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When Olivia walks in with the squad at her back, Barba knows shit’s about to hit the fan. “I’m not going to make my lunch reservation, am I?” he asks.
Olivia hands him a file as Fin, Amaro, and Rollins take seats. “Congratulations, Counselor, you’ve earned a 24-hour protection.”
“What?” Barba opens the file folder. It’s a pile of printed e-mails, sent to the general DA e-mail. Olivia’s stacked them in order by date, and Barba reads through them all. “Oh,” Barba says when he reaches the death threats that include his address. “Is this related to a particular case, or are we assuming it’s good, old-fashioned racism based on the variety of ways he’s called me a Spic?”
“We’re going with the racism angle, since there’s no mention of any particular case,” Olivia says. “And since he has your address, you’re getting moved to a safe house.”
“Must we?”
“Yes,” Olivia says.
Barba looks around the room. “I understand needing to tell me, but why is everyone here?”
“We felt it was only fair you got to pick who was going to be your 24-hour guard,” Olivia says, a smile showing at the edges of her mouth.
Barba looks at her for a moment, trying hard to keep his face neutral. “How nice,” he says. He doesn’t even pretend like he’s taking time to consider his options. “Rollins.”
Rollins looks at Fin. “You can take Frannie?”
“Sure. John could use the company while I’m at work.”
Rollins nods to Olivia. “Just need my go-bag, and I’m good.”
“Excellent,” Olivia says. “What do you need?” she asks Barba.
“How long do we expect me to be under guard?”
Olivia gestures to the file folder. “Based on the increase in threats, we think the perp may go for you in the next week.”
Barba glances at the calendar. “Cinco De Mayo,” he says.
Amaro groans. “I didn’t even think of that. What a fucking idiot.”
“Lo sé,” Barba replies, and he and Amaro roll their eyes at each other. “I’m Cuban,” Barba says to Olivia’s questioning look. “Cinco’s a Mexican holiday.”
“You know, if racists did their homework on why they hated us, they might actually have too much knowledge to threaten people,” Fin says.
“They’d still threaten people,” Rollins says, “they’d just get the holidays right.”
“Anyway,” Olivia says in the tone that makes the rest of the squad immediately sit up straighter, “you’ve got Rollins as your twenty-four. We’ll have uniforms posted here, the courthouse, and at the safe house.”
“I’ve got three suits at the cleaners,” Barba says. “Can I get those to the safe house so I have something to wear?”
“Of course. Anything else you need?” Oliva asks.
“My pajamas and shaving kit if it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Any chance I can go to my place and pick them up myself?”
“Nope,” Olivia says. “I’ll do it for you.”
“Ties four, nine, and twenty-six,” Barba says. “and three white shirts.”
“Four, nine, and twenty-six,” Olivia mutters as she scrawls it in her notebook. “Got it.” She flips the notebook closed and looks from Barba to Rollins. “Anything looks off, you call in.”
“Of course,” Rollins says.
“Okay, we’ll keep you updated.” Olivia gestures to Fin and Amaro, and the three of them leave.
Rollins stands up from her seat at the conference table and walks over to Barba’s desk. She leans against it and looks him over. “You pick little old me over those two strapping men?” she asks.
Barba smiles at her tone. “What better way to piss off a racist than to have such a fine example of a Georgia Peach as my bodyguard?” He takes half a step so they’re almost touching. “Olivia knows?” he asks.
“Apparently, I blanched pretty hard when the one with your address showed up. Liv pulled me aside, and I told her we’d been sort of seeing each other.”
“Sort of?”
“It’s only been two months,” Rollins says, and the tease is back in her voice. “So, yeah, sort of.”
“I’ve walked your dog.”
“So’s Fin.”
“I’ve made you breakfast.”
“Once.”
“I’ve gotten you off.” Rollins waves her right hand at Barba, and he laughs. “Point taken.”
“Sort of ain’t bad,” Rollins says. “Just means we’re still early on.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Barba sits back down and watches as Rollins walks over to the couch and settles herself. “I’ve got a few books,” he offers.
She waves her phone at him. “Got it covered. Just do your thing.”
He does, and three hours later, they leave the office, Rollins in front of and slightly to the side of him, taking in everyone in the hallway and elevator and the parking garage. They get into the unmarked car, Barba in the back.
“I hate riding in the back,” he says.
“It’s a safety precaution, you know that,” Rollins says as she checks her mirrors and pulls out of the parking spot.
“I still hate it.”
Rollins shakes her head and reports their movement into her radio.
*
The safe house is three bedrooms and a basement all done up in Ikea furniture. “I see we spare no expense,” Barba says as the two uniforms report no movement to Rollins.
