally raises his eyes, and Barba's confused at the misery on his face.

Suddenly Barba thinks he understands--Carisi looks like he thinks he's being teased.

"Did you only do that because I'm being nice to you?"

Barba stifles a laugh, stunned, and Carisi struggles to clarify.

"You don't have to--you don't owe me anything, Barba."

Barba shakes his head, but he thinks that he gets it, too. He was fresh out of the hospital--for the second time in as many weeks--still reeling from a fight with his mother, on pain medication, and in the presence of a man who had all but saved his life.

"That wasn't a thank-you kiss," he says slowly, dryly, and the you idiot is obvious but left unsaid. "I don't have a case of hero worship, either."

Carisi looks doubtful, like he can't bring himself to accept that, and although Barba wants him to understand that he's being genuine, he also recognizes that it wasn't the most romantic setting. He backs up and bit and paces toward the table, wanting to give Carisi space, but the detective follows on his heels and struggles to articulate his unease.

"It's just... it's not that I don't want that--this--but," Carisi tries and falls short. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

Barba nods slowly, and he watches Carisi watch him back closely.

"The offer to go to my place still stands?" Carisi smiles weakly, likely knowing it's a lost cause.

"It's alright, really," Barba says, and is close to meaning it this time. It pleases him that Carisi knows him well enough to be convinced by it, because he relaxes and gives Barba a bit more room to wander.

Barba rests his hands on the back of the couch.

It's just a thing--no more guilty of what had transpired on it than anything else in the apartment.

It only had the power to unnerve him because he allowed it.

Carisi waits near the table but offers a thought.

"Hey, tomorrow's Saturday, how about we hit up a Bed, Bath, and Beyond?"

Barba turns to look at him, equally amused and confused.

"They have couch covers," Carisi shares with a little shrug.

Barba thinks it over. He'd like to get rid of the couch entirely but... a cover wouldn't be a terrible temporary fix. Maybe something bright.

He nods vaguely and feels a rush of exhaustion, and even though it's not even eight o'clock he longs for his bed. As if sensing this, Carisi quietly maneuvers into his space again, and then loops around the couch to start setting up the blankets.

Barba swallows and watches him, almost managing a smile when Carisi finishes and looks up. Barba's eyes linger on his lips and Carisi seems to notice that, too

Carisi smiles for him.

"Get some rest, Counselor. I'll be right here."

Chapter Text

Carisi lies on Barba's couch and tries not to think about the way it makes his skin crawl. He knows it's impossible, but he feels like he can smell Purcell in the air around him, and no amount of shifting or sighing can remedy his unease.

He messes around on his phone for a while, indulging in a few games of Candy Crush and Sudoku, but around eleven o'clock he decides to text Bella.

They'd spoken briefly earlier in the day, but she'd been in a hurry and he didn't actually have much to say other than that he loved her and that they should get together soon.

She'd brought up a get-together with Barba, sharing that Tommy had been excited, and Carisi had promised to ask Barba about planning it for the following weekend.

Now, he's not so sure it's a good idea.

He doesn't know what happened between Barba and his mother, but it had left the A.D.A. beaten down in ways that he hadn't been before. Somehow it almost seemed like Barba was handling it worse than a knife in the ribs, but Carisi thought that was probably a factor in Barba's subdued behavior too, and coupled with the death threats--it had been a rough year.

Carisi stares at the text draft he's composing and then deletes it--it's too emotional, too revealing.

‘hey bella, not sure next weekend's going to work. how about the week after that?’ he tries again, and considers it. It's vague enough, he decides, and taps the 'send' button.

Letting his phone drop down to his chest, he tucks his hands behind his head and runs the events from the last twenty-four hours over in his mind. His thoughts snag on his conversation with Lucia--he can hardly even believe he'd lost his temper with her. She had been caustic from their initial meeting, and despite the fact that her scorn had only snowballed from there Carisi had thought he could endure it, and yet... hearing her speak about her son in such a way had brought out his protective streak.

But Barba was a grown man. He didn't need Carisi defending him, especially not to his own family.

His stomach gives an unpleasant tug when he reverses the situation--he would have been upset if someone had spoken to his mother like that. And, yet, Barba didn't seem upset, not with him at least, and Carisi could hardly make sense of it.

He also can't make sense of the fact that he's intentionally putting off talking to Barba about the obvious thing that's grown between them.

Carisi wanted validation, wanted confirmation, but every time he was in the room with Barba he found himself putting the discussion off. He thinks that maybe he hadn't been ready--maybe he'd been scared of rejection, or worse, having his feelings returned only to realize that maybe he wasn't attracted to men after all.

But he wasn’t so worried about that now. The kiss had been...

Carisi can hardly even recall the way it felt. It had been quick, and chaste, and warm, but beyond that all he can remember is feeling alarm. Barba wasn't himself. The other man was obviously distressed and seeking comfort, and as much as Carisi wanted to provide that he didn't want it to be like this--he didn't want the start of them to be rooted in fear and obligation.

His eyes grow heavy as his thoughts shift to the next day, and he makes plans to do something nice for Barba the next morning. Maybe take him out to breakfast, maybe bring him expensive coffee and, if Barba seemed receptive, maybe Carisi would be the one to kiss him instead.

The thought sends a whisper of pleasant anxiety up his spine but he pushes it down, feeling guilty about focusing on his desires over Barba's distress.

He falls asleep thinking about what kind of couch cover would look best--maybe a bright red or yellow, just to add a splash of color to the apartment.

He wakes up hours later, disoriented, to the sound of water running. He sits up and blinks in the darkness, aware of where he is but still feeling like he's falling through space.

"Sorry," he hears Barba's voice say, low and listless from somewhere in the kitchen. His voice is ragged and the sound of it sets off alarm bells for Carisi. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'fine," Carisi says quickly, twisting around to peer into the gloom of the kitchen, which is illuminated only by the green digits of the clock face on the stove. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Barba murmurs, but there's a beat of hesitation and a particular blandness to his inflection, and Carisi heaves himself off the couch. He makes his way carefully toward the kitchen in the dark and braces himself against the marble counter for stability once he reaches it.

"Do you mind if we flip on a light?" Carisi asks, partly because he wants permission and partly because he has no idea where the switch is.

Barba's quiet for long enough that Carisi thinks he'll refuse, but then the room spills into focus with buttery light. Carisi squints against it, dazed, and mutters his gratitude.

His vision clears and his gaze is met by Barba, who looks wrecked.

Carisi frowns and takes in his bloodshot eyes, pale lips, and the way his hair doesn't have a strand out of place. Carisi thinks that probably means that Barba didn't fall asleep. Maybe he hadn't even laid down. Carisi glances at the stove and reads 1:09AM.

"You okay?"

It's a stupid question, but Carisi just wants to get his foot in the door.

Barba takes a sip of water from the glass he'd filled and glances down at Carisi's bare, pale legs, and Carisi feels his face grow hot. He'd stripped down to his boxers and undershirt to keep his slacks and dress shirt from getting wrinkled, and he has to resist the impulse to cover himself with his hands out of embarrassment.

Barba's eyes politely flicker away.

"I'll survive," he replies at last, and glances pointedly past Carisi toward his bedroom. Carisi almost moves aside, but catches a faintly acidic whiff of something in the air.

His throat tightens with realization, and he watches in horror as Barba's face shifts into a mask of humiliation and frustration.

He'd thrown up.

Carisi had figured it out and had immediately made it obvious that he'd done so, and now Barba was embarrassed.

"It's okay," Carisi bumbles forward, nodding. "It happens."

He watches as Barba processes that, and Carisi would forgive him if he made some excuse, like it's just the vicodin, bothers my stomach, but instead the other man seems to collapse down into himself.

Carisi wonders if kissing him would take that look off of his face but decides against it--that's not what Barba needs, not right now.

Carisi clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, adopting a posture that says, no big deal.

"You know, on the drive over here I saw a Brook Tree Hotel."

Barba's eyes narrow with confusion, but only for a moment, and Carisi can see the coming protest.

"I hear they have Google Home in all of the top suites, can you believe that? Kind of expensive but, I don't know, it's kind of cool."

"Carisi," Barba says, and it sounds a bit like a warning but he doesn't follow it up with anything, so Carisi takes his chances.

"I wouldn't mind checking it out. What do you think?"

"Carisi, it's almost one-thirty in the morning."

"Come on, it'll be fun. We can even go down and get a continental breakfast when we get up."

"Don't be ridiculous," Barba whispers.

"It's okay if you don't want to be here," Carisi murmurs back and leans toward him, but Barba twists away and stares at the clock.

"It's fine," Barba croaks, touching his neck as if that would help to sooth away the ache.

Carisi feels out of place--not quite unwelcome, but definitely like an irritation. It makes him self-conscious but he's willing to put up with the discomfort if it means helping the other man find a bit of peace.

