Archive of Our Own

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

Sonny was exhausted. Weary. Running on empty. Kaput. Done.

He was sooooooo done.

Being an ADA was even harder than he’d ever imagined. He’d known that the hours would be long, but he was prepared for that. He knew that he would be starting from the bottom, but he prepared for that too.

He was also prepared to be doubted, mocked or hazed (it was subtler at the DA’s office than it had been at the academy). He knew he could handle the subject matter- he didn’t see anything as an ADA he wouldn’t have also seen as an SVU detective.

What he wasn’t prepared for was to feel so disconnected from the squad. His friends- best friends even. Or so he thought. He was feeling more and more like an estranged family member. A second cousin who you avoid at the family picnic. An uncle who got cut off for bringing dishonor to the family. An outsider.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

Sometimes he can’t believe it either. It’s been harder to hold onto his memories during the pandemic. Everything about his previous life felt fake. Remembering his life before was like remembering an old movie or beloved tv series. He had the highlights, but it did not exist in the here and now.

He breathed a sigh of relief once he got to his block. This had changed too in some respects, but his weathered walk-up apartment looked the same. It had stood the test of time, outlived similar circumstances to now. The paint on the window ledges might be chipping and the brick could do with a power wash, but it was still there. It had survived. Maybe there was a chance he would too.

Home. From the faint odour of cigarettes in the lobby, the smell of meals cooking in the hallways, the obnoxious amber glow of light fixtures that had seen better days, it remained the same. He’d never upgraded his apartment. It’s still a bit of a commute and some of the neighbors would spook the old version of Sonny but it’s been years and now it feels like a part of him.

It should. He’s barely been able to leave it in a year and it’s one of the few places he feels safe. Probably the only place at this point. The sense of community was unlike anything else he’d ever experienced. Those neighbors that would have scared him before are really just misunderstood. That’s something he knows a lot about. Staying connected to this neighbourhood, barely within Manhattan and the last to be gentrified, it was important. It’s one of the few things in his life that was just for him.

After five flights of stairs, he’d finally reached his front door. 5D- his solace from the world. Entering his unit he took a deep breath, held it for 10 seconds, and let it out slowly. He leaned against the door while he unlaced his shoes, placed his briefcase on the floor and hung up his jacket. It would probably be easier to take his shoes off last but this was the way he had always done it and old habits die hard. The windows creek in the wind and the street noise is heard 5 floors up. Not as loudly as regular times, but it beats the eery silence of March. He is worried he’ll experience that again soon. The isolation.

He already feels it. With the squad that he's not a part of, not really anyhow. The same squad that went to Barba behind his back. Blindsiding him when they knew how he felt about Barba, at least to some degree. And then this case.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.” 

He felt offended. He’s not an idiot and he knew that Kat meant it as an insult.

Sad. He felt sad that he no longer belonged to something he’d been a part of for so long. It stung, especially when he’d fought so hard to fit in and she’s managed it almost immediately. But the biggest part, the unspoken part, is that he felt relieved.

He was relieved he didn’t come across as a cop. It wasn’t exactly a badge of honour to wear around these days. He believed in the officers at SVU and the work they did. He stands by most decisions he made as an officer of the law, with the exception of some more regrettable moments. God may forgive him for the Terrence Reynolds case, but he’s never forgiven himself.  Still. The badge had started to feel more and more like wearing a concrete boot in a body of water. It was so hard to fight against the culture of policing when nature was begging you to submit.

It hurt. He still felt like he had to prove himself to everyone, in every context, all of the time. He doesn’t think that feeling will ever go away. His desire to be accepted. To belong. To be good. It was inherent.

Along with the relief he felt hope. Hope that one day he might be seen as a proficient lawyer and not some sort of traitor cop. Or as a person and not a stereotype. That’s the ultimate goal really but he has no control over its progress or the final outcome.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

Yeah. Unbelievable.

Except he’s been told on more than one occasion that he looks like a cop because of his shoes. Or his hair (which, really?). Or his stance. Apparently nearly everything about his physical presence “screams cop” in front of lawyers, but is unobservable, nay, unbelievable in the presence of actual cops.

Breathe.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He does that sometimes. Whenever he feels something intensely. Completely. Whether he is exercising, experiencing second-hand embarrassment for a character in a movie, or when he's seated at coffee shop listening to the “it’s not you it’s me speech” play out yet again.

