Archive of Our Own ^beta

Barba goes home alone. The streets are snowy and salt-slick; icy wind lashes his face, freezing the tears he wouldn’t let himself shed in front of Liv. He hardly feels it as he walks. His hands have gone numb even in their gloves when he finally reaches the apartment. He fumbles for his keys and they slip from his fingers, clattering to the floor with a tinny crash, and that, after everything, makes him feel like he’s about to shatter.

“Fuck.” His voice sounds small and broken to his ears. 

Then the lock turns from within. The door creaks open, and Dominick Carisi appears in the gap. (Barba remembers now how he gave Carisi a copy of his key last week.) He’s in his shirtsleeves, free from his tie and vest, hair damp and forming soft curls across his forehead. Bright-eyed and lazily gorgeous as always. Something tightly wound in Barba finally unravels at the sight of him.

The open concern in his face makes Barba want to cry, something he hasn’t let himself do in days now. He’s exhausted down to his bones, desperate for some kind of absolution, something to slough away the guilt clinging to him — or just to not think at all. Not thinking sounds nice. Heavenly, really. 

Carisi steps aside to let him through the door, and he goes, even steps carrying him into the warm apartment. Titania bolts out from under the couch to press insistently against his ankles, mewing with urgency. Carisi helps him out of his coat and scarf, hanging them with all the care in the world. He takes Barba’s shaking hands and peels off his gloves slowly, the heat of his skin drawing a sudden hiss from Rafael’s throat. He flinches when they touch and hates himself for it.

It’s Carisi’s voice that breaks him, finally.

“Hey. Okay,” he says, once Barba is released from his bundled clothing. His hand cups Rafael’s face, thumb stroking across his rough, haphazardly-shaved cheek. “Okay.” 

It’s like a bullet. His soft voice cuts straight through all the armor Barba has spent the last week hammering into shape. He tries to exhale but it comes out heaving, a choked sob that shakes his shoulders and sends him crumpling into Carisi’s waiting arms. His strong hand cradles the back of Barba’s head, tight but not too tight. Exactly what he wants without having to ask.

“I got you, Rafael, baby,” Carisi says, sincere as always. 

The sound of his name said in that low voice splinters him inward even more. Barba tries to force the tears to come quietly. They have their own ideas. His chest burns like he swallowed a bad drink. His throat throbs from the way he’s been holding the barbed urge to break down tightly imprisoned all day. 

The jury pronounced him not guilty. He nearly went to prison. 

(Prison, after twenty-one years working for the D.A.’s office. It would have been as good as the death penalty, he knows, just a whole lot quicker.) 

He should feel free, or some shade of relief, at least. But all the dread and self-loathing and scalding, marrow-deep guilt insist on stirring up a storm in him until he’s drowning in it. He hasn’t let himself feel any of it yet. He had to pack up his office and walk out of the courthouse and say his goodbyes. He didn’t break down in court. He didn’t break down when Carmen cried and hugged him and insisted on taking the boxes out. He didn’t break talking with Liv on the steps. Somehow, he held it together even when he entertained the thought of Carisi having to visit him in prison, when he tried and failed to accept that the stability and things he’d only just started letting himself dream about were circling the drain. He’d very nearly dashed his own hopes to pieces single-handedly.

The last thing I was thinking about in that hospital room were consequences. He remembers telling Liv that. Remembers her disbelief: You wear suspenders and a belt. She’s right. She’s right, but he still did it. 

Do you feel guilty, Mr. Barba? Yes.

He’s free now, though. Freedom is a joke. Freedom right now looks like no job, no more structure. Nothing .

Nothing but Carisi. Carisi and his strong arms, his warm chest, his hands holding Barba steady. Holding him up. Holding him together, somehow , after everything. He’s been here the whole time. 

He strokes Barba’s hair, presses the gentlest of kisses to the top of his head, his temples, where a headache has begun to stir angrily. Rafael doesn’t even have the strength to do more than clutch loosely at his sides, pressing wrinkles into the starched fabric of his shirt. When his knees start to shake, Carisi leads him to the sofa, where they both sink down in a messy heap of tangled limbs. Barba ends up on his side, his head and shoulders in Carisi’s lap while his arms encircle him. He’s warm, solid. More real than anything else seems to be. He sobs into the crook of Carisi’s arm, sometimes quiet and sometimes not, until he has no energy left at all. 

