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There is a series of firsts in his relationship with Barba that Sonny considers to be far more important than the usual firsts. They’re not the kind of firsts you’d normally remember, much less keep in your Memory Treasure Box to take out and marvel and smile at every once in a while, but most people would agree with Sonny on Barba not being exactly normal.
So obviously the important firsts with him wouldn’t be, either.
Yes, their first date is exciting and, yes, their first kiss right after is great, but that doesn’t come as much of a surprise to Sonny. The first time they have sex is amazing, but he’s expected that. All their first times in bed are amazing – but of course they are.
Sonny would have been seriously surprised if it turned out Barba isn’t brilliant at giving head or isn’t considerate and tender but also just a really fun, REALLY satisfying lay. He’s hoped Barba would be at least a bit of a snuggler, but he isn’t surprised at all, when it turns out the snuggling-after part is as important to Barba as the sex, anyway.
If he hadn’t expected all of that, Sonny wouldn’t have been that fucking smitten, he figures.
The regular firsts are fine, but they aren’t the ones he remembers when stroking through Barba’s hair, schnugged up in bed with Barba reading a case file, head pillowed on Sonny’s belly, purring like a sated cat.
No, Sonny remembers: The first time Barba props himself up against him, grabs his reading glasses and a folder from the nightstand, turns the TV on, drops the remote in Sonny’s lap and starts reading.
And not only is the TV tuned to the Horror Channel (That’s another first that’s going to happen later; Barba unapologetically watching an Asylum Production film when Sonny wakes up next to him, not even pretending he’s been zapping, but actually telling Sonny the plot so far so he can keep up.) but at Sonny’s chuckled question, “You gonna read that before sleep? Are you immune to nightmares?” Barba casts him a tight little smile, tensing ever so slightly and replies, “It’s just for tomorrow, don’t wanna blank in front of the defendant. Does it bother you?”
It’s the first time Sonny hears that tone, or, more precisely, the first time Barba lets him hear it. That slightest hint of insecurity, combined with the unmistakable hope that Sonny won’t find it weird.
But mostly, it hits Sonny, it’s that Barba has done something he figures is possibly embarrassing without checking himself first. He’s been so comfortable that he’s slipped into his bedtime routine while Sonny is right there, and his routine apparently involves TV in the background and gruesome case files as night time stories.
And Sonny thinks that, sure, he’s seen Barba naked – but not THIS naked. Barba is considerate in bed, but he isn’t insecure; he’ll ask Sonny “Is this okay?”, “Does this feel good?”, but “Does it bother you?” is a whole different ballgame.
It’s Barba handing Sonny the possibility to actually hurt him – snicker at him, call him a hopeless workaholic or worse – and Sonny knows him well enough by now to realize it’s a much bigger step for him than revealing sexual fantasies.
For Barba IS a hopeless workaholic, and usually not very bothered by it, either, he picked one of the most stressful jobs in public service after all. He’ll roll his eyes at Benson telling him to take a weekend off or wave off invitations to lunch, already on the phone again. Sonny can remember Benson joking that whenever Barba calls her to rant about a case falling to pieces on live TV, it’s from his office while she’s watching it at home in her jammies with a glass of wine.
Barba’s determined journey straight to Burn Out Central is an ongoing running gag throughout the department, Sonny has engaged in it himself, it goes along with the jokes about the caffeine addiction and the law encyclopedia their ADA calls a brain; it’s that spirit of a college class joking about their eccentric professor they all have a secret soft spot for. Barba himself would approve of that.
And yet, he obviously doesn’t want Sonny to think of him like that now. He doesn’t know, yet, whether Barba considers him his boyfriend or partner or whatever term he actually prefers, but what he does know for certain in this moment is that Barba worries about Sonny’s opinion of him.
He works very hard to get his job done right – brilliant legal mind and what Sonny sometimes suspects might be a photographic memory aside, it takes WORK to be this good – and he’s still anxious enough before big days in court to, yes, read double rape and murder files before sleep… and he’s worried about what Sonny will think of that.
He wants Sonny to feel comfortable around him and not weird him out by being who he is. He’s just admitted to that with a single muttered question and a look.
To Sonny, he might as well have said “Love me, anyway? Please?”
And because Sonny does, he pecks Barba’s temple, runs his hand through his sex-mussed hair, says, “As long as it doesn’t bother you that I’m gonna watch Cuffs&Courtrooms,” and switches channels.
Barba snorts, palpably relaxing against Sonny and adjusts his glasses. “That show’s the cultural equivalent of a planet killer meteor. You lose a brain cell per second you watch it.”
“Hmmm,” Sonny agrees. “The little DA’s hot, though.”
“Meh. I prefer the detective with the dog racing addiction.”
“I think he died last season.”
