Archive of Our Own

"Here, take a seat," Grant said, pushing him into the private booth. "Isn't this place the bomb? My cousin owns it." He waved his hand over his head and shouted, "Shots! Get us some shots!" As if he expected them to magically descend from the ceiling.

The music was bass-heavy and pounding, the lighting was horrible, and Barba felt about twenty years too old for the place. He could've been at home sleeping. He could've been back at the office prepping any of his four cases. He could've been literally anywhere else. He shouldn't have been there. He was not a cop. He was not trained to go undercover.

"I think I might be going undercover soon. Anything I should know?" Connie was the only attorney he knew who'd ever done it, and he'd called her immediately after leaving the precinct but before he got back to the office. The office was where this farce would begin. He needed tips.

"Is it just you?" There were paper-shuffling noises on her end – she was probably working. It was almost nine o'clock at night. Connie had the same disease he did: workaholism.

"I..." He hadn't asked, which was out of character for him. Too focused on how terrible an idea it all was. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Hmm." Nothing for a bit, but he didn't press her. Patience was a virtue. "Try not to freak out," she said finally.

"That's it?" He'd expected more. "I expected more, Ms. Rubirosa."

She laughed. "More? Fine. Try not to lead anyone on."

He scrunched up his face, not that she could see it. "The hell does that mean? 'Lead anyone on.'"

She laughed again, quieter. "Trust me, if it applies you'll figure it out."

"You're being very cryptic. Are you bored? Is the US Attorney's office not entertaining you enough? Is there a story here you want to share? Did you just throw me some chum?"

"Have fun undercover, Jaws," she said instead. "Try not to get disbarred."

She hung up on him.

Connie had given him three things to try not to do and only one of them currently applied so that was what he was focused on: not freaking out. Easy enough at the moment – he was too busy being annoyed. At some point his initial conversation with Grant, which had been almost disgustingly stereotypical in its boys' club masculinity, had turned into going out. For "fun." Which he was pretty sure he wasn't really supposed to be doing, but Grant practically frog-marched him out the door so who was he to argue?

According to Grant, Grant's idea of fun was "getting tanked" and "pulling tail." Who said "pulling tail" besides people in EastEnders? Barba suspected Grant watched too much BBC America.

According to Benson, Grant's idea of fun was setting up honey traps at his cousin's bar for his wealthier and/or more successful coworkers in the District Attorney's office. Blackmail could be fun, Barba supposed. If you were an asshole.

He watched Grant slap the server's ass as she poured them both shots. Grant was definitely an asshole. Barba wanted to smile apologetically at the server but he was also supposed to be an asshole like Grant, so he didn't. He decided to tip her healthily instead.

"Wow, big spender," Grant laughed when he did. "She wasn't that cute, dude. Don't waste it on the butterfaces, save your cash for the more deserving."

"She had nice legs," Barba said, apparently incapable of resisting the urge to defend some random woman he would likely never see again. He did his shot before he could say anything else and realized he shouldn't have skipped lunch. Or dinner. Stupid workaholism.

"A leg man, huh?" Grant rubbed his hands together like the goddamn cartoon villain he was. Barba could practically see the bubble font heh heh hehs circling him. "I think I know just the girl, lemme see if she's here tonight, you'll like her." He got up, poured them both another shot from the bottle the server had left. "Salud! I'll be right back."

Barba dutifully tossed back his shot, wincing as he watched Grant disappear into the crowd. What he'd give for some ice. And for a do-over of their earlier conversation. He still wasn't clear on when or how exactly the whole thing had gotten away from him. He was only supposed to pump Grant for information, arrange a later date, then maybe go out after consulting the cops. Not jump in the deep end on the same day. He was a lawyer, damn it, not an improv actor. He needed time to prepare.

Grant was back in less than five minutes, leading a woman by the hand. It was hard to tell in the funhouse lighting of the bar but she looked blonde. Barba sighed. The man had faster delivery time than any local pizza joint. Such a smooth operation, such an idiot running it.

An idiot who had talked him into coming out. Barba poured himself another shot in memory of when he used to be smarter than criminal scum.

"Rafael? This is Scarlett," Grant said, sounding a lot like Bob Barker introducing Showcase Showdown #1.

Detective Amanda Rollins grinned at him, leaning her elbow on Grant's shoulder. "Isn't he a doll," she said, accent thicker than simple syrup. She pinched Grant's arm. "You didn't tell me he was so cute."

Barba did his shot.

Rollins kept giving him play along faces when Grant was busy flirting with a hostess, and, God help him, he tried. But he wasn't a cop, he wasn't supposed to go undercover, he was an assistant district attorney and, Jesus, he was going to get disbarred.

Rollins stroked a hand down his chest and hooked her leg over his thigh, rubbing her foot up the side of his calf under the table. He couldn't remember her legs ever looking this long, but then again he hadn't really been looking. And they hadn't been bare. And they worked together. He wasn't Jack McCoy, he didn't cruise his coworkers.

But if Rollins put his hand on her knee then that was alright, wasn't it? God, he felt warm.

"Gerry tells me you work real hard," she said, looking far too sympathetic for a total stranger as she shook back her hair and set her oversized earrings jingling. "Now what do you do?"

Even in this bullshit scenario he couldn't escape that icebreaker. He sighed, keeping his hand as light as he dared on Rollins's knee, conscious of Grant's frequent furtive looks. "I'm a lawyer," he said. Possibly not for long, but the thought was starting to seem less and less worrisome. Connie said try not to freak out and he was starting to manage that fairly well. The ludicrous small talk was helping. He was not freaking out. He was playing it cool.

He was… Actually starting to feel pretty good.

"Oooh, a lawyer!" She trailed a finger down his tie. The word sounded different when she said it. Law-yer. He couldn't remember ever hearing her say it that way. Law-yer. He licked his lips. "You do work hard, don't you? How often do you get out and have any fun?"

"Not often," he admitted, pretty far past the urge to freak out when she cuddled a little closer in the circle of his arm after Grant looked over. He cleared his throat, tracing his fingers up her soft thigh. He could not believe how much leg she was showing. Was that a skirt or a belt? "So, Scarlett. That's an... Interesting name," he said lamely, and gave up to twine a lock of her hair around his finger and tug at it gently. Her hair gleamed in the shifting light, but red it was not.

Rollins fucking giggled. "Like Scarlett O'Hara? My momma was a real big Gone With The Wind fan."

Barba rolled his eyes and grinned. He couldn't help it. So cheesy. Luckily Grant took it as some sort of tired bro code sign and gave him a wink and a series of hand signals that were beyond Barba's ability to interpret. The man looked like he had three or four too many hands.

Maybe this had been an even more terrible idea than he'd initially suspected. Terribler? More terrible? He couldn't think.

And because Grant was an asshole he leaned over the table to clap a hand on Rollins's bare shoulder – there was a lot of Rollins that was bare – and stage whispered, "How about you two get to know each other better somewhere more private?"

Rollins smiled up at him, stroking her hand down Barba's necktie, pressing it against his chest. He felt it as one long tingling motion from neck to navel. Christ, had Grant roofied him? He had. He was such an asshole.

"C'mon, honey," Rollins said, sliding out of the booth and taking Barba by the hand and pulling him to his feet. Her hand was so tiny in his. "Follow me."

It seemed like a good idea, so he did. At least he could still walk.

"Did you put something in my drink?" Barba shouted back to Grant as Rollins led him away. The server had already taken his spot. Wasn't she supposed to be working?

Grant laughed. Asshole.

They were in a hallway with a lot of closed doors and some even worse lighting than the rest of the bar – sort of a half-assed disco ball thing. Rollins left him leaning against the wall and proceeded to start knocking on doors and listening, then muttering into her shirt. It was confusing. Barba felt confused. He gave up trying to make sense of anything she was doing and instead watched the spots of light move over the walls.

"I think he roofied me," Barba murmured.

Rollins didn't hear him. She was at the fourth door – the other three rooms had all been occupied. That was either good or bad. He wasn't sure. Her heels were outrageous.

"I think he roofied me," he tried again. He tugged at his necktie and undid the button at his shirt collar, feeling warmer than usual. Why was he wearing so many layers? The music was bone-shakingly loud; his only defense against rattling apart was to start swaying in time with it.