"I found the remote," he mutters, and Barba's head swings back toward him, looking caught between exasperation and desperation.

"Did you," Barba replies, not phrasing it as a question so much as an accusation, like Carisi's trying to bait him into something.

"I haven't tested it out, batteries might be shot, but you know, there's actually some decent stuff on at this time."

It looks like it takes a monumental effort but Barba's eyebrows climb up in skepticism.

"Sometimes I can't sleep," Carisi confesses. "Some of the cases just keep me up at night, you know?"

Barba's gaze softens likes he does.

"Like, you remember that girl we found in a dog cage?"

Barba's eyes flutter in distress at the memory and he nods, then seems to subconsciously angle closer to Carisi.

"I lost a l lot of sleep over that, let me tell you, a lot," Carisi tells him. "I had nightmares when I did fall asleep. So sometimes I watched TV. The more mindless, the better."

Barba sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, then seems to come to a decision. Carisi doesn't even have to try to puzzle it out, he just follows Barba over to the couch and gingerly sits down beside him. Barba seems too tired to put much thought into where he is--that or he's good at hiding it--and Carisi fumbles with the remote a bit until the screen flickers to life.

It's set to a twenty-four-hour news station, which amuses but doesn't surprise him, and they quietly sit and watch as the channels flip by.

Carisi nearly stops when he lands on a criminal investigation documentary but decides that maybe that's a bit too morbid. He decides that he can live out his fantasy of watching a true crime show with Barba another day.

He settles on a space documentary instead, and they watch in silence as the narrator describes the scale of the universe.

He sees Barba's head bob down and snap back up a few times, but then he drifts off himself, head reclined against the back of the couch with his hand still curled around the controller.

- - -

Carisi startles awake, reeling from the vision of Munson and Dodds violently grappling in a crowded street, and rubs his eyes to clear the nightmare away.

A cheerful infomercial is on in place of their space show, and Carisi watches blearily as a woman explores the endless potential of a non-stick copper pan.

He glances around for Barba and has a moment of panic when he realizes that he's not in the room.

Carisi bolts off the couch and staggers toward the entry hall, but the door is shut and the deadbolt is engaged--Barba's still in the apartment.

Glancing apprehensively at the open door to Barba's bedroom, he slowly makes his way over and glances inside, reluctant to invade his privacy and go where he's not invited, but needing to rest eyes on the other man before he can relax again.

He can barely make out Barba's form on the bed, curled up on top of the comforter, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to cross the threshold and drape a blanket over him. But he can't bring himself to break that boundary--he feels guilty enough even peering into the room without permission in the first place.

Despite that, he watches Barba sleep for several long minutes, figuring that the damage was already done and that he could feed his hungry gaze for a few moments more.

When he does return to the couch, he nearly turns the television off before realizing that maybe the low trickle of voices had helped--maybe that was why Barba had left his door open in the first place.

Carisi leaves the infomercial on and is asleep the moment his head hits the couch again.

- - -

Fin's morning is off to a great start--traffic had been light, Purcell was behind bars, their A.D.A. was out of the hospital, and he'd gotten an update from his son about his soon-to-be grandson.

He stops to treat himself to a dark roast coffee from a high end café, and sips at it as he settles into his desk. He listens to his voicemails and is about to return a call from an officer involved in a rape-related arrest when his cell phone chimes at him.

Fin pulls the device out of his jacket and slides his thumb across the screen without hesitation.

"Hey Whitman, what's up?"

The A.D.A. offers a half-hearted greeting and Fin chuckles.

"Not a morning person, huh?"

"Are you?" Whitman counters, still sounding cranky but not entirely hostile. "Is anyone?"

"Hey man, I love rising with the sun."

"I can't tell if you're lying to me right now or not," Whitman jokes. "Anyway, I didn't call to discuss your morning habits, Detective."

"Yeah, I figured," Fin quips, glancing around the quiet squadroom. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to give you guys the heads up--Purcell was found competent to stand trial."

Fin lets out a sigh of relief.

"Glad to hear it," he shares a moment later. "Think this'll motivate Costa to get his head out of his ass and take a deal?"

"I hope so."

"I'll pass along the good news," Fin says, already prioritizing who to inform first.

"Good. Thanks. Hey, is Barba at his place?"

"Yeah, I think so. Was supposed to stay the weekend at his mom's for supervision but he ditched out early. Speaking of, I'm surprised I'm hearing from you on a Saturday."

Whitman barks out a laugh at that.

"You think either of the D.A.s involved in this case are letting me take personal days right now? Bad enough I have my own boss breathing down my neck, your Manhattan D.A. hasn't been much more generous with a timeline."

Fin hums a noncommittal response at that, not envying him.

"I'm mostly working from home over the weekend, but I'm still working," Whitman sighs. "I want to start prepping Barba for the trial."

"You think it's going to come to that?" Fin asks with concern.

"I don't know, but I'm not taking any chances with this case."

Fin refrains from making a comment about it being a career-maker, not wanting to sound callous.

"Well, keep us updated," Fin requests, trying to ignore the flutter of unease at the thought of Purcell and his lawyer trying to outmaneuver them in court.

Whitman agrees and offers a gruff goodbye before hanging up, and Fin slips his phone back in his pocket and rubs his head.

He considers for a moment, then pulls out his phone again and taps out a message to Barba.

'Whitman called, purcell ruled competent. expect to hear from him'

He presses send and then types out a group message to his team about the Purcell update, filling it in with some carefully worded optimism.

He sends it, finishes his coffee, and starts in on his emails.

- - -

Carisi and Barba stand and study the living room, both full after a breakfast Carisi prepared using the groceries Lucia had brought a few days prior. Carisi had gone pink with satisfaction when Barba finished his portion of eggs and sausage and apple slices, glad that the other man's appetite had begun to return.

Barba hadn't spoken about last night, hadn't mentioned the kiss or vomiting or leaving Carisi alone on the couch, but he had quickly brought up the idea of rearranging some furniture.

He hasn't had to explain why.

Carisi's finishing up a great point about moving the television to the right when there's a knock at the door, and they both look toward the hall like it's a gunshot. Barba twitches and takes a step toward it once his joints unlock, but Carisi quickly heads him off and peers through the peephole, and he's ridiculously relieved to see Whitman's distorted face through the glass.

He opens the door and watches as Whitman's expression morphs into astonishment, his eyebrows rocketing up toward his hairline.

Carisi realizes his mistake and pales.

"Detective," Whitman greets, not bothering to hide his surprise and amusement. He's nothing short of gleeful. "I suddenly understand how you got that interview."

Carisi makes a noise of protest but realizes that he can't really argue--Whitman's not entirely wrong about his assumption of why Carisi was in Barba's apartment, and the evidence was pretty damning, even if it had nothing to do with Barba making arrangements with the Brooklyn D.A.

He feels Barba approach from behind and he decides to retreat into the kitchen and sulk while Barba invites the other A.D.A. in. Barba pointedly sits at the kitchen table, but Carisi doesn't miss the way Whitman glances at the couch.

Their temporary A.D.A. had received the full report by now, including both Barba and Carisi's official statements, and he clearly can't help but look around the apartment and picture it. It makes Carisi's hackles rise, but Barba seems to accept it with resignation.

"What do we owe the pleasure?" Barba asks, sounding exhausted.

Whitman considers him for a moment and then sits down across from him, setting his leather briefcase on the table.

"Just wanted to check in. We're probably going to have quite a few of these little get togethers for the next few months, so get used to it," Whitman teases, but Carisi's stomach drops in a cold plunge.

"Purcell's not taking a deal?"

"Doesn't seem like it," Whitman nods, glancing curiously at the detective. "Costa's not a stupid man, he wants the deal, but Purcell's stubborn. He doesn't have much left to lose either way."

Barba stares down at the table and Carisi leans back against the stove, his heart hurting for the other man. A trial. Facing Purcell. Barba revisiting his attack on the stand.

He can't even picture it, despite the way he'd joked around with Fin before.

Whitman clears his throat and gives Carisi a meaningful stare over Barba's shoulder, and Carisi snaps to attention once he deciphers its meaning.

"Hey, uh, guess this is a good chance for me to run some errands," he says suddenly, and smiles when Barba half turns to stare at him. "You know, shower, change, pick us up some lunch."

Barba nods and looks a bit relieved, and Carisi's glad he hadn't misread the situation--Barba didn't want to hash it all out again with an audience.

He gathers his jacket and puts on his shoes, and he brightens when Barba offers him a tired but warm smile as he pulls out his car keys.

"I'll text you on my way back," Carisi promises. "So think about what you want to eat."

He hears Whitman mutter something as he heads out the door, and Barba's answering groan of dismay makes him bite his lip and grin.

A little teasing from Whitman wasn't the worst thing in the world.