“Ignore him,” Rollins says when both uniforms give Barba a look, “he’s mad because he’s probably going to get shot at on Cinco De Mayo.”
“You’re Cuban,” one of the uniforms says.
Barba starts. “How do you know?”
The uniform taps his nose, and Barba realizes they’re very similar. “First generation,” he says. “You?”
“Same,” Barba replies. They shake hands, and Barba glances at his nametag. De Leon.
“Outside, gents,” Rollins says to the uniforms. “You can get to know Barba later.”
“I don’t really want to,” the second uniform says under his breath as they go outside, and Rollins smirks at Barba.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” Barba says.
“Come on,” Rollins says, “there should be food. I’ll make something for dinner.”
“It’s like any other night in,” Barba says, loosening his tie. “Except I’m waiting to get shot.”
“Or stabbed,” Rollins adds as she opens the fridge. “He keeps changing weapons.”
“You’re not helping,” Barba says.
Rollins turns away from the fridge and motions Barba closer. She pecks him on the nose. “There. Helping.”
Barba wants to pull her close and relax against her, but there are two uniforms outside, and they’re technically on the clock. He touches her arm instead, and she smiles at him. “Slightly,” he allows.
“Jackass,” she mutters as he walks towards the bedrooms.
The bedrooms are lined up in a row down the hallway. The first is set up as an office. The second and third each have a queen-sized bed and dresser. Barba’s shaving kit is sitting on the dresser of the third, and he opens the drawers to find his pajamas. His suits and shirts are hanging in the closet, and the ties are on a separate hanger.
“I think Olivia’s in a nesting phase,” Barba calls down the hallway. “All my things are put away.”
“She always does that,” Rollins replies. “She figures a little normalcy helps in these situations.”
Of course she does, Barba thinks but doesn’t say. He takes off his clothes and slips into his pajamas. Rollins is heating up something in a pan when he comes back into the kitchen. She grins at the sight of him.
“Here, keep moving this around. I wanna get comfortable, too.”
Barba takes the spatula and keeps moving the food around. He recognizes the ingredients in the pan; Amanda calls it ‘broke-ass hash.’ It’s ground beef, and a few vegetables. There’s a container of pasta sauce on the counter and noodles waiting to be tossed into the pot of water that’s on the verge of boil. Amanda’s made it for him twice before.
“Better,” Rollins says, and when Barba looks up, he can’t think of her as Rollins anymore. She’s wearing his shirt, for god’s sake.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says.
Amanda looks down and laughs at the word HARVARD blazoned across the t-shirt. “Oh, shit, I didn’t even think about it. Switched out my go-bag clothes last week and wasn’t paying attention.”
“She stands here, wearing my clothes, and says we’re ‘sort-of’ dating,” Barba mutters with great melodrama.
“Hush,” Amanda says, and she pushes him out of the way to take over dinner again.
*
They sleep in separate rooms because they’re in this house for work. It’s not terrible, Barba thinks. The bed isn’t uncomfortable, and they haven’t been spending the night together regularly or anything. It is still odd to know that Amanda is in bed in the same space but not next to him.
In the wee hours of the morning he wakes up to her crawling in next to him and curling around his back. “Shut up,” she says. “Liv’s already breaking regs letting me be the one to have your back. This ain’t much worse.”
Barba says nothing, as ordered, and drifts back to sleep.
*
It’s four quiet days of safehouse-work-safehouse, Barba and Amanda splitting the cooking. They spend whatever part of the evening they’re at the safehouse in opposite arm chairs to keep up the veneer of being professional. If Barba leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Amanda’s head occasionally as he passes to the kitchen, so be it. If Amanda crawls into bed next to him in the wee hours each night, so be that, too.
“I’m getting bored,” Amanda says on night four. They’re reading. She’s got a book; Barba ‘s got one waiting as soon as he finishes reviewing notes for court next week.
“Take it out on Liv,” Barba replies, and he smiles when Rollins snorts and turns a page.
*
It happens on day six. Barba and Amanda are coming into 1PP in the morning, and Barba is suddenly pushed to the side, behind a column. His coffee cup goes flying from his hand as a series of shots go off. Barba tries to turn around and look, but there’s a crowd of officers already pushing around him.
“Officer down!” someone yells.
“I’m not down!” Amanda yells in return, and Barba feels his whole body tighten until he catches sight of her. She is glowing with anger and cradling her right arm. “You don’t call down for a damn wrist sprain!”
“Cancel officer down!” the same someone yells.
Barba catches Rollins’s eye, and she pulls a face. It’s enough to reassure him that she’s fine. He looks towards where the shots came from, and there are three officers pinning down a man who is screaming a string of obscenities and racial epithets and also saying some off-color stuff about Barba’s parentage.
