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It is a big world. He has been reminded of that in these intervening months; has felt the sun upon his skin in Miami, swayed absentmindedly to the street musicians in Camagüey, watched the scenery change in gradual increments through his windshield.
For two weeks after leaving his heart on the steps of the courthouse he had spiralled, cracked under the grief of all he was losing. His face was splashed across every newspaper in town, his phone pinging at all hours of the day and night with a barrage of concerned calls and abusive emails. His address had been leaked and the letterbox overflowed with envelopes, a neighbour depositing the pile at his door on the multitude of days he didn’t make it outside the apartment. The notes were vile, condemning, but they said nothing he had not thought himself. Almost worse were the letters of support, many from victims he had helped these past six years; those were the ones that led him back to the dark safety of his bedroom. After days of unreturned phone calls it had been Rita who pushed her way through his door and strong-armed him into getting the hell out of town, taking a breath. The judgment on her face as she surveilled his uncharacteristic dishevelment was one thing, but it was the shadow of genuine worry in her eyes that had him packing a bag and redirecting his mail. He couldn’t stomach a flight - the fear of being stuck in a metal can in the sky when someone recognised him - so Rita had gassed his car and waved as he hit the road, watching the outline of Manhattan get smaller in his rearview mirror.
Between the wind rushing through his open window and easing the creaks out of his muscles at lookouts and truckstops, he’s spent a lot of time people-watching. The first week he was sure his heart would give out. Everything shattered him - a baby giggling in a park, a mother and child skipping down the street, a couple waiting in line for coffee. But by the time he hit North Carolina, the constant tension behind his eyes had lessened, and he felt his lips twitch at the beauty of the Great Smokey Mountains, at the punny postcard he purchased from The Worlds Largest Frying Pan.
He hadn’t planned on stopping in Georgia - hadn’t planned much of anything really, was dillydallying en route to see his mother - but the “we’re glad Georgia’s on your mind” sign makes him smile, unused muscles pulling tight in his cheeks. He meanders about town, following the street art to bustling sports fields and quiet pockets of parkland, catching snippets of accented conversations that make his heart ache. What could have been a 20 hour drive has already taken him two weeks and a flash of blonde hair has his chest seize momentarily. He’d said his goodbye to Jack and to Liv, left a sentimentally soppy card on Carmen’s desk and sent a more restrained though equally glowing recommendation letter to her email later that evening, but the other key players in his life he had all but abandoned. Carisi - who had showed up at every closing argument and jumped on using his first name too quickly, who was always so eager to bounce arguments around and who never shied away from the worst parts of himself. Fin - who would shoot him where he stood for not answering Liv’s calls. And Rollins…
Rollins - who he knew as surely as he knew himself, in whom he recognised a mirror of his soul. He finds himself looking for her here - sitting in dive bars and watching blonde girls with thick accents smirk over their drinks, trawling past Truist Park and glaring at the bookies lingering around the periphery. And he parks opposite APD, watches the detectives rushing in and out of the precinct, wonders how many of them knew. This city suddenly sickens him, and he drives through the night to reach Orlando, to put as many miles between himself and the town that had beaten and belittled someone so tough.
It’s in Miami, nursing a cold glass of whisky in the courtyard of his mothers home, that he turns his phone back on, methodically works through the vitriol and the sympathy that compete on the small screen.
He facetimes Rita from Cuba and when the first words out of her mouth are “You need a goddamn haircut” he laughs, a deep sound he scarcely remembers. She sighs heavily at his not so subtle questioning of the squad but nonetheless she relates what she knows. And so he knows they are okay; feels a trickle of pride at their reluctance to welcome his would-be executioner. Over here - with all this distance between them - his problems don’t seem so big. He can walk the streets unrecognised, can marvel at the trials his Abuela overcame, can put everything into a much larger perspective.
It’s in Cambridge that he decides it is time. He watches these students in a corner booth cramming notes and wielding highlighters and shoving loaded fries into their faces and he can so clearly impose his only memory on the moment. All the nights where he and Rita and Marco had huddled into a booth with their textbooks and flash cards, the cheapest drinks on offer dripping condensation onto the table as if to say they had a right to be there. They’d quiz each other against the torn leather seats and balance their notes precariously in the doorway as the manager locked up behind them, all sneaking back to dark quiet dorms. The scholarship kids, the immigrants, the raised hands always passed over - they knew what it was to toil, had spent their lives trying to stay just one step ahead. He takes a deep breath and thinks it’s time he stopped running.
And it’s here, where he had spent so much time trying to prove himself, that he opens the threads of ignored messages. Carisi’s texts make his lips twist in a grin - a running tally on Stone’s cases, links to recent journal articles, the occasional 'Don’t beat yourself up over this.’ and ‘You’re a good man Rafael.’ There’s far fewer texts from Rollins; a couple ‘Were you this irritating when you started?’, the occasional heartfelt ‘I know what it’s like to be trapped there, but living in the past… trust me it never ends well. You’ve got people, Barba.’ But some were angrier, laced with the betrayal - ‘Didn’t take you for the kind to run away.’ His guts twists. There’s not many texts from Liv, just a laundry list of missed calls, but the few words make his heart constrict. ‘We are always here for you Rafa, whatever we can do.’ and much later, ‘Calhoun says you’re in Cuba. Hope it’s treating you well.’
The skyline of Manhattan unfolds before him and he greets its bustling roads and brittle wind with something akin to relief. He smiles at the neighbour in the elevator and throws open the windows inside his apartment, welcoming the new day.
He waits until evening to make his away across the city, wary of crashing back into Noah’s life without warning, and spends minutes at her stoop steeling his courage. He knocks softly at the door, smoothing a few invisible wrinkles from his jumper as he waits, wondering if he should have shaved off the beard first. But then the door swings open and she’s standing in its gap, mouth dropped open in shock. It’s been months, and he never replied to her messages, could never find the words to respond. Distantly he wonders if she might close the door on him, just say “nope” and turn around. But her face softens, eyes moistening as she whispers “Rafa.” and he lunges forward to grip her in a needy embrace.
His face is buried in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, and her hands cling tightly to his scalp and back. She pulls them deeper into the apartment - not breaking the clutch of their bodies - to kick the door closed. And he’s whispering his apologies like a balm into her skin, a string of repeated “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” mumbled against her pulse. When they break apart, Liv presses a firm lingering kiss to his cheek, just between his jaw and lips, “I’ve missed you. Welcome home. ”