At the bar, Barba is admittedly comforted by how quickly the old habits come back. He takes more than a few jabs at Carisi, watching with some pleasure as the young ADA takes the brunt of his teasing with a sheepish smile. Carisi hardly fights back—then again, when did he ever? He always let Barba get away with being mean—meaner than he’d like to admit, looking back on it.
Barba makes a conscious effort to be kinder. He is, after all, in no position to be condescending. Carisi has grown considerably over the past few years—matured, as it were. Even the way he holds himself is different. He no longer seems quite as brash as Barba remembers. He’s more poised—elegant. He holds himself with an air of authority that Barba’s never seen on him before. The detective is dead. Long live the ADA.
It’s hard to believe that he was once that loud kid from Staten Island doing nights at Fordham. God, how Barba had thought of him then. Just a pretty young thing with more machismo than brains. He distinctly remembers thinking that Carisi would quit within a month or two—three max.
Look at him now.
Barba is proud. He has no reason to be—Carisi did this more or less on his own—but god help him, he’s proud.
Still, there is some awkwardness at the table. Barba finds that whenever he meets Carisi’s gaze, the other man drops his, becoming suddenly preoccupied with the label of his beer. It’s discomfiting. Barba isn’t familiar with this behavior. He’s seen Carisi sulk, be petulant, be down on himself, down on the world, but this… This, Barba can’t quite place his finger on.
Carisi speaks to him, of course—politely asks him how his family is; how the pandemic has treated him. But the fine threads of their conversation are no match for the rest of the squad, all eager to have their say about the case.
When Barba eventually feels that he’s overstayed his welcome, he invents an excuse, gathers his coat, and bids the crowd farewell. If this is the last time that he’s going to see Carisi for the foreseeable future, well, it’s good enough for him. It’s closure. The bitterness that he felt earlier has largely subsided into something with far softer edges.
If only it didn’t sit there in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. When he exits the bar into the biting winter air, he feels a keen sense of loss.

As much as he tries to pretend that he’s in the dark, however, he realizes with a jolt in his stomach that what he feels right now is the stirring of genuine affection—and maybe just a touch of attraction.
He knows that he won’t act on it and he refuses to indulge it, yet there it is, unwelcome and unsettling. Another straight man? He chides himself. Really?

Сонни на грани: из него пьёт соки третья жертва, которая готова разговаривать только с ним и звонит ему по десять раз на дню, потому что у неё паранойя, а он не может ее послать

Нападение случается в четвёртый раз, и на этот раз жертва - мужчина, от чего Сонни становится совсем хреново.

Зато он мирится с Амандой и готов рассказать ей вот вообще все - но их прерывают. А Рафаэль начинает таскать ему кофе. Барба вообще в этом фике мой герой, только бы он не оказался преступником, мало ли, какие у автора вотэтапавароты!

*фанфары*

Рафаэль зовёт Сонни на свидание! И по-прежнему чем-то сильно встревожен.

На подходе к ресторану Сонни все-таки накрывает нервным срывом (очередная проблема с делом, немножко стенку поколотил), и Рафаэль вместо ресторана уводит его к себе домой. Все так бантерно и комфортно, что Сонни забывает отказаться.

Ужинают дома. Все некомфортно и комфортно одновременно. Сонни наконец замечает, что Рафаэль последнее время выглядит так, как будто накрылся простыней и ползёт в сторону кладбища (что как бы опять отсылает нас к 18 сезону канона). Но тот не колется. Сонни, в свою очередь, не колется о своей сексуальности (хотя всем, по-моему, уже пофиг), так что ужин проходит в молчании.

Через три раунда напитков берутся за руки.

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