- - -

Benson sits in the waiting room at Rikers Island and glares at the opposite wall. It's a Saturday and she's technically not on duty, but she's scheduled an interview with Purcell all the same.

She's gambling on Purcell not calling his lawyer.

He had stalked her for months and had never gotten close--she takes a chance on him wanting to confront her badly enough that he'll jump at the opportunity to do so now.

The C.O.s leave her waiting for another forty minutes, but her iron grip on her patience is rewarded when a guard summons her and leads her through the claustrophobic halls and into a narrow interview room.

She smiles grimly at the sight of Purcell sitting alone at the table.

His eyes bore into her as she thanks the C.O., who gruffly reminds her to knock or call out if she needs him and then turns to leave. The metal door shuts with a resounding clank.

Benson sits down across from Purcell and leans back in the uncomfortable chair, pleased at the way the other man watches her intently. His eyes are red and heavily ringed, and his skin is pale and reflective with a sheen of sweat.

He looks terrible and she takes great satisfaction in that.

He opens his mouth a couple of times but closes it again before he can figure out what he wants to say. Benson folds her hands over her stomach and waits him out.

"What do you want?" Purcell eventually croaks out, his hands drawn into tight fights. He'd been glad to see her at first, likely thinking he could find a way to hurt her, but his words have failed him and he's not so eager to be in a room together anymore.

"I just wanted to see you. To see if the rumors are true," she says sweetly, the picture of perfect nonchalance.

"What rumors?" He demands, his voice rising a bit as he runs through the possibilities with obvious paranoia. Rumors were often a death sentence in prison.

"That you've been hiding behind the guards, cozying up to them so that you don't have to face reality like everyone else in here. I'm sure that's made you very popular."

His face transforms, and she's startled by his sudden, intense grin.

"So that's it," he says, nearly whispering with relief, and something else that she can't quite put her finger on. "You're upset."

"I'm not," she says flatly, not trusting the abrupt shift in tone.

"How is Mr. Barba?" Purcell asks, mimicking her sickly sweet tone from a few moments ago.

"He's going to be just fine," she tells him, confident in the truth of it. He was strong, and he had her, and Carisi, and the rest of the squad too--not to mention a protective, borderline overbearing mother.

"Did he have you do a rape kit?"

Benson freezes and her guise of casual dismissal vanishes as she feels her stomach roll and drop. She stares, bewildered and chilled to the core, and his face splits into an unpleasant smile.

Benson dashes through the facts in her mind, images from that day whirling in and out of focus. There had been no indication--

"Or was he too ashamed?"

"You're lying."

Purcell laughs, and the sound rattles in her chest.

"He cried and screamed at first, but the rumors were true, that faggot was begging for it by the end--"

Benson slams her hands on the table and lurches to her feet, looming over him as he cowers away, but it doesn't wipe the sneer from his face.

"I've been telling everyone about it. About the way he took me hard--"

"Shut up," she snarls, but then takes a shaky breath and backs away, afraid she'll forget herself and put her hands on him.

"You're lying," she repeats, calmer now that's she's gotten some space and a moment to think.

"His blood is all over that apartment," he reminds her, smug. "My semen is, too."

"On a rag and in your pants," she corrects, but she isn't able to thaw the ice from her stomach. "There's zero evidence that you assaulted him."

"That doesn't mean anything. You think I wanted to come inside of--"

"I can't imagine why you'd lie about this," she forcefully interrupts him, bracing herself against the table. "You'd admit to having sex with another man just to, what, humiliate him? To convicts and corrupt C.O.s?"

She shakes her head in disbelief.

"Rape isn't sex, isn't that what you and your detectives always say?" He asks, sounding smug, but his eyes are burning and he sways a little bit in his seat.

Her mouth goes dry.

"Everyone here seems to agree," he continues earnestly, leaning forward to get a better view of her twisted expression. "Putting a faggot in his place doesn't make you one. The guards laughed when I told them, said that they weren't surprised that he--what was it--'took it like a champ'."

She turns away from him and considers leaving, because she knows that her anger is only fueling his fantasy and giving him the upper hand. But she can't bring herself to allow him to have the last word--not on this.

"Enjoy being on their good side," she tells him, her voice low and sinister. "I'm going to get you transferred out of here someday soon, Purcell--Rikers is a rough place for a man in your condition, after all."

He blinks at her, his mouth hanging half open with surprise. She takes another step back toward the table and puts her palms on it as she angles her head toward him and keeps her voice quiet.

"And see, the guards over at Green Haven aren't like this bunch--you going after an A.D.A. and a judge? Following a little boy around in a park? They won't take kindly to that."

Purcell takes a deep breath but doesn't seem to know what to do with it.

"You're going to die in there," she murmurs, watching his eyes cloud over with confusion and the first flicker of fear. "Whether gen pop tears you apart--makes you their plaything--or the cancer takes you, you're never getting out."

Their faces are only inches apart now, and he's hanging on her every whispered word.

"I'm going to make sure that they know what you did and didn't do--how do you think your new friends are going to feel about you when they find out that you made up a story about sleeping with a male A.D.A.?"

"Shut up!" He screams, and she pulls back away from him as he throws out his arms and stands up, backing away from the table and into the corner across from her.

"They won't believe you raped him, because it didn't happen, and we'll prove it--and there won't be any guards over there to back you up."

"Shut up, shut the fuck up!" He snaps, and his shouts echo in the tiny room. She smothers her wince into a bitter smile, ready to really drive the point home, and Purcell slams the heel of his palm against his temple and keeps screaming.

The metal door is thrown open by two alarmed C.O.s and she backs away as they rush in. She watches Purcell struggle in their grip and then she slips out of the room.

- - -

Benson's taking her first sip of coffee and watching Tucker struggle playfully with Noah for the TV remote when her phone vibrates on the table. She groans and grabs at it, disappointed that her expectations for a quiet Sunday morning were dashed so quickly.

She expects to see Fin's name, or even Rollins', but Whitman's comes as a surprise. He'd never called before 10AM before, and never on a weekend.

She meets Tucker's gaze as she answers, knowing he can read her wariness easily.

"Benson," she answers, glad that she sounds less alarmed than she feels.

"Lieutenant, what the fuck did you say to Purcell?" He asks immediately, starting in before she could even round off the last syllable of her name.

"Good morning to you too, Whitman," she grouses, and then paces to the kitchen window with her coffee cup.

"Lieutenant Benson--" he snaps, and her stomach sinks at the tone, and the hour, and the fact that it was the weekend.

"What happened?"

"That's what I want to know," it comes out as a growl, distorted by the connection. "Purcell tried to kill himself an hour ago."

Benson's vision blurs out of focus, and she feels cold with dread. She's not shocked, not entirely, but--

"Don't make me ask you again. The warden at Rikers just called and woke my wife and I up. He said that you had a little visit with Purcell last night."

The accusation is glaringly obvious.

"I didn't encourage him to kill himself," she argues quietly, mindful that Noah's within earshot.

"Benson--"

"I wanted him to know that he was going to die in there. For what he did," she admits, but has the sense not to sound proud of it. "Fin told me that Purcell's being protected inside, I wanted to remind him that a transfer wasn't out of the question and that other C.O.s wouldn't be so--"

"Stop talking," Whitman interrupts, sounding strangled. "Stop, I can't hear this."

"You asked," she reminds him angrily.

"Why the hell would you--"

"Are you actually asking me or do you just need to work through this?" she asks sarcastically, and hears him heave a weary sigh in reply.

"Purcell apparently threw a fit after you left. He had to be dragged back to his cell, was yelling about Green Haven and you threatening him."

Benson winces and sets her mug down so that she can rub her eyes.

"The warden shared that Purcell has some heavy bruising on his right arm and his chest. Did you touch him?"

"Of course not!" She splutters.

"Because if you did--"

"I didn't," she insists, her voice full of fury and steel.

She hears Whitman sigh again and she swallows hard when Tucker's hand lands on her shoulder. She half turns to him and reads concern in the blueness of his eyes. Her lips stretch into a grimace and he nods, mouthing "park" and bobbing his head toward Noah.

Gratitude makes her eyes sting and she grabs his hand for a moment, squeezes, and then watches Tucker pick her son up and swing him a bit, quietly chattering about an early morning walk as he grabs the boy's bright blue jacket.

"It's possible Purcell did it to himself," Whitman grumbles. "The guards admit that he was thrashing around."

"Or the guards did it themselves."

"It's possible. They had to bodily force Purcell back to his cell, I'm sure they weren't especially gentle--"

"They might have done it on purpose," Benson clarifies bitterly.

Whitman's silent for a beat.

"Keep that theory to yourself, Lieutenant," he advises quietly. She wants to argue, to remind him of Munson and the way some of those same C.O.'s had sat back and waited for an attack on Barba to happen, but she doesn't bother--Whitman had already heard all of it before.

