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Pink mist is suspended briefly in the air and wafts down slowly, almost cloudlike. For a moment, he is lost in the sheer elegance of it all. But suddenly, the delicate spray transforms into something harsh and combative as thick crimson splatters across the steps, coating the gray concrete in a shimmering, oil-like liquid so viscous that it is almost gelatinous. Sonny’s nose twitches and he feels his stomach churn at the sharp, tannic, rusted metal scent of blood.
He drops to his knees, warm blood soaking almost instantly through his pants. It is as if Rafael's abdomen has transformed into a mouth and is vomiting blood with such zeal that it’s almost frothing, bubbling like some sinister magical poison.
Stripping off his jacket, he presses the stiff blue fabric over Rafael’s torso. Blood immediately begins seeping through his fingers, which only makes him push down harder in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.
Somewhere through the deafening roar echoing in his ears, Olivia’s command slices through the cacophony.
“Carisi, talk to him until the ambulance arrives.” Her hands replace his as she practically shoves him up toward Rafael’s head.
“Hey,” he soothes in the steadiest voice he can muster, running his fingers through Rafael’s hair. The gel, the same gel he applied this morning when the two got ready together, clings to his hand and leaves behind the particular scent of sandalwood mixed with something vaguely spicy that makes him want to bury himself in Rafael’s warmth, wiggle so deeply into his embrace that every corner, every minute crevice is filled with only him.
Rafael’s mouth opens and closes, but instead of words, he only manages a few wet gurgles before erupting in a bout of violent coughing, a sickly watery sound rattling in his chest. He feels the spattering of blood that lands on his face, so hot that it burns and his heart seizes in his chest as more blood trickles out of the side of Rafael’s mouth in a small red stream.
Grasping under his arms, he hoists Rafael up until his back is lined up with his chest, tucking him under his chin. Each one of his labored breaths tickle the side of his neck. The intervals between each soft puff of air are stretched just long enough that he can’t help but register a jolt of anxiety every time he’s forced to wait in the torturous spaces between breath.
“Rafi,” he sniffs into the other man’s hair. “Rafi, I love you. Please, don’t leave me. Don’t go.”
He feels the other man shift below him, his head tilting against his shoulder. Rafael’s eyes flutter upwards and for a second their gazes lock before he feels the tension leave his body and watch his eyes drift closed.
Sonny desperately wants to shake him, scream and cry until he can coax him back to consciousness, but the EMTs snatch him away before he has a chance to and abruptly he feels a strange hollowing in his stomach, the sensation of missing him, the need to see him so sharp it’s like he’s being stabbed.
Sitting in the waiting room, he feels the painfully familiar sense of dread creep into him as the realization that someone he loves so dearly is, in fact, a transient being, something that could be taken away from him at a moment’s notice, sinks in. He sorts through the chaos of his mind and desperately tries to remember the number of shots that rung through the air because while he might not be a doctor, he knows that there’s a huge difference between three gunshot wounds and five.
Time ticks away in odd increments of minutes that feel like years and hours that fly by like seconds. As the final shadows of the day float through the waiting room, leaving the already too sterile vestibule washed in a nauseating medicinal white, he tries to imagine his life without Rafael in an attempt to convince himself that he could go on without him. It’s a twisted exercise, he recognizes, a perverse form of self-soothing that does nothing but further terrify him because no matter how hard he tries, he could not comprehend, let alone envision, a future that didn’t somehow include Rafael.
The edges of his vision begin to blur, the terror threatening to overtake him, but the weight of Amanda’s head resting on his shoulder grounds him.
She had stopped by earlier to update them on the logistics of the ongoing investigation. Something about having caught the shooter, a 19 year old kid being initiated into BX9 who was more afraid of getting in trouble with his grandmother than anything else. He had apparently cried while in interrogation, apologized through gasping tears and violent sobs. Fin, along with Isaiah Holmes, was most likely still with him, dangling various deals and negotiations in front of him in exchange for information. She went on, confirming the attack was linked to the long series of ongoing death threats that had admittedly become so commonplace in recent months, that he had grown complacent and begun to think of them as nothing more than a nuisance. When he didn’t respond, the guilt gnawing at him drowning out all other thoughts, she settled in the chair next to him and supported him in the way only she could – with her silent fortitude.