“You okay?” Rollins asks, still cradling her arm as she looks Barba over.
“Spilled my coffee,” Barba replies. He pushes back the urge to pull her close and help her down to the ambulance that’s pulling up. “And I was wrong. Cinco’s tomorrow.”
“Racists like to get drunk, too,” Rollins replies. “Probably didn’t want to have to skip the parties.”
“You need company at the hospital?” Barba asks.
“I’ll call Fin. You need to give a statement.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Barba says. Rollins gives him a small smile before walking towards the ambulance.
He gives his statement to a uniform and gets let go to head up to his office. When he gets there, Liv is sitting on the couch looking both worried and relieved. She’s got a spare coffee in her hand.
“Rollins called from the bus, mentioned you dropped yours,” Olivia says as she hands over the extra.
“She said it was a sprain,” Barba replies, taking the cup. “What did the EMTs say?”
“No idea. Fin’s gonna call once they get the x-rays. They gave her something for the pain in the ambulance, and she showed up at the ER pretty loopy.”
Barba huffs a laugh at that, sits in his chair, and drops his head to his desk. He feels a whole body shake come over him and lets it ride the course. “I am not in shock,” he says when he hears Olivia breathe in, clearly intending to ask him something. “I’ve been in shock. This is not shock.”
“Not in shock for you, maybe,” Olivia replies.
Barba raises his head. Olivia has moved from the couch to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “What?”
“Rollins hasn’t been hurt on the job since—”
“Do not armchair psychoanalyze me, Liv. I’m not in shock. I’m uncaffeinated, was shot at, and Rollins was injured. It’s been a long morning, and it’s not even nine yet.”
“Amanda was injured.”
“What did I just say about trying to turn this into a psych session?”
Olivia sighs and waves a hand at Barba. “Fine. I’m just saying, it can be different once you start dating someone at work.”
Barba reaches for his coffee and takes a long drink. “Well, if I feel like it’s affecting me, I’ll call the shrink.”
“Bullshit,” Olivia mutters, and they share a friendly look before she gets up and lets herself out.
Barba sits in the quiet of his office after she leaves and tries to remember what he was going to work on this morning. He knows he had chosen a task before leaving the safehouse, but now his mind is a blank. “Okay,” he mutters to himself, “maybe a couple visits with a shrink.”
His office phone rings. It’s the DA. “Go home, Barba.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were shot at.”
“But not actually shot.”
The DA sighs. “Goddamnit, Barba.”
“I’d rather work. I’ll leave on time.”
“Accepted. Leave early if you need to.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Barba says and waits for her to hang up before he does so himself.
It’s another ten minutes before he can remember one of his tasks for the day. Finishing the first one triggers the rest of the list, and he’s on item number three when his cell rings.
“Fin,” Barba greets. “How’s Rollins?”
“Not much worse than she thought. Hairline fracture on her wrist, couple of scuff marks. Still loopy enough on the pain meds to have mentioned to me about the two of you.”
“I see,” Barba says slowly.
“She’s also been asking for Frannie,” Fin continues, giving no hint he heard Barba’s reluctance. “Gonna have John drop her by your office. Amanda’s determined to come check on you, so I figured I’d get everything centrally located.”
“That’s—that’s fine. When can I expect Munch?”
“Half an hour. Amanda’s still gotta get cleared by the doctors on this end. Figure it’ll take an hour to get her out of here, so should be back at your office around noon.”
“Sounds good. I appreciate you coordinating all this, Detective.”
Fin snorts. “Take it easy, Counselor. No one’s gonna hear details from me. Besides, it’s about time Amanda got her someone I haven’t wanted to drag into traffic.”
Barba is struck quiet for a moment. “…thanks,” he finally manages.
“Later,” Fin says and hangs up.
“And how long until Amaro knows?” Barba mutters to his silent office.
*
John shows up with Frannie on the half hour mark like he’s purposefully timed it. Frannie gives Barba a full-body wiggle when she sees him and strains against her harness.
“Sit,” Barba says. When Frannie does, he leans down and gives her a scratch under the chin. “Thanks for dropping her by,” he says to John.
“A retired man needs to keep busy,” John replies. He holds out his hand, and Barba shakes it. “You don’t look too bad for nearly being shot.”
“You don’t look too bad for being out of work.”
John grins and opens his arms to show off his long-sleeved Henley and jeans. “I’m dressed like the world’s most boring man.”
“Well, we all know the truth.” Barba watches as John leans down to unclip Frannie’s leash. “Ask you a question, Detective?”
“Just John,” John replies. “And sure.”
“You and Detective Fin have been together how long?”