Rollins walked back to him, pressing him against the wall and putting her face close to his neck when two beefy guys popped out of nowhere to linger at the far end of the hallway. "I thought you were just supposed to talk to the guy," she said in a whisper, running her hands down his arms and putting his hands on her hips. "What are you even doing here?" Were they talking about work now? He could do that. Her hair smelled like strawberries.

Barba shrugged bodily, rubbing the material of her skirt with his thumbs. He couldn't figure out what it was, but whatever it was felt amazing. Was it a polyester-spandex blend? He didn't wear a lot of synthetic fabrics. Maybe he should start. "He talked me into it," he said.

"Well, you're really in it now," she muttered, which he thought was a rather clever turn of phrase. "Those friendly-looking guys down there work for him, and they're expecting us to go in there and… You know."

He narrowed his eyes, trying to look professional despite having progressed to stroking her skirt with open palms. "Bang? Is that what kids today are calling it?"

Rollins slapped at his hand. "To use the technical term, they expect you to commit a class A misdemeanor. But-" She rubbed her hands down his arms and leaned towards him, glancing down the hall. "You don't have to go through with this."

"Is it going to blow your cover?" He felt proud of himself for remembering so much technical jargon when Rollins kept putting her hands on his face and pretending to kiss him. She had calluses in strange places. He wanted to push against her like a cat begging for a pet. It was difficult but he resisted; it had been a while since anyone had touched him, and now here he was getting the pretend stuff. High school drama class all over again.

She laughed. "That's your first concern?"

"What can I say? I don't want to see all your hard work go to waste," he said. It was true enough, but not the absolute truth. That would have included explaining how relaxed he felt, how content he was to be led for a change. He knew this wasn't normal, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Rollins was on the level; she might make bad choices for herself, but she wouldn't let him get into trouble. More trouble.

He shook his head. "C'mon, Detective. It'll be like Seven Minutes In Heaven. Didn't you ever play that in school?"

Rollins looked skeptical, which was totally uncalled for because there was no way she could possibly know that he himself had never played it.

Barba decided to play his trump card. "Do you really want to go back to the precinct empty-handed? Wasn't this your idea in the first place?" He was reaching with that last bit, but the whole undercover scheme seemed so unnecessarily risky that it had to be true. Not to mention that if Rollins was here alone then she probably pushed for it. Always so eager to prove she was one of the big kids.

Well, if that's how she wanted it, he couldn't see why he shouldn't give her a hand.

It was Rollins's turn to sigh, proving him right as usual. She shot a look down the hallway and bit the side of her cheek, but in the end she held up three fingers and smiled. "Pretend we're negotiating."

Barba woke up late the next day, which for him meant 7AM instead of his usual 5:30. His head fucking ached – he skipped his morning run in favor of standing sentinel in front of the french press, waiting for the coffee to finish steeping and pretending to listen to his voicemail messages. One from a victims' advocate group ("I'm calling on behalf of…"), one from Detective Rollins ("Hey, uh, call me later…"), one from some reporter ("-Davis, Times, any comment on-"). He blindly saved them all and leaned on the kitchen bar, seriously considering calling in sick. It almost felt like he was hung-over, which was imposs-

His eyes snapped open. The bar. Grant. What had Liv asked him to find out? Something about… Prostitutes?

He groaned and rubbed his forehead, wishing he had something stronger than Advil at hand. Most of the night was a blur – he remembered shots, Grant's douchey face, a blonde. A blonde?

He gave it all up as a lost cause and focused on his coffee instead. He'd woken up alone so the night couldn't have been that memorable.

The day became a lot more memorable when Grant waltzed into his office without knocking.

"Yes?" Barba didn't bother to look up from where he was hunched over his desk with his head in his hands. His headache had gone away but he couldn't seem to shake the sluggishness of the morning.

Grant sat on the corner of his desk and snickered. "You look rode hard, put away wet, bro. That girl treat you alright?"

Bro? Barba made a show of ignoring him, but he felt a frisson of anxiety. He had no idea what Grant was referring to. He'd talked to him the previous day like Liv had asked, even gone out for a drink with him, but nothing like what he'd been warned about had happened. At least, he didn't think it had. Nothing had been out of place at his apartment and sure, he felt like shit, but he'd probably just overdone it. He wouldn't be feeling this way if he'd actually found time in his ridiculous schedule to get laid.

But there was Grant, grinning like the dick that ate the canary.

A flat jewel case containing an unmarked DVD flopped down onto the paperwork spread before him. He looked up at Grant still seated on his desk, now with his arms crossed and an expression of disgusting smugness on his face. "What the fuck is this?"

Grant's smile widened. "It's a little record of last night's... Exertions, let's say. For your viewing pleasure."

Exertions? Barba picked up the case like it was a dead rat. "The fuck?"

Grant's smile didn't dim in the slightest. If anything it grew. "Don't you remember?"

Barba gave him a flat stare.

Grant nodded his head towards the disc. "Well, you take a look and see if that doesn't jog your memory." He rose from his seat, adjusted one of the knickknacks on Barba's desk, and strolled off, hands shoved in his pockets. "I'd watch that in private, if I were you," he said with a wink. "We'll talk in a bit, I gotta see a girl about a dog. Catch you later."

The door was barely closed before Barba had the DVD out and spinning in his laptop. At first he wasn't sure what he was looking at – he'd seen clearer footage come off 20-year-old traffic cameras. It was an angled overhead shot, so the camera was somewhere on the ceiling. Two people in a poorly-lit room, on a… Bench? Or was that a sofa? Then they moved to a table, and the sound he'd initially ranked as 'terrible' was upgraded to 'good enough' because he had to scramble to hit the mute button or pause or something because the woman moaned, loud as any porn star, clearly audible unlike the muffled music. He knew that voice, too. Not in that context, of course, but he knew it.

Barba propped his elbow on the desk, leaned over the keyboard, and started massaging his temple as he stared at the grainy still image on the screen.

That was definitely Detective Rollins staring into the camera, face pale in the darkness. In hindsight he couldn't believe he hadn't recognized her. The outfit must have thrown him – he'd never seen her in something so… It was very sparkly, and there wasn't very much of it.

That was Rollins, and the other person…

He went and locked the door, then got his emergency bottle of scotch from the cabinet and poured some into his empty coffee cup.

Two drinks and as many viewings later and Barba was at a complete loss. He'd tried watching it dispassionately, as clinically as he had any other horrible video he'd seen in his career, and failed utterly. He'd seen far, far worse, but this was simply too bizarre. Too mortifying.

He hit play again. Third time's the charm, right? He told himself that was nausea he was feeling and not morbid interest.

That was Rollins, and that was him, and he couldn't remember any of it. He didn't remember stumbling into that shitty-looking back room. He didn't remember Rollins leading him to the sofa and straddling him, and he thought he would remember that at least. How had she felt in his lap? Was she heavier than she looked? He must have enjoyed having her there, he'd arched up against her like-

Barba took a deep breath, trying to focus on what really mattered. There was Rollins with his wallet, thumbing through his bills very obviously for the camera. Playing at being the hooker bait in Grant's trap. Alright, that explained that. Threaten to expose him with a prostitute if he doesn't pay up – solid enough plan. It would destroy someone in his position if it were true.

And there was no denying that those were his hands on her thighs, disappearing up under the hem of her too-tight skirt. That was his mouth pressed to her cheek.

He looked at her face but it was impossible to make out her expression through most of it. The angle, the quality of the footage. He was only supposed to talk to Grant, how he had gone from that to drinks to- How had Rollins persuaded him to agree to this? He wasn't- He didn't fish off the company pier. He would never pretend to fish off the company pier. He wasn't that good an actor.

The simplest answer was that he'd been drugged. Grant had probably done it too, the sack of shit. Probably part of his shtick. Roofie the unsuspecting target, get them in the same room as a pro, and let the camera roll. It would explain the memory loss, the lingering hung-over feeling he couldn't shake. Not that it made him feel any better – the video was little more than ten minutes long, perfectly cropped for maximum embarrassment. Even if he was willing to accept that the video was staged – which he desperately wanted to believe – that still left the rest of his night. He had ten minutes fifty-four seconds' worth of footage and it couldn't be stretched to cover seven hours, and he worried. A perfectly blank set of hours in his memory that he couldn't fill in.