“I’m here, Rafael. I love you,” Carisi says, over and over again, until it lulls Barba to empty, dreamless sleep.

When he stirs, he finds himself still on the couch, blanket tucked to his chin. Titania yawns from the other end where she’s likewise curled, rumbling purrs against his calf. There’s a glass of water on the adjacent table with two ibuprofen. Barba takes it and drinks in long, enormous gulps. Sizzling and the sharp smell of garlic fill the air, which means Carisi is cooking dinner, and Carisi let him sleep here for at least an hour and a half. 

Barba can’t remember the last time he took an honest-to-god nap. He rubs at his face to usher the sleepy stiffness away; his headache has dulled a bit. He takes the ibuprofen anyway. At the sound of the empty glass clattering back to the table, Carisi whirls around in the kitchen, spatula in hand, cheeks ruddy from the heat of the stove. 

“Hey. Baby.” He turns back to his pans, eyes darting, and seems to decide they can be left alone for a moment or two. He rushes to Rafael’s side, which only takes two or three good strides with those legs. “Hey.”

Barba blinks up at him. His throat is hoarse and scratchy. “Hey.”

“I — uh. I’m making dinner.”

“I can see that.”

“You need anything?” 

He says nothing, just reaches up toward Carisi, who immediately bends to meet him. The kiss is dry and not particularly pleasant or romantic, but Barba just wants him close again. Wants to feel something real — the heat and slight sweat shining on Carisi’s forehead, the tang of beer on his lips. Real things. Good things. He wants to hold tight to them and not let go. 

Carisi grins, breath hot on Rafael’s lips. “That all?” 

Barba tries, valiantly, to put on a smile that is at least half convincing. “For now, yes.”

That earns him another kiss, significantly warmer and wetter than the last. Then one of the pans on the stove starts sizzling at an octave that must set off alarm bells, because Carisi rips himself away and rushes back to the kitchen, a muttered, “ Fuck , sorry,” left in the air.

Barba lays back down. As if on cue, Titania rises to take up her favorite position, kneading on Barba’s belly and nuzzling his face. She eventually curls up with her head resting just under Barba’s chin, so he has no hope of doing anything but lying still. He sighs but settles back against the cushions. 

It’s not a bad view, though. Carisi wears one of his old white tees, snug from a hundred wash cycles. The muscles of his arms — Christ, those arms — flex and twitch as he chops, stirs, rummages through high cabinets. Barba watches without hiding his want, and lets himself not think much at all. 

He’s almost close to dozing again when Carisi saunters over balancing two plates. He sets one in Barba’s lap, disturbing Titania with an indignant mrrp, and settles on the other end of the couch. They eat in silence. Rafael is grateful; for once, he’s tired of talking. And, he realizes after a few bites of chicken parmesan, absolutely ravenous. He goes back for seconds, and the way Carisi smiles at him lights up the dim apartment from floor to ceiling. Some of the ache that has settled in on Rafael’s shoulders and between his eyes chips away, bit by bit. 

He insists on helping wash the dishes. The restlessness of an evening without cases to fuss over has already set in, but Carisi doesn’t complain, just makes room for him at the sink. Every time Carisi needs to reach past him for the soap or a towel or to set a dish to dry, he steals another kiss. Barba can’t help but smile, genuine, by the end of it. 

Carisi shuffles one last jar into the fridge before coming up behind Barba and gently entwining his arms around his middle. He breathes softly onto Rafael’s neck. Barba strokes a hand over his arm in thanks, subtly feeling the wiry muscle beneath. He’s still not sure how to convey in words the weight of all Carisi has done for him this week. It feels outright childish to try. 

He settles on, “I love you.” He tries not to let it sound like an apology.

Carisi plants a kiss just under his ear. “I love you too.” He presses his cheek to Barba’s hair and sighs a little, arms twining tighter. “I love you so goddamn much, Rafael.”

“I know.” Suddenly, his throat is tight again. 

