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Six grueling hours of cross-examination before court was adjourned for the day; Rollins felt exhausted and all she'd done was watch. Looking around at weary faces as she filed out told her she wasn't alone in that sentiment. The old-hands – court reporters mostly, the odd sketch artist, retirees with nothing better to do – all gossiped good-naturedly, covering yawns while they speculated on how the following day would play out. With a high-profile case like this, rubberneckers were unavoidable; Rollins was content to let Fin play icebreaker to get through the mob to the victim and her family, a lonely half-dozen off to the side, surrounding a bench. As usual, the media wasn't interested in hearing from the victim.
Standing before a seated Sarah Gunterman, asking how she was holding up, being jostled by passersby – it all colluded to give Rollins a raging case of déjà vu. Like a bell had rung somewhere and it was the end of fourth period, everyone catching up before heading home after school, and she was checking on her friend after a bad breakup. Of course what Sarah had gone through could only be loosely described as a "bad breakup," but there were enough chattering people in the hall to add weight to the illusion.
There was an uptick in noise from the crowd back by the courtroom exit; Rollins looked over in time to see the defendant, Max Gunterman, exiting the room, his herd of attorneys in tow. Too angry to be tired, Gunterman was visibly seething while his lawyers finally earned their seven-digit retainer. Lots of hand-waving, shouted questions; running interference with the media appeared to be a lot easier than dealing with Barba on a righteous legal rampage. Rollins turned back to Sarah, to see how she was taking it.
"Uh oh," Fin said, and Rollins followed his gaze to where Gunterman's ostensibly impromptu press conference was spinning out, clocked the death glare he was giving Barba, who was just then emerging from the room alone.
"Oh no," Sarah said quietly, turning away towards her family. As if she knew just from looking at her husband's face what was going to happen. But if anyone could…
Characteristically, Barba ignored the defendant, dismissed the few reporters determined enough to ask for a comment with a cocky smirk and a practiced, "People, please, don't you know better by now?" Kept moving until he couldn't, stopped by some bold out-of-towner brandishing a tape recorder.
A sudden spate of jeering laughs from the reporters, and Gunterman split off from his attorneys, face like thunder as he shoved his way through the rings of people surrounding him, heading towards Barba, cornered at the wall.
"Oh shit," Fin said, and started to move forward, Rollins falling in close behind him again, one hand resting on her holstered sidearm.
They were on the other side of the hall when it happened, no chance of getting there in time, and it was just luck that left Rollins with a clear view of Gunterman pushing the reporter aside before – bam bam – he popped Barba twice in the face with his fist.
For a moment everyone was quiet, shocked by violence that they normally only heard or wrote about, rarely saw firsthand, and in the silence Rollins could have sworn she heard Barba's head knock back against the wall as he staggered. There was an incredible rush of noise as the crowd lost all semblance of cohesion, half the people fighting to clear out of the way, the other half jumping in to try to do some good – or at least get some good pictures. A small army of defense attorneys grasped at his arms, his shoulders, but none of it stopped Gunterman from pulling his arm back for a third shot, yelling the sort of abuse that's unprintable in reputable newspapers.
"Get the fuck back!" Fin shouted, grabbing Gunterman around the chest, not fazed like the lawyers were by the prospect of wrinkling the man's expensive suit. Reinforcements in the forms of guards and other cops joined him, making a hole and bodily forcing the struggling Gunterman down the hall, away from Barba.
"Are you alright?" Rollins ducked her head a little, trying to look him in the eye.
"I'm fine," he said quietly, looking stunned as he slumped against the wall. He carefully touched two fingers to his face. Blood was already starting to trickle from his nose; his eyes got a lot wider when he saw it staining his fingertips. "I'm…"
Rollins gripped his shoulder to steady him when he listed to the side. "Look at me," she said, grasping his chin gently to shift his attention. "You're alright."
He took a deep breath when she did and nodded, winced and touched the back of his head. But he stood up straight, stepped away from the wall, and looked less pale than he had moments before.