Across from him, Olivia tears at her cuticles almost rhythmically.
Scratch scratch pull. Scratch scratch pull .
“It’s going to be fine,” he says to her. But as the words leave his mouth, it becomes clear that he’s said it more for himself than for her. She nods in response, but continues to press and pick at the raw skin around her nails.
The night drags on and he feels something diminish within all of them. Their collective mental elasticity, the certainty of Rafael’s survival, sinks slowly, but unpredictably, like an autumn leaf meandering through the wind, flung every which way, sometimes rising back up, but ultimately succumbing to the inevitable and settling on the ground. He’s at a loss for words and suspects everyone else is as well, so they sit in a silence thick with unsaid prayers and weighed down by unarticulated fears.
A miracle. That’s what the doctors say when they update them sometime in that strange liminal space between night and day. It was a miracle that he survived the surgery, they say. It’ll take a miracle for him to wake up.
But life is filled with miracles.
Because one week later, Rafael calls out to him, his voice weak and gravely from the breathing tube that had been removed only a day earlier. He scrambles out of the chair next to the bed and looks at him closely.
“You don’t look so great,” Rafael finally says, a barely perceptible grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
“You’re one to talk,” he manages to reply with a watery, shuddery laugh. The smile forming on Rafael’s face abruptly drops. A shaky hand finds its way to his face, gentle fingers tracing the tears that he didn’t realize are running down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Sonny says resolutely, wiping his tears away and pressing a kiss on Rafael’s knuckles. “Everything is perfect.”
And everything is perfect, remains perfect even after the doctors pull him away later that evening and explain the permanent nerve damage that resulted from the bullets that ripped through pieces of Rafael’s spinal cord as they ravaged through his body, tearing muscles, veins, arteries, and tendons on their way out. They speak in quiet, slow, short sentences as if they are trying to calm a wild animal while they outline all the necessary physical therapy and follow up appointments Rafael will be required to attend. They warn him of the possibility that he would have a lifetime of bouts of radiating pain. One doctor with pale blue eyes and bright red hair slips him a stack of pamphlets on opioids and potential signs of opioid abuse while the other hands him a folder filled with names of therapists.
The information overwhelms him, but when he returns to Rafael’s room, there he is, reading in the bed. And while he is surrounded by bags of liquids in various colors and hooked to a seemingly innumerable amount of tubes and wires, he looks up at him and smiles a smile so bright and beautiful that Sonny can’t help but think that Rafael has been spared all of that pain. He is a miracle after all.
But there are limits, even to miracles, he would soon learn.
The two of them are flipping through the channels on the small hospital television, toggling between a nature documentary on sea mammals and the Mets game, when it happens. He’s begging Rafael to let him watch until the end of the inning before switching back when suddenly he feels Rafael’s entire body go rigid beside him. His hand curls into a tight fist, the blue veins under his skin jumping as he clenches and unclenches his fingers. He trembles and immediately Sonny begins to wrap blankets around him.
“Raf, I’m going to call for the doctor.” He gets up to call, but before he could go, Rafael stops him.
“No, they already explained that this could happen,” he whispers faintly. “They’re just going to give me drugs.”
“But the drugs can help,” he tries to reason.
“I don’t want them. I don’t want to be like him.” Sonny doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s referring to his father.
“What can I do?”
“Just stay here with me.”
Sonny curls around him, pulls him close until Rafael’s back is flush with his chest, and grasps onto his hand. He can feel him shudder beneath him and with each convulsion, he pulls Rafael in tighter and tighter.
“Sonny?” He says, his teeth still chattering.