Neither of them say it. How close things came to breaking. How nearly they lost each other. It doesn’t deserve to be said, now. (That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it though. He does, like a tie knotted too tight, slowly stealing his air.) Barba turns in Carisi’s arms just to hold him closer, press their foreheads together, just enjoy the warmth of him. Carisi kisses the ever-present wrinkle between his brows. 

“I took some sick days,” he mutters against Barba’s lips. “I’m staying — if you want. As long as you want. Whatever you need —”

Rafael nods, and cuts him off with a slow, lazy kiss. He savors the heat of his mouth, his hands, his thrumming pulse through his shirt. He smells like shampoo and basil, something fresh and alive. He’s the most beautiful thing Barba’s seen in — ever, maybe. The gentle weight of his hand on the back of Barba’s neck feels like the only thing keeping him weighed down to earth. 

“I love you,” Barba says again. Because he doesn’t say it enough. He needs Carisi to understand — understand that the possibility of this, of coming home to his safe arms was the only thing keeping Barba’s head above water. 

“I know, baby,” Carisi assures. He manages that quirk of a half-smile Barba finds equal parts infuriating and charming. It’s mostly the latter this time. “I’m here. I’ve—”

“Got me, yes. I know.” He returns the smile, small but genuine. His face feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. His head and shoulders ache from the tension he’s kept coiled tight in them for days on end. He wants to sleep for a long time. (He never wants to close his eyes again.) 

Carisi strokes a thumb across his cheek. “So tell me what you need.”

Need is a funny thing. Barba has always considered himself a man with few and simple needs: clothes that fit snug and comfortable, a routine he can predict, a case with details to pick apart and guilty parties to flay with the truth and a few cutting words.

He needs Carisi, and Carisi is here. Everything else is marginal. 

He makes a show of thinking hard, lips pursed. “I think… I just need to relax.”

“Mm, I agree.” Carisi nods. The hands on Barba’s waist skirt an inch or two downwards. There’s a shiver of excitement, but not expectation, in his voice. “How do you want to relax?”

Still, Barba can’t help but indulge him with another kiss. “Don’t get any ideas, counselor.” (Technically, he hasn’t taken any jobs at any D.A.’s office, but Rafael can’t get enough of the way he smiles at the honorific, how it lights up his face to be seen as something other than a detective after years of hard work. He remembers that same pride from decades back.) 

Barba takes a small step away. “I’m taking a bath.”

Carisi nods appreciatively. “Good idea. I think we’ve got Epsom salts around here somewhere. How’s your head been?”

Barba genuinely can’t speak for a few moments. His heart swells until he feels it in his throat, prickling in his eyes. “Better, now,” he says. Carisi slips out of his arms to jog toward the bathroom, in search of said Epsom salts, no doubt. Barba follows, not bothering to hide his smile. 

He showers first, of course, but eventually ends up in the bath, legs stretching leisurely, the water perfectly hot enough to unwind the knots in his shoulders and neck. The scent of lavender joins the steam from a candle on the sink. Barba can tell Carisi is trying his best not to hover. He busies himself with tidying the bedroom, ironing a pile of shirts that have been left out too long in the whirlwind of the last week. He still stays mostly in view of the open doorway to the master bath, peering in occasionally. At some point he sets one of Rafael’s records playing. The soft tones of a sonata drift in past the clatter of Carisi puttering around the apartment, a welcome distraction from his idle thoughts.

He keeps coming back to the courtroom. Not that he remembers much of the trial, to tell the truth. Most of the voices and questions not directly posed to him blurred into the background. But he felt the burn of every pair of eyes like a hot poker, flaying him open. He still feels them now, beneath the scald of the water. He’s branded with it.

Do you feel guilty, Mr. Barba?

“Got something for you,” Carisi chimes from at his side, and Barba jumps . Water splashes and slaps down on the tiles. Carisi flinches back, immediately looking like a kicked puppy. “ Shit . Sorry. Didn’t mean —”

“It’s all right.” Barba says, unconvincing to his own ears.

Carisi sets down a glass of scotch on the ceramic rim of the tub. Then he kneels, artfully avoiding the puddles, to get on Barba’s level. “Feeling relaxed?” he asks, then visibly kicks himself, tries to course correct: “I mean — uh —” A small, somewhat sheepish laugh. “Are the, uh, salts working?”

