Chapter Text
“To be happy in Married Life, nay … in order not to be miserable, you must have a Soul-mate.” – Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Beep. Beep. Beep…
Long fumbling fingers shot out from beneath the duvet and pawed at the alarm, silencing it on the third try. The lump in the bed rolled over and stood, adjusting to the loss of the soft, warm Egyptian cotton and the morning light that would make closing eyes futile. Bare feet padded over carpet and then tile.
Once in the bathroom, Rafael attended to what every middle-aged man was required to do the minute they woke up, then got on with the day.
He had mastered his morning routine: double espresso, dulce de leche spread quickly on toast, a scalding hot shower, teeth, shave, and hair.
Usually by that point, he’s checked his phone at least half a dozen times. But that morning, he hadn’t even unplugged his phone by the time he was ready to get dressed.
Rafael slugged over to his bedside table to fetch his mobile and, with reluctance, checked his messages.
Christ. Three already.
He didn’t bother reading them; he knew what they would say. Instead, he headed to the room off his bedroom.
Rafael felt like Cher Horowitz every time he stepped inside his walk-in closet, minus the literal skipping and the computer that chose his outfit for him. But his mind supplied the serenading choir all the same.
His suits completely took up the far wall, black, grey, and navy, each shade stepping deliberately into the next. The drawers he had installed below them opened with a simple press. Inside were his ties, pocket squares, watches, cufflinks, tie pins, belts and socks, all illuminated by perfectly placed motion-sensored spotlights.
His closet was his pride and joy, his happy place, and if he was honest, the main reason he had bought this apartment.
With more contemplation than normal, he picked out his outfit. Not because today was special in any way! Well, he had just transferred to Manhattan’s DA’s office, but that was only equivalent to him changing corridors, not climbing the ladder.
Today was normal. Nothing special; it may be Valentine's Day, but he certainly would not celebrate that, nor did he intend to celebrate that other thing.
Click. Click. Click.
Amaro had been trying to update his report all morning. Apparently, their new ADA had looked it over last night and deemed it 'unreadable slop,' refusing to move forward with the charges until he rewrote several sections he had highlighted in an offensive yellow.
Click. Click. Click.
His fingers hovered over the keys, eyes re-reading the same half-finished sentence because, no, that clicking sound was not being made by any efficient typing.
Click. Click. Click.
Right! Enough was enough.
Nick swivelled his chair around with enough momentum to take him across the entire bullpen if he added in a little push.
“Amanda. For the love of God. Please stop attacking your pen.”
Rollins stared at him from her desk.
Silence.
“Thank you.” Nick exhaled, turning back to his computer.
The
That was all he was able to type before–
ClickClickClickClickClick…
Narrowly resisting the urge to smash his head repeatedly into his keyboard, or Amanda’s, Nick pushed himself up from his desk, grabbed his coat and simply left.
Cragen would excuse him for stepping out for five minutes.
Mercifully, the weather outside was relatively mild for February in New York.
Nick strolled to the closest coffee shop that actually served drinkable coffee, not the drain water the precinct tried to pass off as coffee.
He pushed open the door to Café Destino, and okay, maybe it wasn’t the closest coffee shop he could have gone to, but it was the closest Cuban coffee shop, which instantly made the extra minute or two worth it.
The second Nick stepped inside, he was greeted with warmth from both the steam wand and the open smile of Doña Rosa, the owner; his foul mood evaporated like the steam wafting around the coffeemaker.
“Ay, Nick. You’re early today, mi hijo. Come, sit. I’ll put on some fresh coffee for you.”
Shoulders relaxing, he unwrapped his scarf and walked up to the smallish counter.
“Thank you, Rosa.”
Studying him from over the espresso machine in the way only a practised observer like herself could, she watched as the detective half slumped, half slid into one of the empty stools at the counter.
He watched Rosa work, reaching for the milk pitcher without having to locate it with her eyes.
“What is it you Americans say?” She asked in the Cuban accent she had never lost, even though he knew she had spent more of her lifetime in New York than in Havana. He caught the way the corners of her mouth lifted as she turned to briefly steam the milk, “A problem shared is a problem halved.”
“Now, what are you getting at, Rosa? You know I don’t like riddles outside of my job.”
She gave him a warm chuckle. “And I don’t like customers or friends leaving with a frown on their face. It’s bad for business. So spill. What’s got you so de capa caída today, hmm?”
Nick had to smile. He hoped she considered him the latter. Still, he couldn’t burden her with his problems; she was surely too busy to listen to them, and to be honest, so was he.
“I appreciate the offer, but I should probably get back to work. Can I get my coffee to go?”
Rosa looked at him with an admonishing squint, but still reached for a takeaway cup.
Barba stepped out of the elevator, coffee cup in one hand and briefcase in the other; the other one was busy wiping at the stain on his tie.
If only that stupid man had looked where he was going.
He walked down the corridor towards his office, frowning at his ruined tie as if it personally offended him.
Rafael had a suspicion that it was an unlucky tie after losing three cases whilst wearing it, and this all but confirmed it for him.
He hadn’t stopped wearing it, though. His father believed in all kinds of silly suspicions, and the last thing Rafael was about to do was become him.
Barba dropped his tie back to his shirt with a sigh and marched more quickly. Carmen was already there, sitting at her desk. She smiled when she saw him coming; it dropped when her eyes fell on the ugly brown mark on his silk tie.
“Oh dear, what a poor way to start—“
“Don’t say it!” he cut her off with a bark and a raised hand.
She looked up at him wide-eyed, and if she was some new assistant and not one that had followed him from Brooklyn, he would think she was about to burst into tears or something. Instead, he could see how hard she was trying to hold in her laughter.
Rafael sighed. “You can laugh later, but right now I need a solution. When we moved the stuff here, did we bring my spare ties?”
Carmen got her amusement under control. “Afraid not.” She said with a grimace, once again eyeing his tie.
Barba let his head fall. Fantastic.
“Well, I’m due in court later today, and I can’t go in front of Judge Donnelly looking like a trucker who's been called to the stand. Can you go to the nearest suitable shop and buy me a tie, preferably a plain or textured navy or orange one?”
He had put his briefcase down and was now taking notes out of his wallet.
“Why not a red one? You know, since it’s Valentine's Day and all.” Carmen smiled innocently, but he could see the glint in her eyes.
“No. Nothing that’ll make me look like I’m officiating some themed wedding. And if you come back with a tie with flowers or so help me God, hearts on, you may not be coming back to a job at all.”
He knew she wouldn’t, just as she knew he would never fire her. He handed her the money, and she picked up her coat and bag.
“Got it. A pink and red tie with hearts and roses all over it.”
Rafael gave her a warning glare before pushing the door to his office open.
Whatever amusement Carmen had stoked in him was snuffed out like a... well, like a candle on a cake, because on his desk was a large box wrapped in an ostentatious red ribbon and behind it, tied to his stapler, was a balloon with the words 'Birthday Boy' in big colourful lettering.
And... now it was the worst day ever.