And he worried about the extent of Rollins's role in things. Was she who Grant had referred to earlier? What if he'd gotten to her too? Would she remember, if Barba could bring himself to ask her?

Had she wanted it?

She'd seemed more in control than he had, but was that really true? She'd climbed on top of him, even encouraged him to take off his jacket. But he'd carried her to that table. He'd kissed her first. He'd pushed her down, and he couldn't bring himself to watch the rest of it once he got to that point. The video quality was too low to tell whether they'd- He felt ill. He didn't want to know.

Barba swallowed the last of the scotch in his cup and considered pouring another before he vetoed it. He was an assistant district attorney, he was at work, and he was not going to get drunk enough to forget what he'd just seen. Forgetting once clearly hadn't done him any favors.

He sat back heavily in his chair and sighed. "Christ."

He knew what he should do, but he really, really didn't want to. He should call Benson and tell her about what he'd found out, about the disc and how it had gone with Grant – because if this wasn't the opening move in a blackmail scheme then he'd eat his tie. But that would mean turning over the disc, which meant she'd see it, which meant other people would see it.

Not to mention there was the chance she already knew. Rollins did work under her.

Is it just you?

Connie had been right to ask, and he had been stupid not to.

Barba groaned and covered his face, willing his brain to stop now that it was finally making an effort at chugging to life. It wasn't helping. It wasn't making him want to do the right thing. He had to do the right thing. That was his entire job. Doing the right thing.

If Rollins had been undercover, then she'd probably been wired for sound. Which meant-

"Fuck!"

He had to turn over the disc. And then recuse himself. From life. Forever.

His cellphone was out and in his hand before he could waffle anymore, and it rewarded him by ringing just as he went to hit speed dial. He almost dropped it, and when he saw who was calling he considered hitting ignore and then dropping it out a window. "Hello?"

"Hey," Liv said. "I just wanted- Are you at your office?"

It was a day ending in y. Where else would he be?

"Have you heard about Grant?"

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. "Heard what exactly? I saw him this morning, I was about to call you-"

"Yeah, uh. He's dead."

This was one of those if it weren't for my horse moments. "Wait, what? I just- What about-"

There was a long hissing sound that he could only interpret as Liv inhaling awkwardly. "Yeah, thanks? For that? But… Well. He's dead." Her sardonic grin was audible; he could see her on the other end of the line, shrugging and throwing her hands in the air. Whoops.

Still holding the phone to his ear, Barba slumped forward to press his forehead to the tiny bit of bare space available on his desk. "How?"

"Cousin shot him in public with a ton of witnesses, and before you ask: no, you're not a suspect. Apparently Grant was fooling around with his cousin's girlfriend from the bar. He was in a real hurry to screw over everyone he met," Liv laughed. Laughed. Dead guy. Their jobs were terrible. "You said you saw him earlier? I take it he tried to blackmail you?"

"Yes." He didn't elaborate. What would have been the point?

"Figures. I, uh." She cleared her throat. "Like I said, you were probably a big help, but… Even if Grant weren't dead, there wasn't really much of a case. The audio we were going to use as leverage was completely unusable – some techie forgot to throw a new battery in the mic before we used it. Two hours of white noise."

He felt lightheaded trying not to think about how many other people had probably been sitting on the other end of that wire, how close he'd come to having his reputation completely trashed. One dead battery. Merciful God. He'd never been so happy in his entire life to hear a case had gone belly up due to equipment failure.

"Typical," he said, brusque when all he wanted to do was sing out his relief.

"Okay." What amounted to silence on her end was full of the usual ambient sounds of the precinct – phones ringing in the distance, indecipherable chatter, rattling and typing and general productive busyness. It made him feel very alone in his office. "Are you alright? You sound…"

That he had to think before responding probably told her everything she needed to, but there was nothing he could do about that. "I'm fine."

"Look, I'm sorry we wasted your time, I know you've got a lot on your plate right now." Did she think he was mad? Too late to fix that now.

"Don't worry about it." He stared at the paused image on the laptop screen. Four minutes in and it looked like the cheapest sort of amateur porn. "Why didn't you tell me Rollins was going to be there?"

"I didn't think you needed to know," said Sergeant Benson, playing the honesty card. "You were doing us a favor, you weren't the supervising DA, we didn't expect Grant to jump on you the way he did – pick one. I'm sorry but there you go."

All good reasons. As if that mattered. "Did she say…"

"Say what?"

"Nothing, never mind. Sorry, Liv, I gotta go. I appreciate the update, but I've got court in twenty minutes. Can I-"

"Oh. Yeah, no problem," she said, too willing to buy his totally believable excuse. When didn't he have to be in court? Except for the rest of that week, of course.

They made their goodbyes, he dropped his phone on the desk, and he poured himself another drink. Just a small one. He didn't want to overdo it.

Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt.

His cellphone, long-ignored, vibrated across the desk. He'd been aggressively screening his calls for a couple of days, ignoring everyone who wasn't a priority, and it had worked out rather well. He'd made a lot of headway on his paperwork, tackled his perpetually full email inbox, and had actually managed to get the various banker boxes of files mostly under control again.

Bzzzzt. Bzzz-

His office looked better. He didn't feel any better, but his office looked better.

The light started flashing.

He snatched it off the desk and sat back down on the floor amid stacks of folders; one missed call, no new messages. Couldn't have been important then. He was about to toss it and go back to his filing when the seldom-used phone on his desk started to ring, lights flashing and tone piercing. Now that he couldn't in good conscience ignore. Something cracked low in his back when he got up, making him hiss.

"You're a hard man to get a hold of," Rollins said. "Are you avoiding everyone or just me?"

She didn't sound angry or upset, just curious. It wasn't as reassuring as he knew it should have been. He shifted the handset to rest between his ear and his shoulder. "I'm not avoiding anyone," he said as he brushed dust off his pant leg. It sounded defensive even to his ears.

"No one's seen you in days," she pointed out.

"Hard as it is to imagine, there are things I'd rather do than hang around SVU all day," he said. "Is there a reason you're calling or can I hang up now?"

"I was going to ask if you're okay but seeing how friendly you are I guess my concern was misplaced."

"Did your sergeant tell you to call me?"

"No," she drawled. "I-"

"Then why are we still talking?"

She sighed. "I didn't want to ambush you."

There was a light knocking at his office door. He rolled his eyes and hung up on her, not caring that it was rude, and wondered what would happen if he ignored her. Would she call again? Would she keep knocking? How long would it take to make her go away? As if that would make the knowledge of what he'd done go away.

Rollins was just slipping her phone in her back pocket when he opened the door. "Hi." She pushed her hands into her pockets and gave him a tentative smile. When he didn't respond, she said, "I thought it would be too late for coffee, and my momma always taught me not to invite myself over anywhere without bringing a gift, so… Do you want to grab something to eat? I'm buying."

"Thanks but no thanks." His stomach chose that moment to rumble audibly. He'd been running late that morning and skipped breakfast. And lunch. And coffee did not count as food, no matter how many cups he had. "I'm sort of in the middle of something."

He trusted to her southern manners to keep her from pushing and he was rewarded. "Oh." She knocked her shoulder against the doorframe, taking in the stacks of folders on the floor in front of his desk and on the chairs, but gave no sign of leaving.

He resisted the urge to sigh. "What are you doing? This isn't us. We're coworkers, we're not friends."

"You didn't return my call," she said, cutting through all the bullshit. He appreciated that. "And I think we're a little more than just coworkers now, don't you?"

He turned away, leaving her standing in the doorway as he went back to his files. "Come in or leave, but close the door either way."

She came in and closed the door, then shifted some files from a chair so she could sit down. "Should I be helping you?" she asked, passing the stack over when he motioned towards it.

"No," he said, setting them down in a box and moving to the next stack. None of this was super important, but it was an excuse to stay where he was. He didn't want to have this conversation, but he also didn't want to leave his office. If Rollins's presence was a necessary evil then he would do his best to ignore her.