“Shame. Dogs ate him?”
“Landmine.”
Barba shifts his head to look at Sonny, who shrugs and says, “Maybe it’s on Prime?”
“Hopefully.”
There are firsts no one but Sonny would find significant, but of course that’s part of the whole thing. They are significant to Sonny, because they are significant to Barba. For example, he sees Barba get dressed a few times before he really sees him get dressed for the first time. Before Barba lets him see.
Sonny has been staying overnight basically right away, they didn’t have much of a casual sex friend phase, which is another thing Sonny isn’t surprised at but figures most people would be. To him, it’s always been obvious Barba wouldn’t be into that. He’s too busy to waste time on anything so mundane as dating for sex. If he wants sex, he can – and knows he can – have it without having to sit through a conversation, wordlessly negotiating a deal, all the while hoping the person will take a hint and leave early so he can get some work done after.
He didn’t agree to go out with Sonny for the sex – the sex was going to happen the second Barba nodded at Sonny’s “pick you up at seven?”, no doubt about it – but because he wanted to date Sonny. Be his boyfriend. Be… his.
Because he likes Sonny, which he says out loud way earlier than people would believe Sonny if he told them.
Barba isn’t scared to admit he has feelings. That isn’t an actual thing with him, it’s just what people assume he’s like. It isn’t words Barba struggles with. It’s letting his guard down.
He’s told Sonny he likes him, he really enjoys spending time with him, he loves the way Sonny takes him in bed, he’s maybe sorta perhaps probably kinda falling in love with Sonny, he IS in love with Sonny – all that in various situations, long before Sonny sees him decide on what to wear for the first time.
He’s seen Barba get dressed, of course. Cheerfully – and not silently – admired the way he tied his tie (“Have I told you about my recurring tie fantasy, counselor?” - “I got court in three hours. If you don’t stop it right now, it’ll be a week of cold showers for you. Detective.” - “Like that’s a real threat.” - “Oh please. I’m fifty years old. It’ll be so easy, it’s embarrassing.”) and button up his vest.
But there is the first time Barba doesn’t seem to care Sonny is still there, nursing his coffee in bed, while he’s holding up tie after tie and actually changes his shirt AND socks twice.
“So it doesn’t just come naturally,” Sonny comments, smirking at Barba turning to him with a little ta-daa gesture once he’s reached peak elegance. “I used to wonder.”
Barba puts his hands on the mattress and leans forward to peck Sonny on the nose.
“Nothing comes naturally, honey.”
He’s never been more gorgeous to Sonny, who can only tilt his head to capture his lips in a kiss and sigh. “Another illusion shattered.”
“Welcome to grown-up world,” Barba says and snatches Sonny’s coffee mug away from him. “See you tonight.”
There is the first time Barba wears comfy – “smurfy” he calls them and, again, that’s a first, the first time Sonny hears him say that – clothes around Sonny, not the casual but still classy non-suit ones he’s worn to dinner dates at either of their places or when they go catch an exhibition or a play, nor the birthday suit of just being naked all day, when they spent a whole Saturday proving Barba might be fifty, but really only when he decides to be.
The first time Barba dresses in sweatpants and an old navy blue t-shirt with a frumpy knitted cardigan over it, perched on the couch with a case file and a scotch while Sonny is catching up on the latest season of Game of Thrones, Sonny doesn’t comment on it, because, seriously, why would he? It’s Sunday evening, his boyfriend’s been working a 120-hour week and Sonny himself is so tired he’ll probably fall asleep before the dragons appear. But he still notices it. He has never seen Barba like this. They’ve been tired before and god knows it’s been Sunday night before, but no, he’s never seen Barba look anything but impeccable – because, yes, he’s impeccable when naked, too.
Now, though, he hasn’t bothered showering – they haven’t had sex, but fell asleep making out earlier – and is wearing what Sonny assumes are his usual jammies plus a cardigan so huge he wonders if it was a Christmas gift from a female relative who couldn’t remember his size. For a second he thinks he’s always figured Barba for a guy who wears Harvard attire – Harvard tees, Harvard hoodies – but he’s never seen a single one in Barba’s apartment. To be honest, these are the only downright comfy clothes he’s EVER seen him in and they make him look more adorable than he has any right to look.
Plus… weirdly hot.
So Sonny turns his head on the couch, snaps his fingers against the file and smiles at him. “Hey you. C’mere.”
It’s not the first time they’re doing it on Barba’s couch, of course.
There’s the first time Sonny hears Barba whine – actually, honest to god WHINE – at having to get up on a day off because they agreed to meet Sonny’s sister for brunch.
Not all first times are happy and fun, but they all revolve around Barba letting him see. Like what he considers an okay way of coping after he loses an important case. Sonny always thought it involved a lot of scotch and maybe biting people’s heads off and feeling guilty after.