John looks up at the ceiling as he counts under his breath. “Twelve years? I think?”
“Most of your time in the squad, then.”
“Yup.” John looks at Barba from over his glasses. “Need tips on how to balance that, Counselor? Fin mentioned Amanda let some information slip.”
“Olivia knows, apparently, so I’m not…worried…about it, but yes, any tips on balance would be appreciated.”
John shakes his head. “Wrong man to ask, honestly. Fin and I, we worked together, and at night, we went home together. Not at first, of course, had to protect my virtue, but once we got settled with each other.”
“How long did that take? The settling?” Barba feels like he’s being X-rayed with the way John is looking at him.
“You were in a safe house for—what—six days?”
“It’s day six now, so five.”
“Five days. Okay. You got a taste of domesticity while you were waiting for some jackass to blow your brains out. It was nice. You enjoyed it. You want to repeat it.”
“Yes,” Barba says.
John shrugs. “So repeat it.”
“That’s your best advice?”
“I have three ex-wives and a long-term partner who has tiger statues in our shared apartment. I have no useful advice at all.”
Barba chuckles. “Point taken. Thanks, John.”
“Sure.” John hands Barba Frannie’s leash. He scratches Frannie behind the ears, and then he leaves with a wave.
Barba looks at Frannie, who is still in her sit, her tongue lolling out as she smiles at Barba. “Okay,” he says, and Frannie stands up and starts sniffing around the room. Barba isn’t surprised when she ends up on the couch. He digs around in the bottom drawer of his desk and finds a sleeve of tennis balls. He takes one out and tosses it in Frannie’s direction. She misses catching it in her mouth, but it lands on the couch next to her. She noses it between her paws and starts to work it over.
*
It’s a quiet hour and change before Fin shows up with Amanda. She’s got a cast and sling on her right arm, and there are two small bandages on her left arm. She says thank you to Fin as she opens the office door, and Barba watches her face light up when Frannie jumps off the couch to greet her.
“Have you been good?” Amanda asks Frannie. Frannie wags her tail and sits, then stands, then sits again. “Of course you have,” Amanda says. She gives Frannie a full-body scratch, then stands up, giving Barba a small smile. “The pain meds were pretty strong,” she says.
“Fin mentioned.” Barba comes around from his desk and stops a few steps from Amanda. “You’re okay, though? Aside from the arm?”
“Healthy as a horse,” she replies. She cocks her head at Barba and bites her lip. “You’re okay?”
“I didn’t even get scuffed up,” Barba says. He takes the last few steps so they’re standing close. When he touches her left arm, Amanda turns it so he can see the bandages.
“I scraped myself up taking him down,” she says. “Nothing too bad.”
“I think…” Barba pauses and looks at Amanda’s face. She’s still smiling, watching him patiently. He reaches out and curls a lock of her hair around his finger. “I think we’ve passed ‘sort of,’” he says.
Amanda is quiet for a moment. “Well, Frannie does like you.”
“Amanda, I’m serious.”
She looks Barba in the eyes, looks away, and shakes her head. “I…I’m not great at this part, Rafael. I don’t…my history is beyond spotty.”
“Okay,” Barba says. He cocks his head to try and meet Amanda’s gaze. She glances at him and holds eye contact. “I’m not asking for anything to change, really. What we’ve been doing is good. It’s nice. But…I’ve liked being around you more during the last few days.”
“…okay,” Amanda says.
“So, can we spend more time together?” Barba asks. “Would that be okay?”
Amanda nods. Her smile comes back, drops away, then comes back a little dimmer. “Yeah. That’d be…that’d be nice.”
Barba lets go of the lock of hair he’s holding and slowly cups Amanda’s jaw with one hand. The other, he places against her neck, his thumb resting just behind her ear. “Do you want to go beyond ‘sort of’? I can’t read you right now.”
She stares past him, clearly regulating her breathing. “You know, I’m trying to think of the last time someone asked me that or I even thought to ask myself, and I…can’t remember.” She closes her eyes. When she breathes in deep, Barba feels the tension slide off of her. “Yes,” she murmurs.
“Yes?”
When she opens her eyes, she’s smiling again, and Barba feels himself smile in return. “Yes,” she repeats. “Let’s try it out.”
Barba kisses her on the forehead, then on the mouth, and she laughs a little as he pulls away. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she says. She presses a finger to the top button of his waistcoat. “Just wondering if I can get a ride on that yacht that’s not yours if we’re getting serious.”
Barba laughs. “We’ll see,” Barba replies. “I’m not sure they allow dogs.”
“Then screw ‘em,” Amanda says.
Barba smiles and strokes the spot under her ear. “Screw ‘em,” he agrees.