It’s endearing. Ridiculously. Even as Rafael tries to get his pulse under control, he can’t help but smile at Carisi’s valiant effort. He sinks down lower in the tub, letting the hot water creep up to the nape of his neck. “Wonderfully. Thank you.” 

Carisi leans over for a kiss, glancing unsubtly down at the dim shape of Barba naked in the soapy water. Rafael repays him by meeting him halfway, and lifting a hand out of the tub to rest across his shoulder. Hot droplets rain down the front of his shirt.

“That was rude,” he whines.

Barba smirks. “You were ogling me.” 

“I’m not allowed to ogle my own partner when he’s naked in the bath?”

“You should at least try not to look like a sinner in church doing it.”

Carisi’s ears turn a handsome shade of pink. Then he sets his jaw, and peels himself out of his — now soggy — white tee.

It’s an entirely dirty trick. 

The mere heat of the bathroom has his shoulders covered in splotchy spots of blush. The lines of his chest stand out in stark relief in the overhead light, highlighting all the muscle you wouldn’t suspect under such tidy button downs and ties. Barba frowns, lowering himself into the water until it brushes the bridge of his nose to conceal the traitorous color in his cheeks.

“Come on now. Don’t hide,” Carisi laughs. 

But he has no more obligations. He’s free to do whatever he wants. So he stays under the water and shrinks playfully back from the hand Carisi tries to swipe through his hair. He ends up just dangling his forearms in the water, watching Barba with those eyes and those dimples, and rivulets of water sneaking down his sternum, drawing Rafael’s gaze hopelessly.

His smile lingers, softens from mischievous to appreciative. From under his strong brow he glances up at Barba, and the shock of those sincere baby-blues just about knocks the breath from his lungs. They certainly have heat swirling in his chest — and not from the bath. 

No obligations. Rafael tries, truly tries, to think of his new reality with excitement, not grief. It’s easier with Carisi in view.

He lifts his head from the water. “Fine. No hiding.” Then he plants his palms on the edge of the tub and stands up, savoring the way Carisi leans his head back to take him in fully. He follows suit a moment later, wrapping Barba in a soft towel when he steps out. 

With Carisi’s arms around him it’s hard to worry about what the future holds. When his lips seek out Rafael’s, soft and warm, he doesn’t think much at at all about endings, or guilt. None of the ugly things clinging to his coattails. 

Carisi is gentle helping him from the bath. He’s already set out a set of pajamas on the bed, and helps Barba shrug into them, fastening the buttons in between stolen kisses. It makes Rafael feel small, vulnerable, but precious, in the way only Carisi can. He hides his face against the lean planes of Carisi’s chest, soaking in his warmth. He takes a moment just to listen to his steady pulse. 

You almost lost this.

Damn him, but his eyes sting again. He lets out a slow breath, trying to keep it even, though it’s a fragile thing. Carisi must notice, because he cradles him a bit more tightly.

“I want to lie down,” Rafael murmurs.

“All right.” 

The next words are hard to dredge up. They come out in a whisper: “Don’t… let go.” 

He tries to ignore the burn of how pathetic it makes him feel, how fragile. 

Carisi nods. He takes Rafael’s face between his hands and kisses his forehead. “Of course. C’mon.” 

He doesn’t give Barba room to shuffle to the bed, though, just crouches a bit to get the right grip, then — his feet aren’t touching the ground anymore, and his stomach does a small flip; he clings to Carisi’s shoulders a bit tighter than he means to as he’s lifted into his arms and carried to the bed. Barba makes a show of sighing dramatically, as if he’s the least bit put out by this display, just to see the way it makes the corners of Carisi’s eyes crinkle. 

It takes some fumbling, but they settle on the bed comfortably. The bedroom curtains are drawn and it smells like fresh linens; Barba breathes it in. The scent of home . He’s home. With Carisi’s arms around his shoulders, he feels something like safe. 

Rafael buries his face in the crook of Carisi’s neck when his eyes start to sting again. Before he knows it he starts to tremble, unable to fend off the thoughts of what he nearly lost because he hadn’t thought of the consequences. Selfish.

“Baby,” Carisi says, hushed. His fingers fuss at the damp strands on the back of his neck. 

“Touch me.” 

“Huh?” 