She considers telling Whitman what Purcell had said but she realizes that it'll only hurt her case, only fuel the idea that she was emotional and out of control.

"Whether the bruising was accidental or intentional, right now we have to focus on covering our asses. You can't tell anyone what you told me--admit to nothing, Benson. Just pray that you don't have to testify about this--"

"Testify?" She asks, but it may as well be rhetorical. She understands what he's anticipating.

"Purcell's lawyer is going to use this. He's going to claim that the NYPD has a vendetta against him and that you brutalized and threatened him in that room."

"That's ridiculous," she protests weakly and feels her heartbeat pick up. "You don't think he'll actually..."

She trails off, almost unable to consider it.

"Get off?" Whitman huffs into the phone. "Probably not. But you just hurt our chances of a clean conviction. Considerably."

"We have Purcell dead to rights on stalking Barba and myself, we have his photographs and the knife--"

"All of which Costa will claim was planted."

"Judge Barth--"

"Didn't see his face. We have the footage of Purcell following her and going back to his apartment, but we have nothing on the attack. It would be a stretch but Costa could claim that it wasn't even his client on the video--hundreds of people live in that building."

Benson watches as Tucker waves and heads out with Noah, and she resists the urge to call them back to her.

"If the jury has half a brain between them we'll be fine, but--there are no guarantees."

Benson doesn't say anything. She can't.

"There never are. But you may have just compromised our case, Lieutenant."

"I get it," she answers weakly, not defending herself so much as confessing.

"You'd better figure out what you said to him, and make it sound convincing. If I can present something solid to Costa and offer a better deal, he might just take it."

Benson licks her lips and stares out the window, trying to picture the trial.

She would either have to admit to threatening him with Green Haven, and the promise that he would die there, or she would have to perjure herself.

She cares about Barba enough to consider the latter, but as for if she could actually do it...

Her stomach turns over at the thought of Purcell back in the streets.

"Is there anything else I can do?" She asks in a strained voice.

"Keep your mouth shut," he instructs, and then hangs up on her.

- - -

Benson's a little bit surprised when she gets a text from Barba about three hours later, inviting her over for dinner with a quip about the reincheck he'd requested the other day. She realizes that Whitman probably called him, and she regrets that she hadn't thought to do so first--it should have come from her.

'I'll pick something up. What would you like?' she writes back, dread prickling in her chest. Their friendship was already on uncertain terms, and now she'd possibly just given Purcell a get-out-of-jail-free card--

'Thai?' comes his immediate reply, and she types back an agreement and a promise to be there at six.

She wonders if Carisi would be present but is too embarrassed to ask. She doesn't think Barba would want to have the conversation they were going to have with an audience, though.

Carisi.

She closes her eyes and blocks out the cheerful sound of the cartoon she'd put on for Noah, reeling with the sudden realization that her detective was going to go nuclear when he found out, if Whitman or Barba hadn't already told him.

She curses herself to taking Purcell's bait and rubs her forehead, feeling a stress headache coming on. Noah pauses and looks up from his coloring book, watching her, and she gives him a strained smile.

He doesn't look convinced, so she takes him into her arms, buries her nose in his hair, and murmurs that it's going to he alright until she believes it, too.

- - -

"Wine?" Barba asks, grabbing a few plates and two forks and looking phenomenally well adjusted to Benson's sharp eyes.

"Are you having any?" She asks, skeptical, and he shakes his head apologetically.

"Not with my medication."

"Water's fine," Benson replies lightly, removing the containers from the noisy plastic bags. Barba sets the plates and utensils on the table and then goes back and fills two water glasses.

She watches him carefully as he sits opposite of her, mentally noting the way he moves slowly and avoids using the arm on his injured side. He's pale and the bruising on his eye and neck are still plum and stark, but she thinks his gaze looks bright and clear.

She's relieved, but she's also surprised.

They eat and make small talk for a bit, and she avoids a few subjects--namely Carisi, Purcell, and why he was at home a day earlier than planned.

He's not even halfway through his portion before he sits back with a sigh and looks at it like it personally offended him.

"Done already?" She asks, and gives him a sympathetic smile when he nods. "That's pain medicine for you, tears up the stomach."

"No kidding," he says dryly, but his eyes are soft.

She's suddenly tired of small talk.

"Did Whitman call you?" She asks abruptly, and the easygoing look on his face blanks out.

"He did," Barba says, touching his glass like he's going to pick it up, but doesn't.

"I'm sorry."

His understanding, small smile just makes her feel worse.

"Really, Rafael, I am," she presses on. "He got under my skin. I let him get there, and I shouldn't have."

"You think I would've handled it any better, if our situations were reversed?" Barba asks her slowly. She gives a reluctant chuckle at that, because he had a point.

"You've got a point," she shares with him.

"I know," he teases. "I usually do."

Benson takes a gulp of water and he seems to sense that the subject isn't settled. She watches as he runs different scenarios through his head, likely wondering what the trigger had been for her.

She decides to treat the topic like pulling off a bandaid--quickly and efficiently.

"Purcell is alleging that he sexually assaulted you," Benson tells him, and her voice is almost unbearably soft, as though the neighbors have an ear pressed to the wall and she doesn't want them to hear. "I never asked you--we found the dishcloth, and we found semen in his jeans when we processed his clothing."

She takes a breath and keeps going, despite the way his eyes beg her not to.

"Did he assault you?"

"No," Barba replies immediately, and then looks annoyed when her concerned expression doesn't relent.

She tries to school her features into a more neutral arrangement.

"If he did--"

"He didn't. He didn't touch me, except to hit me," Barba says quickly, a challenge building in his voice.

"And your neck," she says gently, pointing slowly with her fork. She picks up on Barba's hesitation immediately and zeroes in on it. "It'll come up, if there's a trial--"

"I know," he snaps, and she accepts the rebuke--of course he does--but she doesn't back down.

"If there's anything you haven't shared..."

"Nothing I know for sure," he amends, and sighs when she intensifies her frown. "I'm not sure. He put his hands on my throat and he likely--it looked like he was erect."

She sucks in a breath but he doesn't let her interrupt.

"He choked me out, but I was only unconscious for a few seconds. At most."

"Are you sure?" Benson asks, because she has to be certain.

"Yes," he insists impatiently. "I came to a few seconds later and he was still standing over me, but he'd let go."

"And then what?"

"And then, nothing," Barba sighs, sipping at his water. "He didn't touch me after that, except..."

Barba shakes his head and looks confused.

"I think he slapped me again. When he brought the phone over," he clarifies. "But nothing else."

She studies his face and is relieved to find that she believes him.

"I'm glad," she says and then gives him a pained smile. His mouth twitches in an attempt to return it, but he doesn't quite manage it.

She picks at her food for another few minutes and he gazes absently toward the window on the other side of the apartment, looking lost in thought. She wonders if bringing up Carisi would make him feel better or worse.

She decides to risk it.

"By the way, you've got one of my detectives wrapped around your finger," she teases lightly, and she's pleased when he immediately looks equal parts amused and mortified.

"Which one?" He jokes.

She's startled into a laugh and he finally smiles, clearly proud to have gotten it out of her.

"The only person who would willingly sit second chair to you, you egomaniac."

"Ah, him."

Benson grins and shakes her head, finishing off her pad thai.

"Yeah, him," she agrees after a few moments of chewing. "He's crazy about you, but apparently only just figured it out."

"I'm aware."

"Be kind to him," she advises gently, only half teasing. "If you can."

"We've done okay so far."

"Oh?" Benson asks, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. She's not quite prying but she's getting close and they both know it.

"Nothing like a near death experience to bare the soul," he says vaguely, and she huffs another laugh and relents. He's not hiding anything, but he's not ready to get into detail--and that's fine, because she can be patient.

When she leaves later that night, she feels lighter than she has in months.

- - -

Carisi has a tub of ice cream tucked under one arm and another in his hand when he shows up at Barba's door promptly at eight o'clock.

Barba makes a face but doesn't comment, and Carisi's pleased by the faint smile that lingers on his lips when he turns away. Carisi follows him inside and locks the door.

"How'd it go?" He asks, setting the tubs on the counter. Barba examines the container of chocolate and then the container of vanilla and shrugs gently.

"It went fine," Barba says, and Carisi almost tells him how sick he is of hearing that word in his mouth.

"She explain?" Carisi asks, strangling off the second half of the sentence, which would have gone something like 'why the fuck she did that'. He doesn't miss the way Barba hesitates.

"She did," the A.D.A. says slowly, pulling out two red bowls.

"And?" Carisi asks, impatient.

"Purcell provoked her."

"Why was she there in the first place?" Carisi demands, accepting a spoon and pulling off the top of the containers. He angrily spoons a scoop of each flavor into both bowls. Barba lifts his eyebrows and clearly fights to hold back a smile at his antics.