Turns out it consists of curling up on the couch, face hidden in a blanket and not talking or eating or fucking moving or reacting to anything for way too long, followed by getting up obscenely early the next morning to head for the office and see if it can’t be turned around after all.
Sonny thinks of how they all used to think Barba drank his sorrows away – cause, yes, they all agreed he most likely took things hard, he seemed the type – but how none of them would have figured he … absorbs pain like this. Hiding in a little blanket nest, engulfed in misery so merciless he’s shivering from its cold, until he emerges, pretending to be ready to take on the world again.
It’s not something Sonny can just forget and he wants to talk to him, tell him there’s something there, something to watch out for. Somewhere in that dashing mind of his there might be the thing that’ll get him in the end.
But then there’s the first time he sees Barba cry and all of Sonny’s concern melts into understanding. Barba doesn’t need no warnings, he knows his mind well enough.
It isn’t even a real fight, it’s a “You said you’d get the eggplant!” - “I forgot! Fucking sue me!”-kinda fight and one second Barba is dropping his briefcase onto the table, snapping that if Sonny wanted to fuck a maid, he should go find one and something or other about Downtown Abbey, while Sonny is seething, taking a step forward, spatula in hand and just fucking ANGRY as hell, not just at Barba, but also at him, it’s just a shit night, the end of a shit day and his boyfriend promised something Sonny KNEW he wouldn’t remember and of course he didn’t remember and he fucking wants to smack him – and just like that, Barba’s crying.
Actually crying, slumped onto a chair at the table, still in his coat, trembling hands raised to cover his face, huddled in on himself, falling apart.
Sonny stares, drops the spatula and hurries to sit down next to Barba, careful not to startle him when he wraps an arm around his shoulder.
“Shit. Babe, I… what… fuck,” he says helpfully.
Barba doesn’t hear. He’s wrapped around some invisible pain sitting tight in his chest. Nothing can reach him.
“Rafi,” Sonny says and, hell, that’s the first time he’s called him that. He scoots closer so he can fully embrace him, place soft little kisses into his hair. “Hey. It’s okay. Shhh, you’re okay.”
It’s the first time he realizes Barba isn’t okay. Barba’s happy – with him, happy with Sonny – but he isn’t okay, maybe hasn’t been in a while.
He’s not reacting to anything, not relaxing in Sonny’s hold, doesn’t seem to feel Sonny rubbing his back or taking his coat off, and when he does lift his head, eyes swollen and still leaking tears, he only looks tired. Or sick.
Sonny pecks his temple and tugs him up off the chair, leads him to the bedroom and makes him go to bed, slips off his suspenders, helps him take off his pants, his tie, shirt, and gently shoves him under the covers. He kisses Barba’s forehead and stops when Barba won’t let go of his hand, sits on the mattress, waits till Barba’s fallen asleep. He strokes through the graying hair, runs his finger down Barba’s long, pointy nose, caresses his cheek.
He’ll talk to him later, he’ll find out about the case, Barba will even open up about some of the triggering aspects there, just the bare minimum, the tip of the iceberg that’s threatening to sink him.
It’s the first time. Sonny will be allowed to try and help make it better eventually, help bear it. But he doesn’t know that, yet.
The first time they say ‘I love you’, it’s Sonny who says it first, which comes as no surprise to anyone and it’s also not overly dramatic and milestone-y, because he says it in bed, still glowing and breathless and all “fuck, I love you, that was… fuck,” like they’re in an HBO romcom.
Barba, bless him, snorts softly against Sonny’s neck, pecks his jaw and says, “Yeah, I love you, too” and that’s that. It’s not like they didn’t know before, and, sure, they smile happily at each other and smooch a bit more and Sonny says it again the next morning, hugging Barba from behind when he’s tying his tie, but it isn’t the first time Sonny realizes Barba loves him so much he feels at home around him. That’s when he hears him sing while making breakfast one Sunday morning.
That’s later.
Wordlessly, for the most part, they’ve decided to share Barba’s apartment. None of them has said out loud, yet, that Sonny will eventually give up his place entirely, but it’s understood.
Barba has given Sonny a key so early in their relationship Sonny briefly considered having a talk about general safety and self-preservation with him, but it turned into another moment for the Memory Box when he let himself in for the first time, knowing Barba would still be at work, and found empty closet space waiting for him and about ten toothbrushes (tied with a fucking bow, really) standing in a classy faux-crystal glass on “his” side of the sink.
It comes as a bit of a surprise to Sonny how easily Barba’s making room for him in his living space, but then he figures it shouldn’t. Barba’s clearly decided to make room for him in his LIFE and he doesn’t do things half-assed. By now, Sonny understands that letting anyone in was a big deal for Barba and if he’s gone this far, he might as well do it all.