Someone bumped into her – the reporter with the tape recorder – and Rollins turned, reminded of all the press, the sounds of camera phone shutters and shouted questions she couldn't be bothered to answer. She scooped up Barba's bag where he'd dropped it and, pulling him along by the arm, started forcing her way through the crowd, yelling, "C'mon, folks, give us some room!" when they didn't move fast enough.
"Will you be back for more tomorrow, Mr. Barba?" asked one reporter, a hint of glee in his voice Rollins didn't care for.
"Of course," Barba replied, nasal but arch. "I haven't finished my cross-examination of Mr. Gunterman."
"I think his right cross just tried to finish you!" called another reporter, triggering a spate of relieved chuckling in the reassembled mob of reporters, but they let them pass easily enough. Barba was smirking when Rollins looked back to him, holding a previously white handkerchief bundled up against his nose. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she squeezed his arm, tugging him into the elevator.
"I don't know about you but I'm pretty sure that stunt was a prime example of how to violate bail conditions," Fin said, sounding far too pleased over the line. He hadn't liked Gunterman from the start. "I'm drop-kicking his ass into The Tombs myself. How's Barba?"
"Bruised but unbroken, as far as I can tell." Rollins finished swaddling the ice bag in a thin hand towel and passed it to Barba, who pressed it to his swollen nose and groaned, tossing the last of his gory tissues into the waste can next to his desk. Three points.
"Good. Tell him I'll give Maxie his love," Fin said darkly. "And some real friendly cellmates."
"God, that's the last thing we need," Barba said when Rollins relayed the message after hanging up. "Accusations of police brutality. Because this case isn't enough of a circus already." He lowered the ice bag, examining the smears of blood on the towel.
Rollins pulled a chair over to the couch where he was sitting and sat down across from him, close enough to stop him from raising the bag by laying her hand on his. "Here, let me see."
Barba stared dully at her as she gently touched his face, checking for damage. He was a bloody mess, but at least he didn't sound as ridiculous as he had before, when he'd had wads of Kleenex shoved up both nostrils. "What's the prognosis? Am I scarred for life?"
"I think… you're fine," she said, wincing in sympathy when he hissed sharply after she touched the sides of his nose, high up by the bridge. "I don't think it's broken. No real harm done." She leaned back, wiping her fingers on the clean bit of towel he held before she lifted his hand, indicating he should reapply the ice.
"That's a relief," he said, pressing the bag to the side of his nose.
"Can't say the same about your tie, unfortunately," she said. "Or that shirt."
Barba looked down at himself and rolled his eyes. His necktie, originally green with white stripes, was now heavily splattered with blood. It had just poured out of him faster than he could ever hope to stop with a single handkerchief. Streaming down his chin, neck, and into the white cotton of his shirt collar – no wonder they'd had the elevator car to themselves. He looked like a horror movie extra.
"Figures it would happen today," he said, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor. "Happy birthday to me." A stray drop of blood spattered onto the floor between his feet.
Rollins felt like her eyebrows were somewhere near her hairline. "It's your birthday?"
He shrugged, shifting the bag to the other side of his nose.
"Why- You worked your birthday? Why didn't you book it off?" As soon as she asked she knew how ridiculous that sounded. Barba didn't take time off. He worked, and if he wasn't working it was because the office was closed.
The look he gave her said as much. "What else would I do?"
"I don't know, anything? Sleep in?" He was staring at her; her cheeks felt hot. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" she asked, changing the subject. She was going to be extremely embarrassed if it turned out he had and she just hadn't known. Or forgotten. She'd missed a lot in the last couple of years.
"Didn't see the point," he said, and Rollins had heard that enough – felt that way enough herself – to know what that meant. I didn't want anyone to make a fuss.
She covered his free hand with her own. "Happy birthday," she said after a long moment when he didn't look up from the sight of her fingers gripping his. "Sorry you got sucker punched."
"Twice," he said, and made a sound that might have been a snort, quickly followed by a grunt of pain. "He hit me twice."
"Would've been three times if Fin hadn't jumped in," Rollins said. "You owe him." She hadn't let go of his hand, but then he was the one holding on. It would've been awkward if she tried to pull away then.