Rafael can’t look him in the eye. “Touch me. I don’t—” His throat closes up for a moment. “ Please .” It’s the best he can do. “I want you.”

He can feel Carisi’s pulse kick up in tempo. “You’ve got me. All right? Just tell me what you need.”

Don’t make me say it. He’s so tired of baring himself open. First in that hospital room, then the trial, and every interaction with friends and colleagues he afterwards. 

He bites down on the snippy comment that springs to his tongue. “I said so, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did. Okay.” He swallows hard, sitting up a fraction taller. “How…?”

Anything. Everything. Whatever you want — just don’t let go.

“I’m sure you can think of something, counselor.” He strokes a hand down Carisi’s still bare chest, feeling the pump of his heart. 

He makes a face. “I don’t wanna do anything you don’t want.”

Barba’s cheeks burn. He struggles for the words. “I love you. I want anything you’ll give me.” 

Carisi’s breath leaves him in a rush. Maybe a sigh, maybe something needier. His hands shift; one on Barba’s stomach, the other at the base of his spine. His palms are wide and heated through the thin silk of Rafael’s pajama shirt. He leans into the touch, encouraging. 

“I’m not going to break, Dominick,” he says against Carisi’s lips. For once, he doesn’t want to tease, not really; he’s too goddamn tired, but if it’ll get him moving…

Carisi ducks his head, sheepish. “I know, I know.” Still, he kisses Rafael slowly, working his mouth open for his tongue until he hums in approval and lays back into the pillows. “Okay.” Once he has Barba laid out and breathing deep and slow, Carisi’s focus seems to narrow, the way Barba’s only seen a few times in court or in the SVU squad room. The fullness of his attention sets Barba’s nerves alight. He cranes his lean body over Rafael and trails kisses from his lips downward, undoing buttons and leaving a line of wet heat that makes breathing in any controlled manner much more challenging. His hands follow the same trail, lingering on the thicker flesh of Barba’s chest and middle until he shudders. 

“Y’know you’re gorgeous, right?” he says into the skin of his hip. 

But he doesn’t give him any room to answer before travelling lower still and divesting Barba of his pants. He pays no attention to Barba’s cock other than to press a gentle kiss to the head, though it makes him gasp all the same. Then he sits up to carefully move Barba’s thighs apart, settling his knees underneath to lift his hips. 

Rafael watches, plainly curious as to what he’s planning. He pauses a moment to offer Barba a smile, a raise of his eyebrows to gauge his comfort. Barba smiles and reaches for his hand; Carisi takes it, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before using his free hand to hook under one of Rafael’s knees and press it back to his chest.

Barba fights the urge to hide. It’s a compromising position. One he hasn’t been in, in — hell, years, probably. It makes heat rise to his face. It also makes him feel young, and wanted, which is more than enough reason to relax into the sensation as Carisi spreads him carefully and lets his hot breath fall across his hole.

“Oh my god,” Rafael gasps. “Yes. Please.”

Carisi presses a chaste kiss to the swell of his ass, only to bite him softly a moment later. “Shush.” 

Barba laughs, already breathless. “Someone’s feeling brazen.” 

“Can’t help it,” he replies. “Just look at you.” He leans in to swipe his tongue across the hole, thumb teasing at the edges. When Rafael swears and nods his furious encouragement, he licks into him in earnest, pressing as close as he can possibly get. He’s merciless after that, teasing and tasting and humming low in his throat as he does so the feeling vibrates up Barba’s spine, melting what was left of his thoughts, making his knees shake. Distantly, he hears himself whimpering. He clutches at the sheets, at the fingers of Carisi’s free hand. 

He can’t remember the last time he’s fallen apart so fast. If he was even holding it together at all. He’s past caring. He just wants Carisi closer . Wants whatever he’ll give. Wants him, him, him.

“ Dominick . Please.” He’s not sure what he’s asking for. But Carisi obliges by pushing his tongue deeper and slipping a finger in beside it, eased by the heat and slick of his saliva. Barba tosses his head back against the pillow, hips involuntarily pressing back onto Carisi’s face and hand as he crooks the finger and brushes some deep, sensitive place that rips a shout from Rafael’s throat. 