Plus – and it’s knowledge Sonny hugs close to his heart and is jealously guarding from anyone, it’s only his to know – Barba’s just not that fussy.
He loves his job and he loves Sonny, that doesn’t make for a very crowded life.
Apart from that, he likes certain things, but they’re so few he can afford to have the best. Early on, Sonny realized that they all figured because Barba likes expensive scotch and expensive clothes, he’s overall … expensive. Bit of a dandy, a tightly wound up fancy creature, when really… that’s it. He likes good drinks and he likes good clothes and that’s not too much to spend money on.
And while, yes, sure, he knows nice restaurants and he enjoys taking Sonny out to them or to see a show once in a while when they both have the time for it – he does that for Sonny. Barba could live off bar nuts if he had to and they could have both moved into Sonny’s tiny cluttered place for all he’d care if it’d made Sonny happy.
For all his appearance, Barba owns so little stuff beyond ties and socks that he might come across as a minimalist if there was any indication that he gives a fuck.
Of course he has very reasonably invested in stocks and real estate - he’s still from the Bronx, he knows you better expect to fall on hard times than be surprised by it. He’s made sure he has enough money to provide for his mother when it becomes necessary and to not have to drink cheap shit in old age. But other than that, he’s pretty unbothered.
So when Sonny starts to apologize for spreading his books and hoodies and notes and gym clothes and magazines and more than one Mets scarf, Barba frowns at him and asks if he needs more space, they could fit more shelves next to the couch, easy, and “I think that drawer there’s mostly empty, anyway? I could fit more socks in that top one, too, so you can have both?”
He’s so sincere that Sonny has to push him onto the couch and fuck him senseless right away.
Obviously the socks thing is adorable and Barba’s fine with Sonny teasing him about it constantly.
It’s another first time when Sonny gets to witness just HOW adorable it is, too, because Barba doesn’t own socks to match his outfits – he also owns outfits to match his socks. One day, Sonny finds a new shirt hanging on the wardrobe door, when he comes home, apparently delivered that very day, and it hits him that the shirt matches the beige-purple striped socks he’s got Barba from a trip to Staten Island the other week.
The very next day, he buys Barba a pair of Mets socks.
The first time Sonny realizes Barba feels at home around him completely, he wakes up to an empty bed. He got to sleep in after a long shift the day before, but it’s unusual for him to sleep later than Barba no matter how late it’s been. Barba doesn’t so much get up as attack mornings like a hateful defendant he wants to send away for at least 200 years. So initially Sonny figures something’s come up and Barba’s at the office, but then the smell of coffee and pancakes wafts through the half open bedroom door – along with something else.
Sonny’s actually stunned for a second, then hurries out of bed so fast he almost falls on his face, foot tangled up in the sheets. Training coming in handy, he creeps along the wall in the hallway so he can peek into the kitchen area, where – yup – Barba’s making breakfast, wearing pj bottoms and Sonny’s old Mets shirt (with matching socks), singing along to the radio.
Well. Singing and kinda waggly-dancing along to the radio, which normally would be enough to spur Sonny into grabbing that gorgeous ass, pancakes be damned, but the thought doesn’t even occur to him, because -
“You know the lyrics to Chicken Fried.”
Barba half turns to face him, last line just finished, and smiles at him. “Good morning.”
Sonny shakes his head. “You know the lyrics to Chicken Fried.”
Barba’s smile turns a bit confused. “And I made pancakes,” he says, putting a last one onto the stack on a plate. “Do I get a kiss for that?”
“No,” Sonny says and steps closer, all but towering over him against the breakfast counter. “YOU know the lyrics to Chicken Fried.”
“Is that code? Is it a sex thing? Can we eat first?”
“Fucking Chicken Fried,” Sonny clarifies.
Barba snorts, patting Sonny’s butt as he steps around him, plate in hand. “I’m full of surprises, I guess. Grab me a coffee.”
Sonny’s arm shoots out to stop him. He takes the plate, puts it back on the counter and kisses Barba, walking him back till the kitchen table stops him.
When they come up for air, Barba’s grin has turned decidedly pleased with wherever this is going. Sonny bodily lifts him to plant his butt onto the table and moves to stand between his legs.
“The whole song,” Sonny growls, leaning in to nip at Barba’s throat. “Not just humming along, you know the whole fucking song.”
Barba lets go of a throaty laugh – more turned on than amused now – and says, “I know ‘Friends in Low Places’, too.”
Sonny moans. “Jesus.”
“And ‘Achy breaky heart’. But you’ll never hear that.”
“Oh,” Sonny says, reaching down between them. “We’ll see about that, counselor.”
It’s not the first time they do it on the kitchen table, but it’s still going in the Memory Box.
THE END