"Don't make a mess," Barba warns jokingly, but sobers considerably when Carisi levels him with a frustrated, pleading stare.

"She was there because she was angry," Barba admits. "And he got to her."

Carisi nods but doesn't look convinced. He thinks--knows--that she should have known better.

He catches Barba studying his face and watches as the other man seems to make up his mind about something.

"Purcell's alleging that he assaulted me."

"He did," Carisi says immediately, then reassesses at Barba's exasperated look. "Oh."

Carisi's insides squeeze and go cold.

"He didn't--"

"No. Of course not," Barba says smoothly, already anticipating the line of questioning.

"What do you mean, 'of course not?'" Carisi demands, heated. "What, like that's out of the question? Like men can't--"

"Okay, okay," Barba amends, holding up his hands as though to ward off the onslaught of indignation. "That's not what I meant."

Carisi watches him, sullen and suspicious, and Barba lays a tentative hand on his forearm. Carisi looks down and feels his face grow warm.

"Purcell did not sexually assault me," Barba says evenly, obviously wanting to set Carisi's reeling mind at ease. "I would have said something."

Carisi clears his throat and nods, faintly embarrassed by his outburst, but he thinks that Barba looks just a bit touched by his outrage.

"That why Benson lost her cool?" He asks with sudden realization, and just like that he forgives her--appreciates her wrathfulness about it, even.

"That would be my guess," Barba agrees, and then picks up one of the bowls. "Come on, it's going to melt."

Carisi takes a moment to put the containers in Barba's freezer and then grabs the remaining bowl, not too surprised to see that it's already gotten soupy at the bottom. He plops down next to Barba on the couch and grins when he's handed the remote.

He keeps up an air of nonchalance but immediately hunts for a true crime channel, and bites his lip when he lands on one that's just started.

Predictably, Barba immediately starts complaining about the investigation around bites of ice cream, and Carisi can't help but watch him out of the corner of his eye as he banters along with him.

Barba can't manage to finish his bowl and sets it on the table, and Carisi is quick to wolf down the rest of his own and put it down, too. He licks his lips and tries not to squirm with anticipation.

He waits until he makes Barba chuckle with a particular good quip about the lead suspect, and then he leans into Barba's space and brushes up against his shoulder.

Barba turns to him, surprised for a moment, but his eyes soften with realization and he doesn't protest or flinch away when Carisi closes the distance and presses a clumsy kiss to his lips.

Barba shifts toward him to allow for a more comfortable angle and Carisi brings his hand up to touch the side of his face, not quite holding him in place.

He can feel the phantom scrape of barely-there stubble and he can feel Barba's breath on his face and his warmth and he can taste vanilla on his lips--

Barba pulls back slightly and Carisi takes a breath, watching in wonder as Barba's face slides back into focus. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears and he can't seem to pull in enough oxygen.

He expects Barba to make a joke, maybe something like, not bad, Detective, but Barba just gives him a slow, lazy smile.

Carisi rests his hand on the thin fabric of Barba's shirt and pushes back against him, which earns him a grunt and a hoarse laugh as Barba immediately breaks the second kiss.

"Easy," he murmurs, and Carisi feels his face grow blotchy with embarrassment at his overeager fumbling.

"Sorry, your side--" he gasps out, having forgotten in his mad haste to make up for months--years, even--of missing out on this. Barba's scent and his warmth and his solid presence beside him--

"It's okay," Barba soothes, twisting slightly on the couch until he's more comfortable. Carisi's eyes find the place where the bandages create a subtle lump against his ribs.

Carisi can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the sight.

He starts to retreat, another apology already half formed on his lips, but Barba wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in again.

Chapter Text

It's been three months since Purcell was taken into custody, and although Barba still struggles through most nights he's been sleeping better with Carisi's gangly limbs tangled around him. It makes it harder to get out of bed in the morning, but despite his many exasperated complaints about sleeping with a human vine, he's grateful.

On this particular morning he's also pretending to be annoyed, because Carisi had pulled him close and worked his fingers inside of him and the whole event had wound up cost them an extra forty minutes.

Carisi watches him dress, still lounged out on the bed looking rumpled and warm, and Barba has to resist the urge to crawl back under the covers with him and offer a round two.

Instead, he knots a buttery yellow tie at his throat and snarks, "If you're going to make me go with you, at least don't make us late."

Carisi's slow smile isn't quite an answer, but he does stretch out his arms and roll out of bed a few moments later. He approaches Barba from behind and kisses the back of his head, where his hair is still a bit damp from his shower.

"Lose the tie," he suggests. "This isn't a formal thing."

"Since when do I need a 'formal thing' to look good?" Barba quips, but considers the advice. He doesn't want to come across as stuffy, despite the fact that this particular group of people had cemented their opinions of him long ago.

Carisi grins cheekily but he doesn't take the bait. He heads into the bathroom for a shower of his own, and Barba rolls his eyes fondly when off-key humming starts up with the spray of water.

Barba pulls off his tie, examines the semi-casual combination of egg-shell button up and pewter slacks by themselves, and begrudgingly admits to himself that Carisi had a point.

- - -

They're not late, despite Barba's concerns, and Benson opens the door to her apartment with a wide smile. Carisi nods to himself in appreciation of her pale yellow blouse and for a moment regrets having told Barba to take off his tie--they would have matched.

Rollins and Jesse are already there, sitting near a pile of colorful blocks and toy cars with Noah, and Carisi makes a beeline for them.

Fin arrives not long after, and Carisi thinks that he looks a bit hungover but happy all the same. He presses a bottle of wine into Benson's hands and settles into the couch next to Tucker, and takes the bottle of beer offered to him.

Carisi plays with the kids and watches as Barba and Benson have a quiet conversation at the kitchen counter, keeping one eye on them and another on Jesse, who seems largely content to stack blocks and babble at Noah, who is characteristically quiet.

He's distracted from trying to eavesdrop on Barba's hushed discussion when Jesse makes a tower out of red and blue rectangles and looks up at him as if to get his approval.

"Holy cow, look at you," he enthuses, nodding thoughtfully at the arrangement. "You gonna be an architect when you grow up, Jesse?"

She squeals a bit and laughs when he tries to add a block and accidentally knocks it over, then he spends a couple of minutes rebuilding and knocking it back down it with her until she loses interest.

"I know it's only been a few months," Rollins says suddenly, taking a plastic car out of Jesse's hand before it winds up in her mouth. "But you ever think about kids?"

Carisi levels her with a look--it's a stupid question in general (of course he has) and a pointless one in particular (of course Barba hasn't)--and she grins at his expression and takes a sip of Coke from her sweating can.

"Yeah, I don't think that's in the cards," he jokes wistfully, patting Noah's back as the boy pushes a wall of blocks over and starts again, inspired by Jesse's game.

"Never know, look at me, I never wanted them," Rollins says, looking at her daughter like she can't believe she'd ever had the gall to think it.

Carisi bobs his head in a noncommittal way and doesn't share that he thinks about it a lot, actually. It's been on his mind ever since the moment he'd seen Barba awkwardly lift his niece, Isabelle, in his arms and try his best despite obvious discomfort. It's been weeks but he hasn't quite been able to shake the image of them sitting quietly together, while Tommy and Bella had an explosively enthusiastic conversation about Kingston Crossing and its flaws and merits as a show.

He licks his lips and he keeps it to himself.

It's been a private fantasy for a while but it's still too early to even think about it, much less bring it up to Barba, who handles children like they have a nuclear launch button hidden inside.

"You'd be a good dad," Rollins murmurs, and Carisi gives her an offended huff.

"I'd be a great dad," he jokingly corrects, and she swats his arm and laughs but can't even pretend to disagree.

They both eagerly shift toward the couch when Fin takes out his phone and starts showing off pictures of his newborn grandson.

- - -

"I know there's not much that I can do, but--"

"We have it handled," Benson tells him gently, her eyes soft and honest. "He hasn't sent her a message in weeks. Last we heard, he's planning on moving down to Jersey to be with his father."

Barba grits his teeth and sips at his glass of wine, his eyes still hooded at the mere mention of Adam Viers. "Guess it's not easy finding a job after dismissing death threats against an A.D.A. and issuing a few of your own against a cop."

"He didn't threaten her life," Benson corrects quickly, looking a bit startled, and Barba feels a rush of embarrassment for projecting.

"Well, harassing a cop, then."

Benson presses a hand against his forearm where the sleeves are rolled up, and Barba tries to quiet the pounding in his chest. It's humiliating, but he's still frighteningly easy to upset at times, and this is no exception--Rollins wasn't in danger, she hadn't been threatened, and Viers had several sharp sets of eyes on him, and yet...