"Remind me to send him a thank-you card," he murmured, then brightened for the first time all afternoon, a pleased little smirk on his red face. "I must have really gotten to him. I knew it, I could tell when I asked about the tapes-"
"Must have," she agreed, finding it impossible not to smile back as she guided his ice bag-holding hand further to his left, to the eye she could tell was going to bruise terrifically. There was a small cut on his cheek from one of Gunterman's rings.
It was the spatter of wetness on the side of her hand that finally made her pull away, pretending they hadn't just been holding hands where anyone could walk in and see. More of his blood on her skin, even though the waterfall from his nose had long since stopped.
"Sorry," Barba said, offering her the towel to wipe her hand on. It was hard to tell if he was blushing or if it was the cold or the swelling, but those last two wouldn't have caused his ears to turn pink. "You don't have to stay, you know. I'm old enough to take care of myself."
"And you've probably had all the birthday bumps you can handle, right?" She touched his head carefully, remembering how he'd hit it against the wall. Told herself she was just feeling for a bump when she combed her fingers lightly through his hair. It was soft; he must've missed a spot with the gel that morning. "You don't need more from me."
"Are you offering, Detective?" He inclined his head, seemingly content to let her half-assed inspection continue, but there was something in his tone that made her shiver, and she had to think back over what she'd said so idly. And when had he set his free hand on her knee? They were sitting closer together than she'd realized; his legs bracketed her own.
She smoothed his hair down before answering, "I think I'll wait for you to heal up first before I go dishing out anymore for you to take."
He really could look unbearably smug sometimes. If she were the wrong kind of person she might've taken a second crack at wiping that grin off his face.
"Did they really say your face would prejudice the jury or were you making that up?" Rollins closed the office door behind her, brown paper bag swinging where the handles were looped over her arm.
"You tell me," Barba said, setting his pencil down and reclining back in his chair.
She left the bag on the conference table and drew closer, whistling low after getting a good look at him. His nose wasn't as swollen as it could've been, but the main event was the bruise. A thick streak of deep purple traced the inner corner of his eye, near the bridge of his nose, and trailed a startling series of pinks and yellowish-greens around the lower curve of his eye socket and over his cheek. It looked a lot like the bruises Sarah Gunterman had been sporting when Rollins had first met her. There was no mistaking a bruise like that for accidental.
"That's quite the shiner," she said, leaning over him as she examined it, touching his chin gently so he'd tilt his head to the side. "Now I know why his lawyers didn't want the jurors gettin' a look at you. The resemblance is uncanny." She rose to half-sit on the desk, crossing her arms so he wouldn't see her fisted hands. The longer she looked at him the more she wanted to go even the score with Gunterman.
"The judge didn't buy it," he said, looking past her, curious about the bag she'd abandoned.
She ignored it to eye the mess on his desk, make sure she hadn't disturbed any of it. Index cards, all covered in his scribble. "Then why..."
Barba was fighting a smile as he rocked his chair slowly side to side, his knee nudging her leg over and over. "Medical stay."
She looked away from the index card she hadn't been able to resist picking up. "Are you serious?"
He nodded slowly, trying very hard to keep a straight face. "As a heart attack. Which! Which, before you ask, is not what's wrong with him."
She tapped him on the chest with the card. He was wearing a lot of purple; injury as fashion accessory? "Don't leave me hanging, Counselor. Spill."
His grin was wicked. "Broke his hand in six places. He's in surgery by now, as of-" he checked his watch before he deftly plucked the card from her fingers and reached around her hip to set it back on the desk "-thirty minutes ago."
She guffawed, imagining it. Max Gunterman, ex-cruiserweight champion, finally breaks his hand hitting the wrong person. No wonder Barba looked so thrilled. "You're not the slightest bit mad about this, are you? The delay?"
His eyes widened. "How could I be? The poetic justice alone is too incredible. Besides, this just gives me more time to prepare for round two." He indicated the index cards before setting his hand lightly on her hip.
"Rethinking your approach?" Rollins didn't move any of them around this time, just peered at them, finally noticing the color-coding, the references to exhibits, prior testimony, intertwining lines of inquiry. "What, no more question tree?"