The headlights of a passing car peaked through the drapery panels that didn’t quite close. He probably should have bought more of them to better fill the expanse of the window frame, but they were temporary at the time and he hadn’t had the foresight to consider this place would be his home long-term. That the move to Manhattan (and for him Inwood, specifically) would stick. He had been both exceedingly optimistic and achingly self-conscious that he’d fuck it all up somehow. Again.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

The light from another passing car catches on the green gin bottle, drawing his eye to his growing bar collection. He’d already been the type to make food from scratch and bake bread, so while others were experimenting with sourdough starters as a distraction exercise, he’d gotten into spirits. Crafting the perfect cocktail. Channeling his fine motor skills into creating a photo-worthy garnish. Perfecting the presentation, even if it was only for himself. He’d tried to expand his horizons and his pallet while being stuck in. He’d made his way through an old cocktail recipe book he’d kept from when they cleaned out their grandparents house years ago.  

Today was as good a day as any for gin. He’d developed a taste for how the botanicals lingered on his tongue. A simple gin and tonic in his favourite glass was a comfort. The heavy weight of it in his hand, the texture of the ornate pattern discernible while it is in his grasp. It’s close enough to a grounding exercise to justify its addition to his evening routine.

Truth be told the pandemic made him nervous. Even though he’d met the squad for drinks and visited with Amanda (he’d been worried the isolation might trigger a relapse for her), he still didn’t feel comfortable. Not really. He wished they all wore masks all the time. It doesn’t matter that they get tested regularly. Testing is only as good as the day it’s performed, and lab errors happen.  Every time he sees them pulling down their mask to talk to someone inside (you can talk wearing a mask!) but then turn around and put one back on when going outside, it drives him a little batty. He’s always been health conscious, a germaphobe, whatever. He tries to be a “glass half full” kind of guy but he’s never been the type to think bad things won’t happen to him. The sunny demeanor can hide a lot.

It made him nervous, being near other people. He remembers March. He’ll never forget it, and his wallet is full of remembrance cards of those he won’t forget either. But he couldn’t afford to quit his job and his work was essential. Frankly a few months into this mess he’d realized he’d have to concede his comfort to maintain his employment and to continue to foster his relationship with the squad, his coworkers, his city.

He’d done everything he could in the beginning- keeping his distance whenever he was in the squad room (which involved some fancy footwork as folks kept invading his space), keeping the furniture as far apart as possible in his office (but it was tiny and the ventilation system was ancient). The fact that he still wasn’t seeing his parents, or his sisters or his nieces or attending mass in person should have a been a clue to his feelings. But no one seemed to notice. Well, not no one.

Barba had noticed. They’d had a video call the night (morning?) after the bar, when Barba had accidentally FaceTimed him around 2am. Barba wasn’t even aware of it at first.

He’d been flirting with falling asleep, laying in bed under his weighted blanket, with lavender oil diffusing (just because he couldn’t see Gina, didn't mean he hadn't been roped into her MLM scheme), trying desperately to get rid of the lingering nervous energy. There were butterflies in his stomach every time his mind reminded him that he’d gone up against Barba and actually won. That he got to see him again. In person. With a beard, then without. Thinking about that made his stomach feel kinda funny too.

He almost didn’t answer the call. It wasn’t as if he’d been expecting company- virtual or otherwise. He’d showered twice after being in that bar and had gone to bed with wet hair. It’d definitely be irreparably mussed. And he’d hidden his face in his pillow, while recalling every potential misstep, every mistake he’d made in the trial. There would probably be sheet marks on his face. But the overwhelming curiosity and genuine fear that this may be the only call he’d receive from him took precedence over his vanity and he answered. In bed. In his pyjamas.

And then he could see him. And hear him. Barba was on the screen, shirtless in bed, his unruly hair (who knew?) also sleep mussed, the greying strands standing out in sharp contrast to indigo sheets. Barba was muttering to himself, but he heard his name. His preferred name- Sonny. He was at a loss, so he watched him for a moment, taking in the scene. Barba appeared to be halfway asleep and halfway drunk. He’d found his voice and called out to Barba who then startled. Visibly.

Barba pulled the phone closer to his face and closed one eye, like one did if they were struggling to read something without their glasses. Once he’d clocked who it was his eyes bugged out for a moment and Barba had simply said to hold tight. He was then looking at what he presumed was Barba’s ceiling (it was pretty dark).