"How's Dr. Mendoza treating you?" Benson asks, and Barba has to resist the urge to snark at her for the less than subtle segue to his therapist.

He shrugs.

"She's fine," he says, even though he likes her quite a bit. It isn't that the sessions aren't helping--they are, immensely--but he still feels a flicker of unease at discussing them. It had taken weeks to open up to Carisi about it, and even then, the only time the detective got any insight into his bi-weekly meetings was usually in the dark, when Barba was exhausted from work and a particularly rigorous round of sex.

Benson nods and then looks up with a smile when Tucker approaches, who clasps Barba on the back as he joins them.

"Doing okay, Counselor?"

Barba lifts one side of his mouth into a dry smile, still not quite over the shock of seeing Tucker outside of the precinct or a bar. But Barba doesn't dislike him, not really anyway, and they're often able to find common ground in their pessimistic grousing.

They talk about the warming weather and Fin's plans to take the Sergeant's exam on Monday, and he feels Carisi's skinny arm slide around his waist after a while. It takes a moment for him to relax into the touch because it's still strange for him to be so openly affectionate in front of coworkers, but he doesn't pull away from the loose embrace.

He does, however, bark out a laugh at the look on Tucker's face when Carisi suggests a double date.

- - -

Fin invites Carisi into Benson's office late in the following week, and Carisi hopes it's to share the news about the exam.

He's disappointed when Purcell comes up first.

"He's determined to go to trial," Fin admits, plunging his hands into his pockets and looking sorry to be the one to break the news. "He fired Costa a few days ago."

"He did? Why?" Carisi demands, pacing the small space and feeling sick to his stomach.

"Dunno. Whitman thinks Costa was pushing too hard for a deal."

Carisi doesn't comment on the way that Whitman and Fin had formed some kind of strange comradery, because he doesn't quite know what to think about the fact that they'd gone out for drinks the night before like old friends.

"Whitman worried?" Carisi asks, chewing the inside of his lip.

"Yeah, a bit," Fin shares, leaning against Benson's desk and sighing. "Purcell's really using Liv's visit against us, apparently he's been looking into suing."

Carisi curses and rubs his face.

"Does he plan on representing himself again?" He asks bitterly, imagining Purcell trying to get at Barba that way, like the events of the Jordan trial had been described to him.

"Nah, hired some new guy, George Pollack. Whitman looked into him," Fin says, bobbing his head as if he knew what Carisi had been thinking. "He's not a big fish but he's gotten guys out before--he mostly takes on terminal clients."

Carisi feels the return of a gnawing pit in his chest and it takes several deep breaths before he can calm down enough to start thinking through their options.

"There's something else...," Fin quietly states, looking reluctant. Carisi blinks at him and notices the way that Fin has trouble meeting his eyes, but his throat is suddenly so dry he can't bring himself to ask.

He feels his brow furrow when Fin closes the door.

- - -

"You're sure Barba can spare you for the night?" Rollins asks sarcastically, letting Carisi in and grabbing one of the shopping bags out of his arms. It's Friday night and they've had a relatively tame week, which is always cause for celebration in her book.

"Thanks," he says brightly, moving to deposit the other two on the counter. "And yeah, he's having dinner with his mom tonight."

"No invite for you, huh? She's still not your biggest fan?"

Carisi washes his hands and throws her a smile over his shoulder.

"She's getting there!" He chirps. "She's coming over on Sunday, Barba's even going to let me cook for her."

"Oh," Rollins laughs. "Fastest way to a man's heart...
Does that tactic work on mothers-in-law, too?"

He flushes as he ducks his head and turns on two burners on her stovetop.

"C'mon, Rollins," he whines, playfully pouting. "She's not my mother-in-law."

Rollins smirks.

"Seriously though, that's good," she relents. "Definitely progress."

Carisi pulls the ingredients out of the shopping bags and begins washing them as she opens a bottle of wine and pours two generous glasses.

"Anything new on Purcell?" She asks, swirling the alcohol around in her glass.

Carisi shakes his head, the slope of his mouth angling toward a grimace as he chops the onions. They'd all discussed the newest twists in the case earlier that morning, so he's got nothing else to offer her.

"Have you told Barba about the letters yet?" She presses.

His deft knifework pauses, and for a moment she wonders if he'll even bother to answer, but he tilts his head to look at her and the grimace turns into a full-blown frown.

"No," Carisi says, his voice small and petulant.

Rollins sips at her wine and tries not to let her eyebrows do the talking for her--she doesn't approve, but he already knows that.

"Okay...," she tries. "I know you've got a protective streak about a mile wide for Barba, but don't you think he deserves to know?"

"Why?" Carisi complains, his accent making the question brassy. "What good would it do? He knows Purcell's nuts. And obsessed. Why give him more to worry about when Purcell's never getting out?"

Carisi goes back to chopping furiously and Rollins bites the inside of her cheek to keep from calling him a brat. It would be in fondness, but it also would be a bit cruel because she knows he's coming from a good place.

"I would want to know, if it was me," she shares, but he just shrugs and keeps his focus on the prep work.

"If some psycho was penning me three pages a week about God knows what, wouldn't you?"

Carisi's run out of onions to decimate so he starts in on the mushrooms.

"You don't want to know what," he mutters, and she allows for a moment of surprise.

"Oh, and you do?"

"Whitman told Fin."

"And Fin told you," she concludes dryly.

"He wanted me to know, just in case," he admits, and then slides the onions and mushrooms into a pan with butter.

"So, Barba doesn't need to know that he's been written dozens of letters, because Purcell's never getting out--but Fin told you what's in these letters, specifically, just in case he gets out?" She asks, pretending to need clarification.

He clears his throat and stirs the pan and says nothing.

"You know how stupid that sounds, right?"

Carisi shrugs and gives her a weak, plaintive grin.

"I'll let him know if... if we get wind that Purcell starts asking about compassionate release or something, alright?" He concedes, but her left eyebrow continues its skeptical march upward. "But there's no way he's beating his charges, not even with this new specialty lawyer. No way."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Trust me, Rollins, you don't want to know."

She thinks it over and then accepts it--he's probably right. And she's somewhat reassured that Fin and Carisi are aware, because that means that they won't be blindsided at the very least. But she is worried--Purcell is crafty and ill and he clearly wasn't capable of letting go. She can't help but wonder if Carisi's in some sort of dangerous state of denial, and she has to work hard to avoid thinking what it would do to him, to Barba ripped away, after everything that had happened.

"What about Liv?" She asks, finishing her wine and pouring in another half glass.

"Fin probably told her too, I guess," Carisi replies slowly, dropping linguini noodles into a pot of boiling water.

Her stomach growls as the smell of cooking butter and onions fills the apartment, and she decides that that's enough work talk for the moment. Maybe he would listen to reason once he was fed and a bit buzzed.

"Patrick and Candy are going down tonight, I hope you're ready."

"What?" Carisi squawks, a spoonful of flour nearly missing the pan as he whips his head around. "No way! Come on! Candy's got this, Rollins!"

She glances at the television, which already has the recording their show's finale queued up and ready to go.

"Fat chance," she grins.

She's already seen the spoilers online, but he doesn't need to know that.

- - -

Lucia's apartment is quiet except for the occasional scrape of silverware against her porcelain plates, and Barba only breaks the uneasy silence when he feels at risk of suffocating from it.

"Is everything okay?" He asks with expert nonchalance, even going as far as to take another bite of rice afterward, like the question hasn't been simmering inside of him for weeks.

"Fine," Lucia replies lightly, knowing what he's really asking and likely having no real answer for it.

Barba licks his lips and only allows himself to hesitate for a few moments.

"How's your health?"

That stops her, and she narrows her eyes and looks at him with guarded curiosity.

"I'm probably in better shape than you are, mijo," she teases, as if hoping to bait him into a discussion about his weight or the fact that she has an exercise group that met three times a week in the park, whereas he has two brightly colored running outfits that have used about as many times over the years.

But the look on his face tells her that his interest wouldn't be swayed so easily.

"Really, Rafael, I'm fine," Lucia clarifies firmly, and resumes eating to signify an end to the conversation. He doesn't follow her lead and she can see the wheels still turning in his head.

"Your food's going to get cold," she chides and he frowns at her in disappointment. She tries to ignore the look, but after a few moments she surrenders and tries for a little honesty instead.

"I just want you to be happy, Rafi," she says gravely, deciding to do away with any pretense of not understanding the root of his concern.

"I know."

"You never seemed happy with those men," she murmurs, and he tries to think back. It wasn't necessarily the men he dated that had left him unhappy in the past--at least, not most of the time.

"I always thought you'd end up with a nice girl like Yelina and give me grandkids."

It sounds a bit like a joke but Barba sucks in a breath and fixes her with a pointed stare all the same.

"Yelina? Really? You still think she's a good--"

"She still loves him," his mother interrupts, shrugging helplessly. "She stood by him. She's loyal."