He didn't take offense to her joking tone. "The tree lives, don't worry. This is just… a different approach than usual."
"Ah." She really should get this show on the road, let him get back to work, but… Rollins reached out again, tracing her fingertips over the line of his cheek, noting the scabbed-over cut from yesterday. "You didn't look so bad yesterday. I didn't think he got you so good," she said, meaning to pull away when she went too far and he winced.
"I'm one of those late-blooming bruisers," he said, eyes narrowed as he caught her hand, guided her palm to rest against the side of his cheek. "Left over from high school."
"Does it hurt?" she asked stupidly, slowly rubbing his skin with her thumb. He was very warm.
"Yes."
The feel of his fingers trailing down the outer seam of her jeans, down her thigh from her hip, snapped her out of her daze. He had to roll the chair back a bit when she stood up; once again, they'd ended up a lot closer than she'd realized. At least she'd had the sense to shut the door this time.
"Well, I have something that'll make you feel a lot better," she said, walking back over to the brown paper bag she'd left on the table.
"Is it drugs? I have to say no to drugs," Barba said, strolling along after her with his hands in his pockets.
"No, it's not drugs," she said, pulling out at least a dispenser's worth of disposable napkins. Who needed this many napkins? No one. "It's better." A handful of plastic forks – how many people did they think were going to be eating this? – and she could finally lift the container out of the bag. She paused. "Close your eyes."
He made a face. "I'm not closing my eyes. I know it's cake. Just give me the cake."
She pouted. "You're ruining the surprise."
"There is no surprise. You got this from a place with 'cake' in the name." He flicked the side of the bag right on the jaunty-looking cupcake that made up the bakery's logo. "It's 9AM, where'd you find a place open early enough?"
"Chelsea." She gave up on the element of surprise and carefully lifted the plastic cake holder free of the bag, doing her best presenting beauty queen act. "Ta da! Happy belated birthday."
It was just a standard white birthday cake, miniature-sized, but there was nothing normal about the colors of the sprinkles and icing flowers. She'd picked it out from the website with a sadistic glee, convinced it couldn't possibly live up to its picture, but it had and Barba's reaction didn't disappoint either. His eyebrows were all drawn in, forehead wrinkled, but his smile was broad. Torn between feeling disgusted or delighted. She understood, it was a lot to take in. Rollins had needed a moment to collect herself when she'd picked it up at the bakery.
"Isn't it darling?" She tapped the side of the container, hearing a tinkle of sprinkles shaking loose.
It seemed he'd resolved himself to being amused by its shameless garishness. "What, no candles?"
She set it down on the table, pulling the lid off and trying not to clip the cake by accident. "I wasn't about to ruin this work of art by shoving in as many candles as you'd require."
He pinched her gently before picking up a fork. "You know, I only eat this stuff when you cops bring it to me." He didn't bother looking for a knife to slice it into pieces, just scooped up a healthy serving off the side and offered it to her.
She caught his hand, mindful of the fork full of what looked to be mostly icing. "'You cops'? Who else is bringing you sweets, sugar?" she teased. "I want names and badge numbers."
"Everyone knows food is the way to an overworked prosecutor's heart," he said, watching as she ate the portion before taking a forkful for himself.
Rollins was right – it had been entirely icing, good but almost too-sweet on her tongue. "So, what you're saying is I should bring you cake for breakfast every day then?"
He snorted a laugh, very undignified and mostly cake-muffled, covering his mouth with his hand. "And ruin my figure?" His eyes were twinkling, the only reason she didn't call him out for his atrocious attempt at a southern belle accent.
She glanced over at the closed door before she crowded him up against the table. "Don't worry," she said, plucking the fork from his hand. "I'd help you work it off."
When she kissed him she did it cautiously, wary of hurting him, knowing from past experience how the kind of bruising he was sporting could sting, but he didn't make any noise of protest until she made to move away.
He cupped her face, thumb brushing at the corner of her lips before he kissed her again. "Icing," Barba said, like he needed to explain himself.
"You taste better," snickering even as she said it, going back for more, and he might've groaned in disgust but it didn't make it untrue. His mouth was sweeter than any hipster buttercream could hope to be.