Then Barba reappeared wearing a white t-shirt and glasses, wearing a sheepish expression. “I suppose I owe you an explanation” Barba said when all he could see was a stunned face starting back at him. Sonny’s brain was still a bit fuzzy and he couldn’t come up with a verbal answer, so he’d just nodded, feeling his un-styled hair flopping against his forehead.

Barba had let out a self-deprecating chuckle and gave a response so direct, so honest, he was a bit shocked at the vulnerability of it. Barba explained he’d been staring at his contact picture trying to figure out what to text him. Barba had nearly dropped his phone from falling asleep, so he must have pressed the FaceTime button during the catch.  Then he blushed and scratched at his jaw bashfully, the scratch of the stubble audible. He must have the type of beard that grows in quick. Sonny had wondered if he used to have shave twice a day when he was ADA, because his jawline was always so smooth.

“So what was it you wanted to say to me Barba?” he’d bravely asked into the silence. Barba explained he wanted to reach out to apologize for his early departure from the bar and for encouraging the gathering in the first place. He then proceeded to apologize further. Real and heartfelt and everything.

Barba apologized several times over for suggesting drinks. He explained that his entire workplace had COVID-19 during the first wave and with the media coverage of NYC, he’d assumed they had all had it too. Then he digressed into apologizing for that statement as well. Explained that he knows that any time you give an “I’m sorry” with a “but” that it negates the apology in the first place. That he realizes reinfection is a possibility and hadn’t meant to be so cavalier.

He went on to say that part of demonstrating consent in this new world is respecting the boundaries of others and ascertaining what those are beforehand. Sonny couldn't remember the rest of what he said, only that it was more of Barba taking accountability for his actions and expressing a desire to make amends in whatever way Sonny would be comfortable with. It was the most heartfelt apology Sonny could ever remember receiving.

He doesn’t get a lot of apologies. Not real ones. Not like the ones he gives. When you’re cheerful, affable, people assume you will understand. They assume he doesn’t need an apology because he will "get it". Because he is forgiving. And he is. He is forgiving to a fault sometimes, but still. He’s a person with real feelings and when others hurt them it would be nice to receive an apology that befits the transgression.

When Barba had finished apologizing, he’d asked how Sonny doing. And once Sonny had answered, he’d asked the same question again, his tone intonating that he knew Sonny was holding back. That there was more. So he spilled his guts, asked Barba a few pointed questions, then spilled his guts some more.

They’d ended up talking for hours. About what they had been up to. The things they missed. The people they missed. It was truly the most intimate moment he’d had in a year and it had nothing to do with sex. Not that he’d had that either. As heavy as that video call was, he’d felt lighter after it somehow.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

He doesn’t want to call it isolated, because he’s heard enough of that word and variations therein. The same goes for the term distant. He settles on estranged. He feels estranged from the unit. He supposes he is. It’s hard to say how much of it is from the job change, or how much of it is the result of how the job changed him. Or if he never truly fit in in the first place. He can't forget that possibility. 

Amanda keeps in touch. She actually started calling him by first name whenever she visited his office, and while it isn’t the Sonny he always wanted, he’d take Dominick in the workplace. He knows she did that intentionally to show that he’s viewed as a lawyer now, so if his new peers overheard it, they wouldn’t be reminded of his previous occupation. There is nothing quite like being called Carisi that screams cop to an office full of lawyers that have the benefit of using their given name. He appreciated the gesture, and he hated it, all at once.

“The longer you’ve been an ADA the less you remember about being a cop.”

That’s what Fin had said. His delivery was better than Kat’s, but his meaning was in the same vein. Fin acknowledged that he’d been a cop, but that he didn’t believe Sonny was capable of thinking like one anymore. Was that a good thing? Was that a bad thing? Both? Neither? He guessed it depends who you ask. He knows where Kat stands. But what does he think about it himself? He fixes a drink to take with him to his bedroom. The heavy glass in his hand containing the gin and tonic ready to provide him comfort.

He sheds the layers of his outfit, hoping it will help him leave the day behind, even if just for a moment. This case is just getting started and he knows it is going to get so much worse tomorrow. It hurts his heart, it hurts his stomach, it hurts all over really.

He’s lost the suit jacket, the vest, the tie and the cufflinks. He works his way through unbuttoning his dress shirt with one hand while he digs through his dresser with the other. He’s tempted to immediately put-on pyjamas but he’s out of fresh ones, so he opts for his favourite green flannel shirt and an old pair of jeans. The soft cotton fabrics are soothing on their own. He switches out his dress socks for a casual pair and the transformation is complete. He’s back to being Sonny again.