Barba wonders if that matters more--loyalty over morality--and his father crashes into the forefront of his mind. Lucia had stood by him, too, even when she shouldn't have.

Barba doesn't want that kind of love.

Sensing his introspection, she breathes out through her nose and clucks her tongue.

"I'm sorry, mijo. I know you don't want to hear it. But I can't help but want what's best for you. I want you to be happy."

"I am."

Lucia clearly makes an effort to hold back her thoughts on the subject, and even seems disappointed with herself when she continues anyway.

"I just don't get it. You could be happy with a woman, Rafí. Someone who can give you children. Someone who won't jeopardize your career."

Barba suddenly remembers why he'd been putting off this talk for several years and why he'd fled her apartment back in December, after the last time they'd tried this.

"Mamí--hold on, first--there's adoption, there's surrogacy--" and suddenly he's gesturing with his hands, and he spares a moment to wonder if Carisi's been a bad influence on him after all. "And that's... this isn't the career killer that it was."

She considers him, her eyes sad but resigned.

"He's good for me," Barba murmurs, and he can't tell her--he can't use the word love with her when he hasn't used it with Carisi--not yet.

She sighs and he recognizes that she isn't in a persuasive mood. Maybe she hadn't been trying to convince him--maybe she had just wanted him to understand why she had been so dismissive of Carisi, even if she couldn't explain why she'd been crueller to him than to any of Barba's past romantic entanglements.

"If you say so, Rafael."

It's a giving of ground, a tentative we'll see instead of outright rejection.

Barba gives an answering sigh and surrenders a tired smile for her, because it's something.

It's a start.

He'll take it.

- - -

Carisi's flushed and warm when he pulls off his pants and climbs into bed with Barba, who puts his book down and indulges him in a long kiss.

He lets Carisi burrow against his side and ramble about his reality show's finale and Jesse's periwinkle onesie and Rollins' impending date with a neurosurgeon, offering only one eye roll per subject.

He waits until Carisi runs out of breath and things to say before bringing up his mother.

"She's delusional," Barba mutters bitterly after giving Carisi the bare bones of the conversation, taking some comfort in the slow pressure of Carisi's fingers stroking against his stomach.

"Moms usually are," Carisi jokes, but it doesn't quite land.

"I honestly thought she was going to tell me that she was ill," he confesses, and Carisi probably feel the way the shame of it makes his breath hitch. "A part me of suspected that that was why she's been... like this, and why she wanted to have dinner alone."

Carisi considers this quietly, his thumb working an absent but pleasant pattern into the flesh of Barba's hip, his hand having found its way under his shirt.

"I don't blame you," Carisi says slowly, but that doesn't make Barba feel much better. As if sensing this, Carisi places a warm kiss against the side of his neck, just below the ear, and Barba feels himself grow distracted.

"It would have been easier, in some ways," Barba murmurs, almost ready to abandon the conversation. But he knows he probably won't work up the nerve to have it later, and he feels like he needs to confess his muddled thoughts. "It's awful to say. And I'm glad it's not the case, of course, but--it would have made sense."

"She just doesn't like me," Carisi jokes smoothly, but they both know there's some truth to it. "Just wait until she tries my mom's recipe though, she'll love me in no time."

Barba gives a strained laugh and shifts slightly onto his side toward Carisi, bringing his hand to rest on the hem of his powder blue boxer briefs.

"I wouldn't get your hopes up," he warns evenly, but Carisi already knows this and is more interested in the path that Barba's fingers trace along the front of his crotch, the barely-there friction of the fabric against his skin making him squirm.

Barba likes the look on him, the breathless, red-faced anticipation. He slips his fingers inside of the slit of the boxers and is met with heated flesh, and he dips his head to lick into the hollow of Carisi's collar bone when the other man gives a low moan.

"I'm sorry," Carisi breathes out, and it takes Barba a moment to understand that he's talking about Lucia and not the way his hips eagerly buck when Barba takes him in his hand. Barba's not thinking about his mother anymore and he wants to keep it that way, so he scrapes his teeth against Carisi's skin and starts working his wrist.

He pants and bites his lip when Carisi rolls him onto his belly and presses him down into the mattress.

- - -

Carisi calls Bella on Sunday morning as he shops for groceries, having decided on a dish to impress Lucia with later than evening. He listens as his sister complains about the cost of clothes for a fast growing toddler.

"Your boss was right," she groans, which puzzles but pleases him. "I feel like we're going through three sizes every six months."

"Babies grow fast, Bella," he chuckles absently, examining and comparing a couple of asparagus bundles.

"Yeah, thanks, Sonny, we figured that part out," she teases, and he smiles to himself as he hears a screech and Tommy's laugher in the background.

"How's the boyfriend?" Bella asks, still amused by the strange coupling her brother and her husband's A.D.A. had found themselves in. She later admitted to Carisi that she'd played up her initial surprise when he'd confessed he'd been dating Barba for three weeks, sharing that she hadn't missed the lingering looks he'd aimed at his close friends growing up.

He'd been embarrassed but grateful for her support, and they'd already begun discussing the best way to break the news of his relationship to the rest of the family.

He just had to win Lucia over in the meantime.

"He's a nervous wreck," Carisi exaggerates. "His mom's coming over tonight and I think he thinks she's going to burn the place down if I mess up dinner."

"Better not mess it up, then," she quickly jokes, and he grumbles half-heartedly in response, clearly a bit nervous himself. "You'll be fine, Sonny, seriously, you're a great cook."

"She'll probably hate it, even if she loves it," he sighs, moving toward the checkout line. "Anyway, gotta go, love you. Give Izzy a kiss."

"I'll give her three, for good luck. Talk to you later, Sonny," she chirps, and he hangs up with a smile on his face.

- - -

Calhoun watches Whitman weave his way through the narrow tables and finely dressed patrons of the upscale steakhouse she'd invited him to, trying not to let a smile of satisfaction find its way to her face too early.

She'd known he'd come.

"Thank you for meeting me, Counselor," she greets, her voice pure velvet but her eyes sharp as he settles in across from her.

"Let's make this quick, I have a trial to prepare for," Whitman says rudely, ignoring her in favor of two fingers of scotch and a bread roll. He doesn't ask how she'd known his drink of choice.

"You can consider this a working dinner, then."

Whitman's brow furrows and he sends her an uncomprehending glare. She can only try to soften the edge of her smile into something less predatory. He doesn't seem reassured but he does order when a waiter approaches their table.

Calhoun traces an elegant finger across the rim of her wine glass and watches the A.D.A. closely, allowing for long enough of a pause to build his curiosity and apprehension.

"I'm sure you've heard by now that Rick Purcell has fired that hack Costa," she purrs smoothly, and enjoys the dramatic roll of his eyes because, in that moment, he reminds her of Barba.

"Yeah. I've heard," Whitman grumbles. "Hired some nobody who takes on cases for terminally ill convicts instead."

"George is good at what he does," Calhoun shares delicately, stretching her mouth into a coy, closed-lipped smile. "He reached out to Purcell personally to offer his services at a discount."

"How nice of him," Whitman snaps, and Calhoun can see that she nearly loses him. She takes a moment to be grateful that he doesn't storm out.

"He's known to be generous, in all areas of life," she tells him, her voice low and deep with implication. His eyes flutter with uncertainty and it isn't a stretch to assume he's back to wondering what the hell he was doing there.

"How am I not surprised," he complains bitterly, as though he should, by default, assume that she sleeps with other defense attorneys by way of habit. "I'm actually surprised you didn't offer Purcell your services yourself. I'm guessing he didn't offer enough money?"

"We have a history--I can't say that we got along very well before. Besides... a rather overeager detective specifically requested that I not."

Whitman nearly smiles for the first time, and she can see a secretive awareness squirming behind the expression. Her curiosity swells but it isn't the time or the place to trick the information out of him--she still has to see if he's willing to play ball.

She takes a healthy sip of her wine and doesn't break eye contact.

"Don't be too upset with George. He's only doing what's been asked of him."

Calhoun watches him closely and is glad to see that she doesn't need to explicitly say that it was by her request.

Whitman's surprised expression turns wary, but instead of reassuring him that she's not about to blackmail or otherwise threaten him, she tells him about Barba.

She tells him about their first meeting--which, unsurprisingly, was their first debate, too--and how she'd been impressed with his showmanship and haunted tenacity. She earns Whitman's sympathy when she loftily complains about Barba's unbending morals and she has to refrain from implying that she prefers Whitman's by whatever means necessary reputation. She's not trying to butter him up--he wouldn't believe it anyway.

A part of her wants to make him understand, though--it's not just about Rafael Barba. Whitman hadn't been there for the Avery Jordan trial, he hadn't known and respected Judge Barth for years, but she knows better than to rely entirely on sentiment.