His breath sounds thin and feeble in his ears. Carisi pulls his free hand deftly out of Barba’s grasp; there’s a rustle, and a muffled groan against his skin, and after a few moments Barba realizes it must be Carisi, touching himself. He can barely think, let alone open his eyes to watch, but the mental image, the understanding that just this is enough for Carisi to get himself off… It’s — fucking hot, is the word, he guesses. There’s no more room in his head for eloquence.

This isn’t a courtroom, anyway. (He won’t be in one of those for a long time. Possibly ever again.) This is home, with all the textures and smells and safety that he craves. He can stand to be a little inelegant here. Barba follows Carisi’s lead and takes himself in hand, stroking in time with the deep pulses of Carisi’s tongue and fingers, not bothering to keep himself from crying out and arching off the bed, practically riding Carisi’s face, he thinks with a thrill.

He comes embarrassingly fast after that. Heat licking up his lungs, making his toes curl. He shudders from head to toe. Even after it passes and he’s left with small shivering aftershocks, Barba can’t catch his breath. His head swims, and when he blinks his eyes open, they’re bleary. It takes him a moment to understand that they’re tears — his tears. 

Meanwhile, Carisi must find his own release, and pulls away from his oversensitive skin, letting Barba’s legs fall to the side and wiping his mouth with a muttered, “ Goddamn .” He stills as soon as he catches Barba shuddering, not from the aftermath of his orgasm, but the sudden small sobs wracking his frame in the wake. The smile drops at once.

“Fuck — hey, hey .” He looks terrified. It makes Barba ache, but he can barely breathe enough to assure Carisi he didn’t do anything wrong. He makes do by reaching for him with one clean but trembling hand, cradling his pale face as softly as he can manage. Carisi’s arms encircle him without fail, helping him to sit up. He wipes the tears gathering on Barba’s temples and cheeks with his thumb, kissing away the ones he can reach. 

Rafael shakes his head and kisses him on the mouth, hoping it conveys what words can’t. I’m all right. I’ll be all right. And more importantly: we’re okay.

It takes a solid minute, but his breath evens out. His pulse takes longer to calm. Carisi holds him close and whispers his name like he’s the only other person in the world. 

“I’m sorry,” Barba manages.

Carisi tsks. “Don’t you dare.” It’s spoken with little real harshness, the command in the words softened by the gentle hand rubbing circles in his cheek. He kisses his forehead lightly. “You cry as much as you need to.”

Rafael can’t help but quip, just to break the sour air of concern swathing them. “Thank you for your permission, counselor.”

“Hey. You know what I mean.”

He does. “Are you my therapist now?”

“Rafael.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.” He accepts the kiss Carisi ducks down to give him. “I know.” 

They both seem to note the messes across their skin at the same time, grimacing in tandem. “Ah,” Carisi perks up, “Give me a second.” He rises from the bed like some gangly bird and hurries to the bathroom for a wet cloth and back in only a few seconds. Rafael settles snugly into the pillows, limbs pleasantly heavy now that the tears have passed. He lets Carisi gently clean him up. He works the washcloth across his stomach, chest, hands, taking extra care between his legs. He wipes himself down with brutal efficiency afterwards, and only takes the time to properly throw the cloth in with their laundry when Barba makes a disapproving frown. 

In the expanding silence of the apartment, cut through only by sporadic city noise, the exhaustion finally begins to win out in Barba again. His limbs grow heavy despite his earlier nap on the couch. By the time Carisi climbs into bed and wraps himself just-so around Rafael, his eyelids feel nearly too heavy to lift. 

“You relaxed enough now?” Carisi asks, sounding pleased with himself as he tangles their legs and maneuvers the duvet into place. 

“Mmm.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“Hmm,” Barba hums, noncommittal, though he curls closer. But he can’t deny, at least in the privacy of his own mind, how very well taken care of he feels. Carisi’s arms around him, his sincerity and loyalty evident in every inch of the apartment, every moment of the evening now elapsed. It makes the specter of the future not quite as scary as it seemed this morning. It still looms, menacing in the darker corners of his thoughts. But that too-tight tie feeling can’t hold a candle to Carisi, and his arms, his low drawl by Barba’s ear.

“Sleep now, Rafael,” he says, kissing him once more in the dark. “I’ll be here.”

And Barba sleeps, knowing it’s true.