Unfortunately, Sonny cares about Kat's comment just as much as Dominick or Carisi does.

He heads to his kitchen to make himself dinner. He hasn’t had the energy to do much cooking lately, but he’s got enough in to cobble something together. Some cut vegetables, an apple with peanut butter, a handful of almonds and a yogurt that is only 2 days past its best before date.

It’s closer to ingredients than a meal but it is sustenance and that’s good enough for him. It’s probably best that his parents have only seen him over zoom because there would be no way to hide his weight loss in person. Sure, he’d always been a slender guy but there was something unnatural about it now. He can see it is his face, the bags under his eyes. Perhaps it’s simply ageing but he’s not sure about that.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

He knows that obsessing over one statement Kat made in frustration is not a good use of his time or energy. He knows that. He is doing his job, to the best of his ability, with the resources he has available to him. He knows that too. Still. He feels responsible for the outcome of this upcoming trial- whatever that may be. There is only so much he can do to change the inherent viewpoints of jurors who are against sex work. It’s not right. It isn’t fair. But it also isn’t uncommon. And what the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

Have another gin and tonic.

He brings the glass towards his lips and breathes in, letting the juniper notes hit his olfactory senses. He likes that he can appreciate the nuanced flavours between brands now. That he can tell the difference between a Tanqueray or a Bombay Sapphire or a Hendricks. The benefit of his foray into cocktails and distance from beer is that you could still say you’d only had two drinks in a night, even though the alcohol percentage made it feel like four.

And four beers would typically be enough to get him to relax- have his jaw unclench, his shoulders move from near his ears back to their natural position. His movements get slower, his Staten Island accent more pronounced. His inhibitions lower and his people pleasing nature dissipates somewhat. The noise in his mind slows enough for him to give some thought to what he wants, what his needs are.

That’s not something he does often. Think about his wants and needs. Sure, he’d focused on furthering his education, his career. But he’d missed many night classes and study sessions so that he could switch shifts with Fin so that he could see his son, or Amanda could attend a gamblers anonymous meeting, or so Liv could go to one of Noah’s school plays. He’d stayed on as a detective well beyond passing the bar. Out of a sense of moral obligation, to pay tribute to a fallen friend, to be a team player.

It’s not like being a detective was particularly lucrative, he could have left for another job. It’s not like he had a spouse or kids or even a pet to support. He takes another sip of his drink at that thought. Years later this aspect of his life hasn’t changed. He’s lonely, and that was true long before the pandemic took it’s hold.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

Barba’s lonely too. He’d said so during their call. He’d moved back to the city during the pandemic. The long-term tenant who had been renting his place decided to permanently leave the city “before it went to shit” and Barba had “reached his natural limit” with being anywhere else. Barba went on to explain that he’d never really made personal relationships, of any kind, a priority.

Despite what his showmanship in the courtroom would suggest he was an introvert at heart. Content to be in his own company. The social energy he’d expend at work was all he really had to give, and he was happy to retreat at the end of the day. He’d been fine getting by on passive social interactions at work, at events, but once those had dried up during the pandemic, he realized he was forever the acquaintance. And the acquaintance isn’t a “zoom priority” and that “keeping in touch with people had never been his forte”. Barba had always relied on others to do that emotional labour for him.

Sonny wondered if he had put the effort into keeping in touch with Barba if their own relationship would have been different. If he’d gone to Barba’s trial. If he’d checked in with him afterwards. Maybe it could have been different. Instead, he'd just avoided him. And not just physically but even in his own mind. He’d actively tried to stop thinking about Barba. He’d trained himself to stop thinking of Barba whenever a man in a snazzy outfit was in the courtroom, or when he stepped into Forlini’s, or when he spoke with Carmen, or when someone nearby was wearing the same cologne.

He’d treated Barba’s departure like a death and tried to dissociate from his memories of him until the pain of the loss had lessened enough to make it tolerable. When he could practice Barba’s summations in the mirror without feeling nauseated. He grew to appreciate Stone over time. They’d bonded some but it was never the same. By that time, too much time had passed to casually check in and Sonny had no idea how to get in touch with the man without asking Liv for his contact info or sending him a message over LinkedIn. Now he wonders if the both of them would have been better off if they’d each made some semblance of effort to keep in touch.

“I just can't believe that you were ever a cop.”