“What is it?”
“Can you change the TV back to the documentary about whales?”
They’re eventually lulled to sleep by the sound of whale songs.
By the time he’s finally discharged from the hospital, they’ve developed their own routine and system and for the first few weeks or so, everything goes fine, not great, but manageable and expected. Sonny plays caretaker, which he secretly enjoys while Rafael insists on working from the living room couch for a few hours everyday, before eventually crawling back into bed, tired and feverish.
Surgical site wounds heal and infections clear, but no matter what they try, Rafael can’t seem to shake the persistent pain radiating from the center of his back outward to the rest of his body that oscillates between mildly uncomfortable and completely debilitating.
The pain makes him uncharacteristically pliable, something that fills Sonny with equal parts gratitude and sorrow. The way Rafael allows him to half drag, half carry him out of the bathroom and into their room most nights, making no attempt to shake him off as he tucks him into bed makes Sonny oddly nostalgic for their banter from before.
“What if it never gets better?” Rafael asks tentatively one night, the words coming out slurred.
“We’ll figure it out, Rafi. I promise.” He slides into bed behind him. “But in the meantime, there’s something we need to do.”
“What’s that?” He mumbles, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Get you a new suit for your first day back.” He feels Rafael shift in surprise beneath him. They had been discussing the idea of Rafael returning to work for the last three weeks and each time, before they could start making an actual plan, Sonny would panic and insist on waiting for the next doctor’s appointment or next physical therapy session.
“Really?”
“Of course, my love. Who is Rafael Barba without a signature suit?”
Rafael goes back to work two weeks after the new year and is immediately thrust into the middle of a high profile case involving a city council member and the underage daughter of a former socialite.
Sonny is worried, naturally, but he tries to worry as silently as possible, which doesn’t stop him from insisting on accompanying Rafael whenever he journeys between the precinct and his office.
They’re moving particularly slowly today because a thin layer of ice that had formed overnight made the walk especially hazardous. He and Olivia stand on either side of Rafael, who is still uneasy on his feet, close enough to catch him if he loses his footing, but not so close that he would suspect that they had been anticipating his fall, although he suspects Rafael has, at the very least, a vague idea of what they’re doing. As the three of them carefully crunch and slide from the precinct to the courthouse, out of the corner of his eye, Sonny watches Olivia loop an arm around Rafael, making some comment about siphoning his warmth. The way her eyes shine with such love and sincerity, catching the light in the way only Olivia Benson’s can, has Sonny genuinely believing that there is absolutely no artifice behind her gesture. She holds him tightly against her because he’s her friend, because she loves him and wants to be close to him, nothing more, nothing less. The way Rafael effortlessly sags into her loose embrace confirms that he too accepts it as something honest and real. Confident that Rafael would be fine with Olivia, he walks a few paces ahead to make room for a mother with a stroller walking in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” Rafael says suddenly as he gently shakes himself out of Olivia’s grasp. “Give me a second.”
Sonny spins around quickly, watches Rafael stop, bend down and curl inward, and is immediately seized by terror. To anyone else, it looks like nothing more than someone taking a moment to adjust his shoelaces, but to Sonny it could mean a host of different afflictions, ranging from a twinge in his lower back or a numbness in his hand or a radiating full body pain that leaves him vomiting and breathless.
He races back and crouches down next to him, but before he has a chance to say or do anything, Rafael lobs a small snowball on top of his head.
The handful of snow melts quickly, rivulets of icy water loosening the gel holding up his hair and dripping unceremoniously down his face.
“Gotcha.” Rafael laughs as he throws another handful of snow at his face.
He shakes his head, sending drops of water flying in every direction before swiping the slush off his jacket.
Behind him Olivia laughs. And just like that moment in the hospital months earlier, everything feels perfect.
He’s under no delusion that everything will be perfect going forward, but at this moment, Rafael is happy, is playful, wants to frolic in his own way, and for Sonny, that is its own type of miracle.