Whitman cares about Barba to some degree but he cares about his career even more, and she can certainly work with that.

After earning a reluctant chuckle with a tale from her early partnership with Barba on a homicide prosecution, she senses her opportunity when he finishes his seventy dollar steak and leans back in his chair, looking content.

"This is a big case for you," she says with enough gravity that his hackles don't immediately rise again. "An A.D.A. attacked not once but twice, a New York City judge nearly raped in her own home, a celebrated Lieutenant stalked around the city for months..."

She doesn't need to go on, if the drawn look on his face is anything to go by--he knows the stakes, he's feeling the pressure.

"I hear the Brooklyn D.A. is getting ready to retire and settle down somewhere in Florida within the next two years," she shares, leaning forward a bit and lowering her voice, like they're co-conspirators.

Whitman's mouth quirks.

"Where did you hear that?" He asks, but doesn't deny it.

"That's not important," she tells him, waving it off with a delicate flick of her wrist. "What should interest you more is that he's already trying to line up a replacement. The voters of New York need someone they can trust."

Whitman's starting to catch on, but he's smart enough to know better than to leap without looking.

"And, what, you're going to give me a glowing recommendation?" He jokes, but his eyes don't waver--he's on the hook, he just doesn't know how hard to bite down without knowing what she can actually do for him.

"I don't care much for getting involved in another county's politics. But I'm very, very good friends with Councilman Su's wife," she murmurs, voice husky, and she only just barely resists a saucy wink. "And with their endorsement..."

"What are we talking about here?" Whitman demands, clearly caught between feeling teased and seeing the potential for a good deal, like any decent lawyer would.

"Putting Purcell away. For good this time," Calhoun says darkly. "If you're willing to play a little dirty."

Whitman's eyes search hers intently, glimmering in the dim light, and she would never admit it but a curl of uncertainty finds its way into her belly. If she had misjudged Whitman, if she had miscalculated his ambition and his contempt for Purcell--

Whitman's mouth twists into a vicious, eager smile.

"What do you have in mind, Ms. Calhoun?"

- - -

Barba watches his mother watch Carisi. She'd gotten dressed up for the quiet dinner and he doesn't know if it's her way of showing respect or if it's some strange act of defiance, but so far her comments have been few and far in between. He'd accurately anticipated her initial comment on Carisi's choice of fish--because didn't he know that the local markets had better quality salmon than Whole Foods?--but she had kept the worst of her thoughts to herself after that.

Barba's impressed, and although he doesn't say as much he can read her gaze from across the table as Carisi puts the finishing touches on the plates in the kitchen.

I'm being good, her eyes say, with only a hint of mischievousness. I'm capable of that.

Carisi babbles nervously as he sets the plates down, and Lucia has the manners to immediately compliment the richness of the sauce as she takes her first bite.

Barba expects Carisi to blush, but the man pales instead, as if she'd signalled a firing squad to take aim.

When Lucia takes another delicate bite and doesn't follow her praise up with an insult, Carisi shoots Barba a glance that's filled with uncertainty and just an ember of pleasure.

Barba quietly hooks his ankle around Carisi's under the table and only offers a smile. Carisi's cheeks turn a pleasant shade of pink at both the contact and the tender expression that's aimed his way.

"Thank you," Carisi belatedly replies to Lucia, almost as though he'd been startled back to attention, which earns him a quirked eyebrow and a grimace as she decides against a stinging quip.

"Where did you learn to cook?" Lucia asks instead, although she phrases it a bit more like a demand than a question.

"My mom, and my older sisters, too, I guess," Carisi quickly replies, and then launches into a brief description of his family tree before sharing not one but two stories about his struggle to learn Mediterranean cuisine.

Barba thinks that Carisi wants to impress her with his love for his family, as if Lucia could be lured in by the idea of a son-in-law who could love her like blood, but Barba knows better. He knows that it must be painful for her to hear tales of a functional, loving family passing down recipes from long-dead relatives, because that hadn't been the reality of the Barba household.

He hasn't told Carisi much about his father because the few hints he had dropped had sailed off target--Carisi still struggled to imagine that men were capable of brutalizing their own families, and for the moment Barba was content to let him think that that hadn't been the case for himself and for Lucia, either.

But if his mother is making the unpleasant comparisons for herself, she doesn't show it.

The rest of the dinner conversation is spent on idle comments about the weather, Lucia's work, and the newest political scandals out of Washington D.C. Barba nearly groans when Carisi latches onto the subject of for-profit prisons, but he's downright stunned when Lucia takes the bait and launches into a passionate spiel about the school-to-prison pipeline.

It's all that he can do to refrain from expressing his amusement at Carisi's astonished expression--the man had managed to stumble onto one of the few topics that Lucia would willingly agree with him on.

Lucia offers to do the dishes afterward, and even though they all know that she doesn't have any intention of being taken up on that, it obviously means a lot to the detective. Carisi nearly trips over himself to get the dishes soaking and the table wiped down, as if he'd lose points with her for breaking the illusion of her desire to do so instead.

When Barba offers to walk her down to a cab after a stilted goodbye, Carisi shoots him a panicked look--should he offer, too?

But Barba shakes his head ever so slightly, and Carisi lets out a puff of air and repeats that it was so lovely having her over and that they should make plans to do it again soon.

Lucia makes no such commitment, but she does give the detective a strained smile before shrugging on her coat and making a beeline for the front door. Barba takes a moment to roll his eyes for Carisi's sake, much like he had at the hospital almost four months ago.

Carisi's wide, warm eyes linger in his mind as he joins Lucia in the elevator.

"He's polite, at least," his mother says stiffly, as if she has a knife at her back and has to find a single compliment to issue for Barba's sake.

Barba gives a hum of agreement, resists the urge to thank her for managing that much, and is caught completely off guard when she continues.

"He's protective of you, too."

Barba whips his head around at the admission, but she keeps her eyes set forward as the elevator doors slide open, and she moves briskly into the lobby without waiting for his reply.

He catches up in a few short steps.

"He is," Barba agrees, still trying to catch her eye as they push out into the twilight.

"Stubborn, too," she says, as though she hadn't heard him, but it sounds a bit less like a compliment this time.

"He's a good man," Barba replies awkwardly. "A good detective, too."

Lucia pins him with a stare that borders on disbelief, but his heart pounds in his ears when she doesn't argue the point. Instead, her eyes soften as they search his face, and she regards him with reluctant understanding.

"He brings out a lighter side of you, Rafael."

Barba blinks stupidly at her and doesn't quite know what to say, but he's spared from having to think on his feet when her cab rolls to a stop at the curb.

He presses a kiss into her cheek and murmurs a grateful farewell, and he feels warm when she pats him on the arm and climbs into the car.

- - -

Carisi still gets a bit anxious when Barba leaves his sight, especially when they're in his apartment. The first time he'd woken up alone in bed he'd panicked and searched the empty rooms, and had immediately called Barba even after finding a note about going out for coffee. Barba hadn't been a big fan of Carisi's tone, which had been equal parts relief and anger, but he'd understood Carisi's anxiety well enough.

He certainly had some of his own.

Now, months later, Carisi still struggles not to follow Barba outside like he's his security detail and instead of his boyfriend, and he's resorted to pacing when Barba slips back into the apartment.

Carisi immediately relaxes, and almost immediately picks up on Barba's perplexed expression. He means to ask about it, but the A.D.A. crosses the space between them and kisses him first.

He grips Barba by the hips and studies his face when they break contact, searching for hints of an argument.

"She's coming around," Barba offers cryptically, and Carisi frowns even though he knows that it's supposed to be good news.

"She say something?" He asks, trying for casual but failing. Barba watches him for a moment and then nods.

"She thinks you're polite," Barba huffs with a chuckle, then presses another brief kiss into his lips. "Anyway, did you find a movie time?"

"Yeah, eight-fifteen," Carisi murmurs, keeping his fingers curled around the belt loops of Barba's slacks. "We have some time before we have to head out."

Barba rolls his eyes and doesn't fight the grin that worms its way across his face, but he also doesn't surrender to Carisi's implication.

Carisi's a little disappointed when they settle in on the couch instead of the bed, but he radiates contentment when Barba rests his weight against him and opens a book.

Carisi tries to browse the news on his phone, but it’s hard to concentrate when he can feel Barba breathing in against him, warm and safe and whole. His eyes skim an article but he's really seeing the last year run through his mind--the slow decline of Barba's mood as the death threats escalated in secret, losing Dodds, facing Purcell, and, of course, choosing one another in the chaos of it all.

It’s easy to imagine how differently things could have turned out, but Carisi doesn't allow himself to consider alternatives because despite everything--all the pain, the confusion, and the uncertainty--he's right where he wants to be.

He traces the scar on Barba's side through the fabric of his shirt and he counts his blessings.