Barba had also observed a change in Sonny too. He’d made mention of it when he was in his office during the Mickey Davis case. “You really have become a lawyer.” He’s still not sure what Barba meant by that. One might assume that it was a compliment given that Barba was a lawyer himself, but anyone who assumed that had never met Barba. The same Barba who was lonely, just like Sonny.

Maybe he could message him- it could be done under the guise of asking for professional advice. Did he need a guise to reach out? Barba had video called him (albeit drunk at 2am). If Barba could be vulnerable with him, he could be vulnerable with Barba. He picks up the empty plate, brings it the sink and washes it, formulating a plan. He puts the plate away and grimaces at the sensation of damp material at his hip. He doesn’t understand how it is that he always ends up splashing himself with water when doing the dishes. In the end he couldn’t come up with a witty retort to volley at Barba via text message.

He contemplates fixing another drink, but he knows that he will need to be sharp headed in court tomorrow and he has had his two already. He settles on making a mocktail, hoping that having the glass in hand will provide near the same effect. He brainstorms for a moment more and comes up with nothing clever to say. In the end he just says fuck it and decides to go with whatever his thumbs decide to type once he’s settled back into the sofa.

[Sonny Carisi] I understand what you meant about being an ADA and having a suicidal streak.

About 5 seconds after pressing send he realizes that his choice of words was terrible. That Barba might infer that he was feeling suicidal. And while Sonny is overwrought about what Kat had said, and the trajectory of this case, he hasn’t reached the end of his tether yet. He briefly wonders if there is a way to retract an iMessage once it had been sent but he could tell Barba had already seen it and was typing a response.

The vibration of his smartwatch tells him that Barba’s response has been received but he doesn’t feel prepared to read it yet. He goes into the bedroom to grab his weighted blanket (he needs it to fall asleep more nights than not now) and cocoons himself further into the sofa. The waiting feels excruciating so he opens the message, ready to face the consequences of his actions.

[Rafael Barba] It took me decades to refine that streak and you managed to get there within one year.

Huh. That wasn’t so bad. Except now he wondered if he ought to be worried about Barba. While he contemplated the subtext of the single sentence exchange, another text alert came through.

[Rafael Barba] I shouldn’t be surprised. You always have been a quick study. Tough case?

Guess they were officially in a conversation. This was easier than he thought it would be.

[Sonny Carisi] I would say that you have no idea, but I know that you absolutely do.

Shoot. He wondered if his response would shut down any further conversation. It was a vague sentiment that did offer any levity or pose a question that Barba could answer. It was a text that did not demonstrate any expectation of a response. He got one anyways.

[Rafael Barba] I’m not on the team anymore so I can’t be informed of any specifics. Happy to commiserate over obscurities if that suits your fancy?

He re-read the last text three times but was still confused by it. He kept the message window open, trying to formulate a response in the affirmative when Barba followed up.

[Rafael Barba] Or if you’d prefer an exercise in distraction, I could show you the foster cat that is currently taking over my living room.

Surprised did not adequately describe his reaction to Barba’s latest offer. He was grateful for the segue and the opportunity to lose his mind in something outside of the law and outside of special victims.

[Sonny Carisi] Now that I gotta see.

[Incoming Video Call]

Shit, he hadn’t exactly thought through being on camara himself. But Barba with a cat- he’s willing to forgo some vanity and pride to bear witness to that. He places his phone in the stand he’d bought for video calls that lived on his coffee table now (he may have a long arm span, but they tire easier these days) and he accepted the call.

His screen filled with the perfect image of Barba’s living room. A deep navy couch with various jewel-toned throw pillows. A luggage trunk was serving as a coffee table with retro looking Tupperware containers on it.  Framed pictures on the wall that look to be personal photographs from travels. In juxtaposition to the tasteful décor was a scratching post, an errant carboard box and some sort of plush pet toy.

Barba was cozied up on his sofa with his legs folded underneath a blanket and the cat on his lap. He was wearing a marled grey sweater and the same glasses he’d seen him in during their last call. His hair was neatly styled and the beard he had removed for the trial had already made the comeback. Barba was scratching behind the cat’s ears while it was kneading his thighs. Barba gave a little wave toward the camera (wherever it was) and addressed him.

R: “Don’t say I don’t deliver. Sonny meet Apricot. Say hi to Sonny Apricot.”

The cat appeared to heed Barba’s instruction and turned toward the camera and meowed. It looked a bit skinny for an adult cat and was covered in orange fur except for a few spots where it appeared to have been shaved. It looked up towards Barba and meowed the moment he’d stopped the scratching and he rolled his eyes affectionately and began petting it again. It was the first thing that made Sonny smile that day.