She was in her normal clothes, casual as could be in jeans and a plaid shirt, but it was impossible for him to forget how she'd looked the last time he'd seen her. Precious little had come back to him over the subsequent days, but he remembered how she'd looked leaning against Grant, all long legs and shimmering clothes.

She let him file in silence, probably using her cop patience in waiting for him to break first. But he wouldn't; he kept boxing things, pointedly working around her, but his attention still snapped to her when she sighed and crossed her legs. It seemed his best wasn't very good at all. His eyes skimmed down the line of her leg; it was easily within reach.

But he'd touched her before, hadn't he? They both knew it, even if only one of them knew it. He wasn't used to being the least informed person in the room, it made him feel off-balance. He moved away to dig through his desk drawer for a Sharpie.

"About the other night," Rollins finally said, watching him label a box.

The marker squeaked. "I'm sorry for what I did." Whatever it was, he didn't say. Not remembering didn't mean he wasn't sincere. He glanced up at her. "If you wanted to- What?"

She was frowning at him. "You don't remember what happened, do you?"

He rotated the box to label the other side. "Grant gave me a DVD. I saw the hidden camera footage, I know-"

"But you don't know know," she interrupted. "I mean, you don't remember."

It wasn't a question so he didn't answer it.

"Oh my God." Her voice was very flat, and when he looked up from his box he saw an expression he hadn't expected at all: total disbelief. She was shaking her head very slightly, staring into the middle distance at his desk. He could actually see her thinking, because every time she retraced whatever thought she was having her eyes widened briefly.

It was hypnotic. What was she thinking about?

She caught him staring, and he used the excuse of shifting the box off his desk to turn away. He'd been looking at her too much.

Behind him, she took a deep breath. The sort that comes before saying something you don't want to say. "You said you saw the footage?"

The tower of boxes was leaning a bit to the left; he carefully adjusted them. "Yes. Well. In the interest of full disclosure, I only watched about half of it. Enough to get the gist of things."

"I see." She said it so faintly he almost didn't hear it.

He looked over his shoulder at her. There was that expression again. The staring, thinking one. His eyes narrowed. "I assumed it ended pretty much how it started, but if there's something I should know…"

Her eyes snapped to his. "Grant drugged you."

"I knew that," he said. "Now tell me something I don't know."

"I didn't know until… After." She exhaled, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "You said you didn't want to 'blow my cover' and 'waste all my hard work.'" The air quotes were audible. "The plan was to fake it for the camera so Grant would have the ammunition he needed for his little con game."

"Which he got in spades."

"Yeah. It went- Well, like I said, I realized after what had happened, and I got you out of there. Took you home and tucked you into bed and said good enough," she said with a grimace. "I'll understand if you want to file a complaint. I shouldn't have left you alone like that – at the time I thought it would be less confusing for you somehow. If I weren't there." She started fidgeting with the buttons on her cuff. "Hell, I should have guessed a lot earlier on that something was off. You weren't exactly yourself."

"I certainly looked a lot… Friendlier," he said dryly.

She snorted. "That's one way of putting it."

He watched her, tapping his finger on the box lid. She was understating things extensively and they both knew it, and they were both going to allow it. In all honesty he was fine with the facts as she presented them, because as much as he desperately wanted to remember what he'd done, he equally did not want the dirty details.

"Alright."

She looked up at him, a little wrinkle between her eyebrows. "'Alright'?"

He shrugged. "What do you want me to say? It was a disaster from start to finish, neither of us come out of it looking good, and it could've been worse. For starters, there could've been audio."

She paled.

"Yeah, right? That's why I'm getting rid of the disc." He rubbed a hand over his hair. "Amanda, I'm only going to ask this once. Is there anything else I should know?"

He'd asked her that a select number of times in the past, and one of two things inevitably happened. The first, and most desirable, was that she'd pause a moment, squint a little, and then say something along the lines of, "Well, there was this one complicating factor that we both wish didn't exist but here it is anyway." Then they'd have to deal with it, but at least it wouldn't be a surprise that inevitably popped up at the worst possible time. He fucking hated surprises.

The second thing was vastly less desirable and never failed to make both of their lives more difficult. That was when she'd go completely still. She wouldn't even breathe, as if there was a chance his vision had suddenly become movement-based and he wouldn't be able to see her so long as she didn't breathe. Then she'd realize how foolish that was, take a breath – never too deep – and lie to his face.

Which is what she did now.

"No." She licked her lip; a cold part of his mind wondered if he'd ever felt that mouth against his own. Surely that he would've remembered.

"No, that's pretty much it."

If only he could believe her.

Verbally, they agreed to repress and deny.

Silently, they agreed to avoid each other.

Barba hadn't expected the latter to be so much easier achieved than the former. Not that it wasn't noticeable to other people – the trick was not caring what other people thought. They kept their distance, stayed on opposite sides of the room. Put bodies between them, Benson and Finn and whatever temporary detective the squad had been assigned for that week. At least they knew to keep their mouths shut about it – that was the highlight of Amaro still being on diesel therapy. Barba would never have heard the end of it if he'd been around.

Liv had given him a look the other day when he'd gotten up from the conference table when Rollins had sat down. He hadn't done it on purpose, it was just his step in what had become their elaborate dance of maintaining constant distance.

He assumed Rollins's reason was effectively the same as his own.

They were reminders of each other's failures.

His was a failure to stay in control; hers was a failure of judgment. In the end they were alike, and their avoidance was mutual.

He blamed her a little bit for what happened, and hated himself for being unfair. The only one who deserved to be blamed was dead. Things could've gone far differently, far worse, and they hadn't. Couldn't he be grateful and move on? Get over it?

He couldn't get over it because he couldn't remember. Rollins might have gotten some closure from their conversation but he hadn't, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been robbed and there was nothing anyone could do. There was no one to call to account, no one to punish. No resolution, just a ceaseless anxiety that he hadn't known himself as well as he thought he did. Didn't know himself as well as he thought he did.

It hadn't taken much convincing to get him into that dark room with her, he knew that, but how eager had he really been? Had he just been going along with things, eager to please, mindful of Rollins's hard work like she said? Or had he pushed? Had he wanted this all along and not realized?

It wasn't as though he was unaware of how attractive she was. He thought most of the people he worked with were, but that was irrelevant, and secondary to how much or how often they made his job an exercise in aggravation. Rollins normally scored fairly low on the fuck-up scale, so he'd liked her well enough. Or he thought he had. Now he had to wonder.

Because even as he kept away, he still couldn't help but look at her, examine her like she was a crucial bit of evidence in a tricky case. Catalog things like her lipstick color for the day or how she wore her hair, futilely trying to match it up to what he remembered of that night in the bar. The more he did it the more he failed to get the results that felt right, and then he'd be reminded all over again of how vulnerable his memory really was.

It was a vicious circle that silently played out every time they were in the same room. He wanted to go back to a time when none of this had happened, when he wasn't hyperaware of her.

But he couldn't, and now he was stuck.

And to make matters worse, he couldn't sleep.

He hadn't been able to for a couple of weeks. Night after night, he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, incapable of turning his brain off. He could've taken something, Nyquil or something else over-the-counter, but the idea of drugging himself to get any sleep seemed more distasteful than ever. It wasn't lost on him that the last night of solid rest he'd gotten had been the result of being roofied.

He rolled over, cradling the pillow, staring out into the darkness of the room, wide awake and exhausted. He might as well have stayed at the office – at least he'd be doing something productive. Instead he laid there, thinking.

He wanted very badly to say it was just the usual nervous energy of going to trial, but it wasn't that. Or wasn't entirely that. Really, it was that plus everything else. His entire fucked up life.

What little sleep he did get was, more often than not, another source of frustration. He'd wake from incomprehensible dreams that were impossible to recall beyond a few snatches of baffling sensation – silky fabric sliding against his skin, a sweet taste in his mouth like artificial sugar, a pressure. Heat. He'd read the literature, he'd seen enough cases to know it was just his mind trying to process what had happened, but none of it made him feel any better. None of it made the dreams stop, nor made them more concrete. He'd settle for one or the other. Hell, if it meant getting eight hours of shut-eye he wouldn't complain if he spent the duration dreaming about taking the bar naked.