S: “I was going to say that you’ve got it well trained, but I think they just proved that they own you.”

Barba’s eyes crinkled as he erupted into a full-bellied laugh. He appeared to be in good spirits and well-rested despite the late hour of the call. He was still petting Apricot affectionately, alternating between long strokes across their back and then across their belly once they’d flopped out for him.

R: “That she does, I won’t even try to deny it. This is the first pet I’ve had in three decades. She was skittish the first day I got her, but I think she could smell the fear and inexperience on me. After that it became the Apricot show around here, didn’t it Apricot.”

Barba said half to Sonny, the remaining to Apricot. It was adorable. Sonny was still having trouble reconciling the visual in front of him with the Barba he knew. Cats? Tupperware?

S: “You get a care package Barba?”

He said pointing towards the Tupperware container on the coffee table, belatedly realized that he was unlikely to be able to discern what Sonny was pointing at. Barba looked confused for a moment, looking around the space until his eyes landed on the 70’s era Tupperware containers. He smiled then.

R: “Oh that. I missed my mother’s cooking, so I’ve been working my way through the leftovers I had in the freezer. It’s the product of care packages past.”

There was something about what Barba had just revealed that Sonny found endearing. Sonny wishes that he still had leftovers of his mother’s cooking in his freezer. It sure would have beat his "ingredient dinner".

S: “Nice. What was on tonight’s menu then?”

R: “Ropa vieja. It freezes okay.”

Mrrrrrrrreeeeooowwwrrrrr

Apricot inserted herself into the conversation which made them both laugh. Barba apologized to the cat for not including her in the discussion. He used a different tone of voice when speaking to her. Not quite a “pet voice”, but Sonny would guess that it wasn’t too far off into the future.

S: “Wow, okay Barba I’m going to need you to give me the run down on how you acquired a fur baby within a two-week span.”

Barba laughed, requested that he never use the term fur baby again, and asked Sonny how much time he had, to which Sonny replied he had all night if that’s what it took. The cat providing the distraction that Barba had sold it to be.

He got the whole story. How Barba had setup his first social media account (Instagram) during lockdown to keep himself from going insane. That a former co-worker of his volunteered with a cat rescue which saved former housecats who had been abandoned on the streets of NYC and would do an Instagram Live video everyday profiling a different feline in need of a home.

That one night when Barba had polished off a bottle of wine, he’d gone down the rabbit hole of investigating the prevalence of cats being put out into the streets, fully domesticated but left to fend for themselves. Some with health issues, some seniors, some whose owners had new babies in the house or had moved in with someone who had a dog and they decided they didn’t want a cat anymore.

Barba had gotten so distraught that he’d sent a message offering to adopt Apricot, a senior cat who had been found matted and injured. She was fixed and declawed, so they knew she’d been a house pet. Animal services had called the family on file when they scanned the microchip, but they didn’t want her back. Barba sounded infuriated when he told the story and his eyes glistened at different points, which Sonny chose to ignore.

The application process had been extensive, and they had been reluctant to let Barba take her. He had no pet experience outside childhood, no relationship with a vet that could vouch for the likelihood he’d bring her in for regular veterinary care, and he’d just moved back to the city. The loneliness of the pandemic had led to a flurry of adoptions (more so of dogs) and they didn’t want these pets who’d had a rough start to end up in the wrong home.

Ever the negotiator, Barba had talked them in to letting him foster her. He could show that she was taken care of, get the pet owner experience and take her to their vet. If it was a poor fit, they could remove her, but given how full the emergency shelter was and the age of Apricot they agreed to his terms.

R: “I’m fairly certain this will be a foster fail situation, there is not a chance I’m giving her up. She must remain in the luxury to which she has become accustomed.”

Sonny was floored. He’d google foster fail later, but he’d enjoyed Barba telling the tale. Barba had looked at the screen some but spent more of the time looking at Apricot. Although to be fair, she did crawl up his body like it was a cat tree, perch on his shoulder, head bonk him. It was so friggin cute it brought Sonny out of the dark place that required gin and into a happy place, where he could smile with dimples.

Barba had even explained why his camera was so good too. Apparently, he was able to use his smart tv as a camera for video calls with the help of an app and some handwritten instructions that his mother had messengered over to him. She’d had her neighbour’s grandson write them out for her and Barba so they could have virtual dinners together more easily.