He dozed and didn't realize it until there was a faint scent of candy and he woke with a start, immediately pissed off. The clock, glowing in the dark, said 3:53AM, and he groaned, rolled onto his back. Four hours of lying there and accomplishing nothing. Getting no relief.

Watch the video.

He'd kept the DVD after all, for no reason he understood and in spite of telling Rollins he'd destroy it. He hadn't watched it since the day he'd gotten it. Now he stared at the clock, watched it tick over to 3:54. This time you'll remember. You'll see. It'll jog your memory. This time it will. Watch the video.

You know you want to.

The whole thing was just so embarrassing, like an elementary school recital video that was trotted out at family get-togethers but a hundred thousand times worse.

He settled back against the pillows, laptop balanced on his t-shirt-clad stomach, and hit play.

It started the same as ever: with him stumbling into the room. He winced, squinted in the darkness and turned down the brightness on the screen. But the sound was on this time, so low he had to strain his ears to hear it, and maybe that's what did it. Maybe he was precisely the right amount of tired in the right way, full of a bone-deep frustration that had been building for longer than he realized. Or maybe he was desperate to feel some kind of connection to this doppelganger who'd made his life so difficult.

Or maybe he'd just watched it enough times that he'd built up an immunity and could no longer feel shame like a normal person.

Whatever the reason, he laid there and watched with a newly critical eye, critiquing his performance, taking the sorts of mental notes he typically did when rehearsing for court that were pointless in this context. In ordinary circumstances he would've had his hands all over her; he was positively restrained. There, right there – that was a wasted opportunity. He could've slid his hands down her back, over the curve of her ass, and pulled her in closer. He shook his head.

This time around Rollins's moan did little but make him snort. It just seemed so fake, so obviously exaggerated now that he knew better. But he'd been fooled the first time, and so had Grant. In a way it was impressive how she could keep it up, maintain audible enthusiasm even as he pushed her down. That still disturbed him, but watching now it seemed almost planned. Given the angle of the camera, the darkness of the room, it was impossible to tell that they weren't actually fucking. She'd been obvious about unbuckling his belt, but after that it was a lot of fully-clothed bodies tucked in tight together. Audio aside, R-rated this was not. Shit, audio included this wasn't R-rated. Maybe PG13.

He idly checked the timestamp, surprised to see he'd almost reached the halfway mark – as far as he'd ever managed. The first three times it had seemed endless, five minutes feeling like five hours. He was about to congratulate himself when Rollins moaned again and it sounded… Different. Maybe a little softer. And then another sound, something like a sigh, barely picked up by the cheap surveillance equipment, and he couldn't look away as the mood in the room suddenly shifted.

Something changed. His pace or the way she moved under him, because suddenly he wasn't watching performance art anymore. He heard himself groan, so quietly as to almost be unheard, saw her arch up to meet him, put her hands on his face and drag him down to kiss, and Christ.

She hadn't told him any of this. She'd realized he hadn't watched the whole thing, rolled the dice and bluffed him. Bluffed him.

Because seven minutes in there was nothing staged about how they were moving against each other now. Nothing fake about how she kissed him, and he licked his lips as he watched her pull away and let out a startled gasp. Nothing planned about how he surged against her, pushed his face against her neck, shaking and groaning so loud there was no question what it might mean.

He pushed the laptop off his stomach to the bed and covered his face with both hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. He'd known at the time that she'd lied, but he hadn't known what about, and now that he did…

The video was still playing; he could hear panting, a whimper that ended in a sharp gasp, and he turned his face away from the glare of the screen as he groped his cock through his boxers. She was gasping still, pitch spiraling higher, as he licked his hand and began to stroke himself. There was lotion in the bedside table but he didn't reach for it. He didn't want to stop long enough to slick himself up properly because that would mean premeditation, would mean acknowledging what he was doing. It would mean losing pace, and the video had looped over automatically and he could hear her porn star moaning all over again.

He closed his eyes and listened, waiting for that shift, and when it came again he was hard and ready. In the dark, with the cotton of his boxers brushing the head of his cock, he could almost believe he was there. He could imagine it so clearly in his mind, her beneath him, and he rocked up into his hand as he remembered how she'd felt against him in the bar, her soft bare leg hooked over his thigh, her knee tucked between his, and how he'd gotten the faintest taste of sweetness when he'd kissed her neck, by her ear.

His eyes widened at the memory; he gripped his cock tight, just below the head, and laid still for a moment.

"Oh, fuck," she said – whined, really, and he jerked himself off to the sound of her coming. Rolled to his side, curled around his fist, and came in his shorts with a sob like he was a teenager all over again, touching himself and desperate.

After, he reached behind himself for the laptop, going by touch to close it, sound cutting off abruptly and leaving only his ragged breaths to fill the dark bedroom.

A failure of judgment and a loss of control. He'd had no idea.

The first thing he noticed when he opened the door was the tray of coffees balanced on top of a file folder on top of a box. The second thing he noticed-

"You're not Benson," he said.

"No, I'm not," Rollins said. "Noah was running a fever this morning and she asked me to fill in for her. If that's a problem…"

"What's in the box?"

She blinked. "Honey-glazed donuts."

"How many of those coffees are for me?"

"Two?" When he didn't move, she tried again. "Three?"

He stepped aside so she could enter his office. "Then it's not a problem."

8AM was a horrific time for trial prep but his schedule that week was packed and needs must. For the first ten minutes all they did was coexist in near-silence on opposite sides of the room, Rollins blowing on her hot coffee as Barba chugged his while pulling out files and notes, wondering how to cope with her unexpected appearance. Business as usual when the first thing he thought of when he saw her was the noise she made mid-climax? Sure, why not.

"Can you even taste it when you drink it that fast?" Rollins asked, opening the box and pulling out a donut.

"I'm staring down the barrel at thirty-five hours of overtime this week," he said, shoving every superfluous thought onto the backburner. "Taste is irrelevant." He loped back to the table to collect the second cup, popped off the lid and gave the steam wafting off the liquid surface only cursory consideration before he started drinking.

She cringed. "Sorry I asked."

Hands full of paperwork, the rim of the now half-empty cup caught between his teeth, he joined her at the conference table. Last week he would've sat at the opposite end, the farthest point away from her; now he sat directly across. He was done avoiding her. It had only made things worse. Distance was not the answer to their problem, and it was their problem. He'd realized that after talking things – strictly hypothetical things – over with Connie. He and Rollins were in the shit together.

"What is it exactly that bothers you: that you had sex with this person at all or that you don't remember it?" Connie had asked him over lunch. "Because those aren't the same thing."

He'd zoned out mid-text; it must have looked like he'd been staring at Rollins as she licked the glaze off her fingers. Which… He sort of had been. He looked down at his phone, up at her, drained his cup, and looked inside, betrayed, when it was suddenly empty.

Rollins smirked and tugged the last one from the tray before holding it out to him.

He took it, cleared his throat as he pulled the lid off. "Let's get started."

Two and a half hours later and he was ready to call it a wrap. Not only had he run out of material, but he'd run out of patience with himself. It had started off well: he'd kept his head down, taken notes, read over the file, did what he could to avoid looking at her. If he looked at her then he got distracted.

She was used to him not paying her complete attention anyway. Doing the reverse would have been strange, he rationalized. Even if he wanted to stare, and kept getting sucked into doing exactly that. He'd noticed her lipstick when she was going over an alibi; it was a little darker than usual, maybe more red. Nothing familiar. It was almost a relief.

Then the potent mix of caffeine and sugar had started to surge through his bloodstream and things had only gotten worse. Simply multitasking wasn't enough to hold his attention anymore, not when he was sitting close enough to smell her perfume. He'd been up on his feet, pacing from the table to his desk and crunching mints when there was no more coffee, and at some point they'd started pretending she was on the stand. It was mock trial all over again with him bringing up invisible evidence, striding about and gesturing, acting out both prosecution and defense while Rollins stayed where she was, hands folded primly in her lap like she was in the witness box.

He was standing next to her, leaning over the table to grab at his notebook, when he felt something brush his leg and the breath caught in his chest.

"Sorry," Rollins murmured. There was a squeak as she pushed her chair back. It must have been the toe of her shoe. He'd noticed that she had a tendency to bob her foot slightly when she was thinking.

What was she thinking about? Did she ever think about that night? Did she pore over her memories like he did? But then she had so many more, she knew all along what had happened – she didn't need to keep going over them, didn't need to reassure herself of anything. And she kept up such a cool front, maybe she simply didn't care. Not the way he did.

What is it exactly that bothers you.

He had his answer, but still he exhaled and stepped away, retreated to rummage through the folder on his desk, notebook forgotten when his phone started to buzz again.

"Fin asked me if we had a fight," she said when it became obvious he wasn't going to ask her anything else important, ostensibly engrossed in his manic texting. "He thinks you're mad at me." She was trying to make conversation, and while he appreciated her unspoken adherence to Business As Usual it was killing him.

"What did you tell him?" He waited on a response to his message, jittery fingers tapping against the back of his phone. One of his witnesses may or may not have: been in a car accident; had a heart attack; suffered some combination of the two. Nice to see that his day could always get worse.

"Nothing. I didn't see the point in lying to him. It's none of his business."

Car accident after all. Great. "But you don't have a problem lying to me." It jumped out before he could stop it, and he couldn't bring himself to regret it. It was true after all. He didn't need to look up to see her expression, he knew how she'd look: eyebrows high, blue eyes a little wide, face otherwise a mask. Maybe leaning back slightly. He didn't need to look at her, but he did it anyway.

She looked a little flushed; he hadn't expected that. He hadn't factored in shame – sloppy of him. It looked good on her.

"You thought I wouldn't find out the whole story, which I suppose was a reasonable assumption to make given what I said." He turned to face her, leaning his hip against the desk, phone still in hand. "Plus knowing what you do about the effects of Rohypnol on the memory. Isn't it fascinating how what we learn at work can bleed over into other areas of our lives?"

She shook her head slowly, staring at him. "I'm never bringing you coffee again," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Not to mention my reaction, which certainly wasn't enthusiastic," he continued thoughtfully. "Even still, it was a risky move, but then again you like to gamble, don't you?"

"Yeah, we're done." At that she stood up, snatched up her jacket. "I'll see you in court. Maybe by then the caffeine will have worn off and you'll be back to your baseline of tactless instead of outright dick."

"You know, I thought you were in shock when I told you I didn't remember? But you weren't, were you?" He plowed on, smiling bitterly, ignoring his buzzing phone. Maybe his witness was dead now; he didn't care. He had other things to deal with, things that had been put off for far too long. "You were relieved. You were relieved I didn't remember. Am I right?"

She had the door half open when she paused.

"Am I right?" he called to her.

The door banged shut and she turned, eyes flashing. "Yeah, you're right. Just like always, and I bet you know just how I feel, don't you? Got all my motivations worked right out, all neat and organized?" She pointed at him. "Don't you dare tell me how I feel or why I did what I did."

"Why? It's not hard to figure out." He tapped his chin, mind going a mile a minute. "How about: you thought you were doing us both a favor. That sounds pretty plausible for you. Noble even."

She dropped her head, swinging her arm a little by her side so her jacket slapped against her leg. "Maybe this'll come as a surprise to you, but I actually think you're a good man. I knew you would've felt guilty even though-"

"Even though it wasn't my fault?" It came out snider than he'd intended, but there was no taking it back now. He dropped his phone to his desk.

She grimaced. "It's true, whether you want to hear it or not. Situations like that, you can't control how your body-"

He waved a hand dismissively, heart pounding. Three cups of coffee was clearly two cups too many so close together. "Spare me the rhetoric, Detective. That excuse only works once, it doesn't explain everything that occurred after."

She frowned. "After what?"

"After I watched the footage again. After I watched all of it." He felt too warm when she stared at him. It was like that night at the bar, right at the frayed edge of his memory. How fitting. "I didn't just spontaneously remember, I watched it. I watched it a few times, to be honest. It didn't take very long, not that I'm proud of that."

She stepped away from the door. "You... Kept it? You kept the disc?" She paled. "You said you were going to get rid of it. It's the only-"

"I lied." He pushed away from the desk, advancing slowly. "I didn't get rid of it, and I watched it, and God help me but I enjoyed it. I didn't like it, but I enjoyed it."

"You- It was a mistake, it was never supposed to happen," she said, looking back at the door. "And I knew you'd never file a complaint, even though I…" She reached out to the doorknob, trailed her fingers over it, but didn't otherwise move to open the door.

"Even though you enjoyed it too?" He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he neared her so he wouldn't reach out. They were shaking a little; must have been all the caffeine. Could he blame her for that too? "Even though it was terrible and should never have happened and we work together and I outrank you and I was-"

"Stop." Her eyes were hard when she looked up at him, but she wasn't angry just with him. "Stop badgering me, I don't need a laundry list of everything I did wrong. I know exactly how bad I fucked up, okay? I know I crossed the line. I know what happened, I know what I did, I was there."

"So was I," he said, voice low. "The problem isn't that we both got off, it's that only one of us remembers."

Her eyes filled up as he watched. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay?"

"I'm sorry too," he said, stepping close enough that he imagined he could feel her body heat. "I'm sorry I kept it, but Amanda, you have no idea how much I wanted to remember."

He wasn't sure who reached for who first, and he didn't care because they were kissing, her hands on his face to hold him still. He didn't care because he was too busy trying to pay attention to how she tasted, how she felt against him – he didn't want to forget this time, and he kissed her deeper, like that would do the trick.

"What changed?" she gasped against his mouth before she pushed him back. "We both knew I was lying before, I'm not stupid, and you- We were fine. Everything was fine. Not great, but- Why…"

There was a fine tremble in his hands that only went away when he touched her, so he kept doing that. "I couldn't stop thinking about you, wondering what it was like. If you wanted it too. Fuck, I couldn't sleep-" He kissed her again, hard, desperate to keep the rest of it from spilling out. It was the caffeine that was making him run his mouth, making him shake. He knew it.

She tugged at his short hair, trailed her hand down his neck and fisted the material of his shirt as he started walking her slowly over to where he thought the couch was. It caught her behind the knee and she sank down on it, pulling him after her by the strap of his suspenders.

"You realize this is still a terrible idea," Rollins said, climbing into his lap and kissing him.

He swept her hair back over her shoulder, feeling the silky strands between his fingers. "For so many reasons," he murmured against her neck before he kissed it. "Amaro, for starters."

She curved against him, rising slightly up on her knees. He missed her weight but loved the novelty of her hands on his shoulders as he undid the buttons of her shirt and kissed a line down her throat to her chest. Her skin didn't taste the way he remembered. "We- Ah- We don't talk much lately," she said, sighing as he pushed her shirt back to suck at the rise of her collarbone.

"Convenient," he said, dipping his head to kiss the tops of her breasts where they met her bra, rubbing his thumbs over the cups.

She put her hands back on his face, tipping it back so she could kiss him. "You could be censured," she whispered, lips brushing his as she spoke.

He groaned and she covered his mouth with hers, muffling the sound. He moved his hands to her back, slid his palms down over her ass to pull her back in close against him. This should have been familiar territory for them but when he rolled his hips and pushed up against her it felt brand-new.

"Barba."

He opened his eyes, panting as hard as she was.

She rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone, staring down seriously at him. "I'm your witness. This is unethical."

She was right, and he closed his eyes and ducked his head, pressing it to her shoulder, groaning. "I know," he said. Connie had been joking when she said don't get disbarred, but now it wasn't a joke. Well, getting sanctioned wasn't. They'd never disbar him over something so minor…

He dragged his hands down her legs, feeling her firm thighs under his hands and wishing she was dressed the way she had been that night at the bar. He wanted to remember how her bare legs felt against him; settled instead for pulling her shirt out of her pants so he could run his hands over her back.

"You need to go," he said, staring up at her. "You have to be the one to stop because I don't want to."

She sank down into his lap completely, heavy on top of him, and he closed his eyes, wrapped his arms loosely around her and rocked his hips ever so slightly.