Sonny was chuckling at the image of Barba consulting handwritten instructions while trying to download apps and pair his phone to his television set and its internal camera. Once he’d finished, he realized he’d lapsed into comfortable silence looking into Barba’s eyes (virtually that is). Barba was smiling warmly at him, completely relaxed on his couch, under his blanket, with his new orange sidekick. Then he asked Sonny what was new with him and left it open for him to choose the topic of discussion. His nervousness and reluctance had vanished, and Sonny came clean.

He put words to the distress he was feeling. Sonny explained what had happened to him without talking about the case at all. To his horror he gets weepy. Voice breaking, face scrunching, eyes watering weepy. He tries to control it, but the words keep coming. His face feels hot and the tear tracks on his cheeks almost burn, the salt irritating his sensitive skin. Once he’s started, he can’t seem to stop, but Barba isn’t fussed. He just listens.

Barba really listens.  He can see he’s listening too- when Barba nods his head encouragingly when Sonny's momentarily at a loss for words. Or when Barba purses his lips, holding in his own thoughts until Sonny had gotten his out. The faint tilt of Barba’s head showed him mulling over the information Sonny provided. Sonny can hear it too- with the mhm's, and the sound of Barba sucking in his breathe at the difficult parts and exhaling slowly at the parts that make him angry on Sonny's behalf.

Sonny tells him everything. About the unrelenting exhaustion, about how he feels estranged, how he worries about Amanda, how even Fin is making comments now. Barba doesn’t say much at all, leaving space for Sonny to get it all out without interruption. He does ask what it was about Kat’s comments in particular that bothered him more than Fin’s. In that moment Sonny is more honest with Barba than he’d been with himself.

He explains that he thinks Kat might have figured him out (to which Barba had raised an eyebrow but asked for no further clarification despite his clear curiosity). That he found himself on edge around her and on the defensive all the time. About how he can’t help it and that he can see he is being a bit of a dick. Responding to her questions with sarcastic one-liners, snarky rejoinders. That he realizes that she is still a newer detective and that he doesn’t have to be that way. That he doesn’t understand why he has taken this approach with her because it is unlike him, or unlike how he used to view himself.

That he feels like he’s been demonstrating more toxic masculinity as ADA than he had his last year as a detective. That he doesn’t know where he fits in anymore or what to do about it. That he thought he could be the same Sonny he always was and just change his job title, but now he feels like there is a clear “before and after” and that he isn’t certain that he likes the after better. That he could never go back to being a cop and that he is sometimes okay with the idea that eventually people might forget that he ever was one. That he feels like an absolute traitor for saying that (so much so that he had been whispering it when he’d said it to Barba).

Throughout all of that Barba listens (Apricot too). And then Barba asks him if he’s looking to be heard, if he is looking for solutions or if he’s looking for a biased opinion (because Barba cannot claim to be unbiased). Sonny shrugged his shoulders and said he was open to any of those options. Truth be told it was the most anyone had let him speak without interruption in months.

So Barba got honest with Sonny. Said that the first few years as an ADA are cutthroat and that he was dropped into a shark tank with blood on him. That he wouldn’t have been privy to that kind of work environment before because he'd completed law school as a mature student over many years, so he hadn’t faced the intense competition and politics that come with full-time studies in the traditional stream. That his intelligence and working knowledge of the law put him well above his peer group in his proficiency and his creativity in the role, but that being special often came with a social consequence.

That it was understandable that he’d have to set firm boundaries with the squad in his new role. That the change in the way that he viewed information was essential for him to excel at his current job, rather than the job he had in the past. That he was still working closely with a team who had spent his first year as a detective underestimating him, and that his subconscious would likely remember that initial rejection and be more sensitive to it now. That when they questioned him as an ADA it would feel more like a personal attack and less like a disagreement because they all had pre-existing personal relationships with him.

He said all of that would be hard enough individually, but when you applied a pandemic to it, it became a pressure cooker for everybody. That the way physical distancing and masking was handled in the precinct and the courtrooms was ridiculous and maddeningly subpar. That it was valid to feel scared and valid to feel powerless against the behaviour of the masses.

Barba finished by acknowledging that much of Sonny’s support system had been cut-off as a result. That being unable to visit with family or attend church in person is hard. That there is no shame in feeling stressed by the social isolation, or the risks associated with being an essential worker. Or the fear that if the bond between your coworkers is severed that you might be all alone in this, with no end in sight.