But this was her shot at redemption and they both knew it, and in a flash she pushed him away and rolled out of his lap, backed away quickly from the couch. He covered his face with his hands, hating her just a little for being strong enough to leave. It was unfair of him and he knew it. Everything about this was unfair.

Hands on his head, he watched her button up her blouse, staring at his desk as she tucked her shirttail back into her pants.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked, grabbing her jacket from the floor where she'd dropped it. "If I..."

"Oh, I'll be fine," he said. "I'm not going to suddenly forget everything that just happened."

The look she gave him was not amused.

He dropped his hands to his thighs and shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Go. I'll be fine. I am fine."

Still she hesitated, looking for an excuse to stay. "Are you sure?"

"This isn't like last time," he said, rubbing his thighs absently, one knee starting to jiggle. "Go already so I can jerk off in peace."

Her mouth opened slightly and her eyes moved over him, taking in his mussed hair, rumpled clothes, lingering where his cock swelled noticeably in his pants.

"Detective," he groaned, head lolling back against the couch.

She blushed heavily and bit her lip. "Jesus, what a time to do the right thing," she muttered. "We'll pick this up later," she said, pointing at him. "When neither of us can get fired." Then she wrenched the door open and was gone, nearly slamming it behind her.

He sighed, watching his phone vibrate across the top of the desk before it fell off the edge and hit the floor. Answering it, doing his job, doing the responsible thing – none of it sounded important, let alone appealing, at the moment. He had about ten minutes before his secretary came in to remind him he had court at noon, and he wasn't going to spend them on the phone.

Nothing like an eleventh-hour plea bargain to fuck up a person's evening.

Barba tugged at his tie as he marched through the hotel's lobby, making a beeline from the front desk to the bar. His phone, for the first time all day, was silent; he shoved a keycard in his pocket alongside it and scanned the room.

He'd warned Rollins he was going to be late, that he wouldn't be able to say precisely how late so don't bother waiting up, but all she'd said in response was, "Buy me a drink and we'll call it good."

Now here he was with enough time to wonder what the fuck he was doing, looking around the mostly empty bar for a familiar face. Granted the trial was over, so there wasn't any risk he'd be called before the bar for what they were going to do. Rollins had testified in Benson's stead earlier that day and it had gone as well as he could've hoped, though he'd been unusually slow on objecting to some of the questions the defense had posed. Too busy thinking about touching her, bending her over the table, and wasn't that unprofessional? He hoped it wasn't the beginning of a problem, but at the same time it was such a relief to have something new to obsess over. He was never going to remember that night; better to replace it with something else. Something that lasted longer than ten minutes.

He gave up looking and made his way to the bar to order. Had she left after all? Not that he blamed her. It was late, and they both had work tomorrow, and most of the terrible reasons arguing against their involvement – continued or otherwise – that had existed a couple of days ago hadn't gone away.

He leaned on the bar and waited for his drink, not sitting down yet, and he was glad he hadn't because there was a woman at the other end and she was looking at him.

He collected his drink and wandered down to her, taking a seat when she patted the empty bar stool next to her. "Hello."

"Hello yourself," she said. Her black dress was very short; it was interesting watching her recross her legs. A lot of bare skin sliding against more bare skin.

He looked up to her knowing smirk, and he leaned towards her. "Now, I haven't done this in a while, but I think this is where I ask if I can buy you a drink."

"It is and you may," she said, accent distinctly southern and sweet as her perfume.

He signaled the bartender before turning to her, holding out his hand. "Rafael."

She took it in the delicate clasp of a debutante. "Scarlett," she said, and had to look away, biting her lip at his expression.

"Let me guess." He pushed a lock of her very blonde hair back over her shoulder, fingers brushing her skin. "Your momma was a real big Gone With The Wind fan?"

"Isn't this about the point where-" He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before Rollins pushed him up against the door and kissed him. He forgot he said anything at all until she fondled him through his pants and he banged his head back against the door.

"Where what?" she asked, watching him with an intent expression as he fumbled the light switch on.

"Where- Ah- Where we negotiate? Isn't there supposed to be-" He pulled her in again for another kiss and she took the opportunity to pop the top button on his pants and shove her hand down the front. "Haggling or- Or- Or something, Jesus," he panted against her mouth. He was wearing too many layers of clothing. She was wearing too many layers. He pulled the strap of her dress over one shoulder and leaned in to kiss her neck. She smelled so familiar, like candy.

"Are we still doing that?" she sighed, still moving her hand against him.

"It seems only- Only fair, I mean, I never got the full experience." He slid his hands over the back of her dress, searching for a zipper or buttons or something, anything, but mostly enjoying the feel of her. This part, at least, seemed familiar.

She pulled her hand out of his pants and shoved him back against the door again, palm against his chest. He squirmed a little when she didn't do anything but look him over appraisingly. "Two grand," she finally said.

"For the night?" he asked stupidly.

She rolled her eyes dramatically, grabbed his tie and dragged her fist down it in a way that made him inhale sharply. "Fine, twenty-five hundred, but I'll have to run to the ATM."

His grin was extremely crooked. "You know, we typically charge by the hour. Like shrinks."

"What, no friendly discount?" She tugged at the end of his tie like it was a leash and he followed her down the hall, crowding her up against the wall across from the mirrored closet doors. "We both know I can't afford you."

He skimmed his fingers along the hem of her dress before he started to push it up. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement." He found her panties by touch; he smoothed his thumbs over the silky material where it stretched low over her hips, rubbing his knuckles against her thighs.

"Yeah, because you're such an agreeable guy," she laughed, wrapping her arm around his shoulders.

He dipped his head to look at her as he slipped his hand between her legs, stroking his fingers over the warm crotch of her panties. "Hey, I made a perfectly good deal earlier tonight."

"This is getting dangerously- Oh- Dangerously close to shop talk," she panted. Her breathing had picked up; she banged her fist against the wall as he rubbed her clit through her underwear.

"Right, forget I said anything." He shoved her dress up a bit more, high enough to be able to slip his hand under the waistband of her panties and stroke her properly.

At first all she did was pant, which was fine – more than fine, really – but it wasn't what he was looking for, and he moved his finger against her a little faster, trying to coax out that certain noise he remembered so clearly from the video. The one that had taken him by surprise.

"Ah! Oh, fuck," she said suddenly. Speed was key, it seemed, and he went a little faster, swallowing thickly as he watched her mouth when she gasped. She clutched at him, twisting the material of his suit jacket up in her fist as she moaned.

"That's it," he said, pushing his leg between hers to keep them open when she started to squirm, her dress caught up in his other hand.

"Oh my God," she said faintly, staring past him.

He glanced over his shoulder and snorted, turning back to her, nuzzling her neck as he slipped his finger into her. "Your turn to watch." She was so wet; it was easy to add another finger, curl them slightly and work the sounds out of her. Far better than anything he'd heard on that shitty video; he closed his eyes, listening to her.

She grabbed his wrist, holding his hand still, and he opened his eyes to see her transfixed by their reflection in the closet doors. Her view had to be better than his had been; he fucked his fingers into her and felt her grip tighten, felt her clench around him, and that sweet whining noise spilled out of her as she came. Now that he'd heard it first-hand he wanted it all over again.

He pulled his fingers out and trailed them up, over her clit, circling the sensitive nub with his slick fingertips. She had both hands on his shoulders now – she couldn't seem to decide if she wanted him closer or further away. She pushed and pulled at him, face flushed, and finally he made the decision for her, leaning in to kiss her and swallow down all the whimpering cries she let out as she came again.

He didn't move away until she gave him a gentle shove, after he swirled his finger around her clit once more and she jerked. She sagged panting against the wall, staring into the mirror, watching his reflection as he idly rubbed his sticky fingers together before licking them. Almost purely for show, but it got the reaction he wanted.

"God fucking damn," she said, dropping her head back against the wall with a thump and pushing her dress back down.

He grinned down at her before fishing out his handkerchief to wipe his fingers. "Still interested in a discount?"

"God no," she said, standing up straight and slipping off her heels. "You deserve every penny for that. More than made up for last time."

He wrinkled his nose as she pulled at the knot of his tie. Her lipstick was gone; how much of it was on his face? His neck? "There were extenuating circumstances."