That sometimes when you are under intense stress and don’t have the extra emotional or cognitive energy to put towards something you might fall back onto predetermined roles or social scripts. And that the closest (and longest) example of how an SVU ADA acts was that of Barba himself. And that he can be a dick. And that he was once an ADA who gave an eager new detective a hard time at first, before developing one of the most important working relationships he’d ever had with that very same detective.

He’d said that it can be hard to leave behind a lesser version of yourself in the past, even if doing so let you become who you needed to be.

Sonny was offended initially, until Barba explained that Sonny had developed into an incredibly principled, empathetic, courageous man, who didn’t have to sacrifice his kindness or his belief system to be successful. That he thought what Sonny had achieved was incredible and that the squad and others would come to see it in time. That being anything less than what he is now would have been selling himself short and depriving the ADAs office of one of their most valuable assets, whether they’d come to realize it yet or not.

Barba had said all of that without missing a beat. Like it came straight from the heart. Sonny had blushed and shed a few tears through the stream of compliments. He’d been pulling at the loose threads at the hem of his jeans at some points, scared to look at his screen only to realize this was just a fever dream, and that his mentor hadn’t just given him the greatest praise he’d ever received. He didn’t know what to say.

S: “Rafael…. I don’t know what to say…”

R: “Say that if I messenger these instructions to you, you’ll setup your television for your next call, so I can get a better look at Casa Carisi.”

Barba was giving Sonny an out- a natural escape from the heaviness of the conversation of which Sonny was only happy to oblige.

S: “You don’t think I can figure out how to set that up by myself?”

R: “If you could you’d have done it already.”

S: “Touché counsellor.”

R: “I thought we’d agreed you’d call me Rafael last time we spoke.”

S: “My apologies, I’m still getting used to it. It took a while to get the privilege.”

R: “Well, it’s yours now. So is that a yes on the instructions?”

S: “It’s a yes Rafael, absolutely.”

R: “Excellent. I have a feeling that you might need my pearls of wisdom for a while yet.”

S: “That so?”

R: “I’m am fairly confident in my assessment. I’m also confident that if I don’t maintain some semblance of a personal relationship with another human being, I may succumb to communicating in pet noises alone.”

S: “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I do see how that would be a risk yeah.”

R: “You do, do you?”

S: “It’s good you aren’t fostering a bat, because then you’d only be communicating by echolocation.”

R: “A beautiful language in its own right I'm sure.”

S: “It's not so much a language as it is a frequency you know.”

 

R: "I suppose there is no point in arguing with you about that."

S: “It’s best you don’t, arguing is what I do for a living now.”

Barba responded to that with a proud smile that took over his entire face.

R: “Yes Sonny. It is.”

Sonny was incredibly moved by the entire exchange. He was afraid to go to sleep and find out in the morning it was all a dream, but he was also bone-tired and struggling to keep his eyes open. He didn’t want the call to end but he also needed it to, if he had half a chance of performing well in court tomorrow.

S:  “So, you’ll messenger those instructions to me? Is the 21st century option of sending them by email off the table?”

R: “You'll get them first thing in the morning. I’m venturing out of the apartment for groceries tomorrow so I can attend to that as well. If your case wraps up at a decent hour you can tell me all about it. Or I can appraise you of Apricot’s latest mishaps, of which there are many.”

S: “I can’t wait.”

R: “Neither can I Sonny. Now try to get some sleep, the morning will come too quick.”

The call is ending but he needs to let Rafael know how much it has all meant to him. That he’d started his evening in dark introspection and that he felt unburdened by the weight of his worries holding him down. That this was the nicest anyone had ever been to him in recent memory. That putting words to what ailed him made him feel 1000x better than he had in months. That the vulnerability Barba had shown was recognized and appreciated. That the thinly veiled nod to their previous working relationship was one of the greatest compliments he could ever imagine receiving. All of that was beyond the scope of the words he could formulate at that moment in time. Instead, he settled for something much simpler.  

S: “Goodnight Rafael, Apricot. Thank you for tonight. Really. It means the world to me. Sleep well. Talk tomorrow?”

R: “Sweet dreams Sonny, we can’t wait.”

Sonny ends the call, staring at his home screen for a full minute. He goes to his call log to check the length of the call, just to see if it was real. It was. He turns off the lights in his living space, quickly attends to his evening routine and crawls into bed. And for the first time in a long while, Sonny goes to bed feeling light.

Fin