"Uh huh," she said, biting her lip as she drew the length of silk from around his neck. "Like you being drugged out of your gourd?"

He didn't care in the least that she dropped his five hundred-dollar necktie on the hotel room floor. "Oh, are we joking about it now? Great, so glad to see we've all moved on." He made no move to help her as she started unbuttoning his vest.

"Denial, avoidance, and fighting haven't worked," she replied with a shrug, small fingers moving quickly over the buttons. "Time for something else." Jacket open, vest open, she stared at his dress shirt and then looked up at him, frowning. "How many layers are there?"

He tilted her head to kiss her cheek. "Altogether?"

She scoffed and threw up her hands, walking away from him towards the bed. "I don't have time for this, deal with it yourself." Her dress had a zipper after all, on the side, and it was very loud as he stood watching her walk away, unzipping her dress. She paused only to shimmy out of it, leaving it on the floor.

He had a pocket square at home that was the exact same color as her underwear.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, shrugging out of his jacket and vest. She was right, he had way too many layers on, it was ridiculous, and he was fighting with his shoes when he heard a soft thump and a rhythmic squeaking.

Rollins was sitting on the bed, bouncing on the mattress, and she looked up at him when he entered the room, now trying to get his shirt off. "Did you forget something?" She snickered and hooked her thumbs in her bra straps, drawing them down, staring pointedly at him.

Fuck. Stupid fucking suspenders. He blushed, mimicking her, and yes, it did make getting his shirt off a lot easier.

"Come here," she said, waving him over after he got his undershirt off. She'd stripped off her bra in the meantime; it was on the floor somewhere just like the rest of their clothes. He badly wanted to touch her; he'd wanted to since he'd seen how he'd wasted all his chances in the back room.

When he was within reach she snagged one of the hanging straps of his suspenders and reeled him in until he stood between her spread legs, looking down at her. He twined a lock of her hair around his finger and tugged on it gently. "You know it wasn't your fault, right?"

She lowered her eyes, focused on getting his pants open, finishing what she'd started earlier. "Don't get mushy on me now, Barba."

"It needed to be- Christ," he gasped when, having shoved his pants and underwear down, she took his cock into her mouth. Now this he had no frame of reference for, not with her. There was nothing for him to try to remember, nothing to angst over, and God, when was the last time he'd been blown? He stroked a hand over her bobbing head, trying to think, but it was impossible when she insisted on fondling his balls like that.

"Fuck," he groaned, rocking back on his heels as she sucked him, one hand braced low against his stomach, and he was trying to be a gentleman about it, tried to resist shoving his hips forward, tried to keep his hands light on her head, petting instead of grabbing, but it was hard. It was too hard, he hadn't done this in far too long, and the realization dropped on him like a hammer that he'd been in something of a dry spell for the past while because yes, he was going to come soon if she didn't stop. Embarrassingly soon.

He patted her shoulder, trying to get her attention. "Rollins."

She ignored him.

"Rollins," he tried again, patting her face very carefully, groaning when her response was to suck harder. "Rollins. Amanda, please-"

She sat back, letting his cock slip from her mouth, and she looked up at him with a polite curiosity that seemed distinctly feigned for some reason. Maybe it was her distractingly shiny lips that were responsible. "Yes?"

He had to think for a moment – she'd replaced her mouth with her hand and he couldn't remember what he'd meant to say. His memory just fell to pieces around her, it was ridiculous. He'd have to start carrying post-it notes.

Then she fisted the head of his cock and he remembered abruptly what it was he was going to say. "Unless you want this to be- Be-"

She'd leaned forward to lick the very tip, smirking at him.

"For fuck's sake," he stuttered, squeezing his eyes shut. Looking at her was a terrible idea. "Unless you- Christ, you already know what I'm going to say, don't make me say it," he said in a rush when she didn't let up. He didn't have it in him to back away; he was pretty sure his knees had locked up. That might've been the only reason he was still standing.

"Is your fuse normally this short?" she asked, and if she didn't let him go at least her hand started moving a hell of a lot slower. "I was hoping that was just a one-time thing."

"Didn't I say I haven't done this in a while?" he gritted out, cheeks burning. Not seeing her reaction wasn't doing anything for his self-esteem. "I don't know if you've- God, I hate you, don't stop."

"If I've what?" She'd found exactly the right pace by accident, it seemed. It was downright leisurely. But when he didn't respond, too busy panting, she increased her speed again. "If I've what?"

His eyes popped open when she thumbed the underside of the head. "Fuck. If you realized that I work a lot, alright? Please, I-" he stared down at her imploringly as she slowly licked the precome from the slit. "Please, I work a lot, I'm rusty, I never get to have any fun, pick one, just- Ah- Please let me fuck you," and it all tumbled out of him in a hot humiliated rush of words.

She blinked, color high. She was a full-body blusher, apparently. "Well, when you put it like that…"

His face felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't decide if it was worth it when she let him go; he dropped very slowly to his knees. At least the carpet was thick. It should've been considering how much he'd paid for the room.

He was still between her legs; he set his shaky hands on her thighs, just above the knee. She was so soft.

"You with me, honey?" She stroked her fingers through his short hair, wrapped her legs around him. Her feet knocked lightly at his back.

He frowned, staring blindly at her panties. "You slapped me the last time you said that," he said.

"Just a tap," she said. "Did you remember?"

He shook his head, sliding his hands up her thighs. "No." And he hadn't, not really, it was just out of context knowledge with all the impact of a pebble on the ocean. And… That didn't bother him. He didn't remember and he didn't care, and what a fucking relief that was.

He leaned forward, pushing her to the bed, and kicked off his pants and underwear properly while she scooted up the mattress and made room for him.

"You said something about never having any fun?" There was an pronounced impish quality to her, he noticed, even when she was pink and covered in a faint sheen of sweat.

He settled next to her, covering one of her breasts with his hand, giving it a very light squeeze. "Dedicated civil servants don't have much time for fun." He skated his hand down her body, over her stomach, to her waistband, and he snapped it against her hip with a grin.

She pouted at him, but her eyes were twinkling when he sat up, and she lifted her hips without prompting so he could pull her panties down her legs. "Seems to me you'll have to learn to make some time, Counselor." She wrapped her leg over his hip after he laid back down beside her, her eyes fluttering shut when he rocked against her, his hard cock dragging against her wet cunt.

"I'll see what I can do," he murmured, pushing into her easily and wrapping his arms around her, cradling her close.

She didn't say anything, just arched against him and moaned softly, so low he felt more than heard it, and for a ridiculous second he wondered how to turn up the volume.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrm-brrrrm. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrm-brrrrm. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrm-brrrrm.

He groaned, rolled over and pushed his face into Rollins's shoulder.

"Something… Is ringing," she muttered, slapping his arm. "You're ringing."

"That's not me," he said. "Left it on vibrate."

"Something is ringing," she said again, and pushed at him. "It's on your side, go."

He rolled over with a loud noise of protest, rubbing a hand over his face as he glared around the room for the source of the noise.

There was a phone six feet away on a very small desk, and it was ringing. There was even a light, fire engine red, that flashed with every ring. He stumbled over and snatched up the handset. "Yes, what, hi?"

"Good morning, sir," said a very chipper voice on the other end. "This is your 5:30AM wake-up call."

"Oh my God," he said, rubbing his forehead. He couldn't remember requesting one. Was he insane? "What day is it?"

"Thursday."

He hung up and crawled back into bed, cuddling up to Rollins. "It's Thursday."

She tugged his arm further up her body, hugging it, humming when his hand settled on her breast.

"It's Thursday and we both have to work," he elaborated, rubbing her nipple with his thumb.

She sighed and turned, rolled over in the circle of his arm, her knees knocking against his. "It's not even 6AM, is it?"

He shook his head. "I have to go home."

She huffed a laugh, closing her eyes. "To get changed, right? Probably takes you three hours to get ready."

"Can't rush perfection," he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

"Too many layers," she whispered, already half asleep.

He was almost out of bed when she grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Who's going to check out?" Her hair was a complete mess; he tucked it back behind her ear.

"I'll do it later." He smiled, patting her cheek. "Don't worry, I won't forget."

THE END