[For Rafael] Don't bother coming in next week

[ishouldtellyou]

It all started with a boy who Roger could have known in New York.

It started around 6pm, really, right before Roger's shift at his hole-in-the-wall bar. He was paid under the table, money that was sometimes in sequential order or some other kind of dirty that Roger readily ignored. He guessed he didn't need the job, but without Mark to pester or Collins to prank or Maureen to scowl at, he was going slowly crazy in the apartment on his own. Funny how all he'd wanted was to be alone and now that he was, he was making a responsible choice. Relatively.

That night, Roger hadn't even wanted to be at work. His knees were bone-on-bone, like he was 150 years old. He'd woken up with a headache, he'd thrown up twice in the afternoon, once nearly in his sleep: a side-effect of his medication. When he didn't eat, it tore at his stomach lining. When he did eat, it made quick work of emptying Roger's stomach so that wasn't the case. It had been a thing for so long that Roger wasn't often hungry. Today, he was. So that meant he was dizzy and vaguely sick.

So, he'd done what Mark would have done for him: found some weed. Anyone who thought weed was a relapse probably also thought alcohol was, and that meant their uninformed opinion officially didn't matter. When they were puking up blood every couple of weeks, they could cast all the fuckin' stones they wanted. If weed got him to eat, if it kept him from seeking stronger things, he'd smoke all he fuckin wanted.

His boss hadn't cared that he came in blazed as hell, reeking of pot. He also didn't care when a regular customer told Roger he looked like shit and bought him a shot. Actually, he'd taken one with them.

Then, the questions came. Roger, why are you so thin? What happens when that pager goes off and you disappear? Why were you late to work again? Who is going to clean this floor up?

Not Roger. If he bent over to clean up some cockbag's mess, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to get back up. So he refused. Rudy didn't like that. He wasn't going to clean it himself. As a matter of fact, Roger could do it or he was fired. Roger laughed. His friend bought him another shot. And another. The mess sat there, Roger straddling it like it was his and he was too proud to wash it away.

Eight shots and a few punches later, Roger was 86ed. This could have been any other night in New York, could have been any one of the bars he'd worked at that tossed him out. All Roger had wanted was to get drunk enough that he didn't care about his fucking knees. Instead, his boss called him a faggot and Roger punched him in the face. He'd gotten punched. He'd promised Rudy that if he wanted Roger's blood, he could have it, and that it would stick the fuck with him. It would change his fucking life. It would end it. No one knew what he meant, but they were scared. Stunned. No one stopped him when he took a bottle of whiskey with the spout still on it.

Six blocks down -- nowhere in particular -- Roger decided the dim light of another bar was calling to him. His bottle of whiskey was empty. He tried to shake some liquor into his face, but either he was too drunk to find the coordination or the bottle was empty. He tossed it onto the ground and let the shatter give him chills. It was nice to have control where he could. If he tossed a glass, it would break. If he broke his boss' fucking nose, he could leave. These were the only things in life that were simple, where logic came with any kind of comfort.

Roger tripped on his way in, licking at the corner of his mouth to make sure there was no blood to be seen, to be transmitted onto the glass. He swiped at it with the back of his hand just in case. It came up clean. Roger tapped chipped nails onto the counter, deposited his last $20 and murmured, "gimme all'a whatever this'll get me." He rubbed at his eyes and waited. One was faintly puffy and he didn't remember any punch landing there. He also didn't remember leaving his ex-boss bloody and half-conscious. Glassjawed motherfucker.

Comments

[ifswagwasacrime]

Roger reeks of booze. It explains enough why he doesn't seem to realize he'd sidled right up next to Rafael at the bar, and Rafael just watches with a lifted brow and an elbow on the counter as Roger throws down a twenty. Actual money this time, it's progress, Rafael has to give him that. Against his better judgment, he shifts toward Roger, his fingers wrapping tighter around his glass of moderately-priced scotch, as if holding on to it might be what keeps him steady once this conversation starts.

Well, conversation might be a strong word for it. Rafael notes the swelling on Roger's cheek with a flicker of concern he buries because he doesn't think Roger would appreciate it much anyway, and he wonders what kind of person he'll be dealing with tonight. Sometimes, talk stays civil between them. Sometimes, Roger doesn't shout or shove or turn his back at the drop of a hat, leaving Rafael feeling a little more confused about why he bothers every single time. Yet, when they see each other, they somehow seem to gravitate toward each other, like there's some kind of unintentional magnetic pull neither of them would likely ever be willing to admit actually exists.

They trade insults, cut deep in ways they shouldn't be able to, considering they haven't known each other very long at all. They're not friends, not really, but they've perfected this dance they do. It's a gamble every time they meet again. Rafael thinks maybe they should eventually exchange numbers, save themselves the trouble of surprise encounters, but that comes with the implication that he'd like a planned one. Maybe he does. Maybe one day he'll readily admit that, even if it's only to himself.

"Now who's following who?" he asks. His voice is loud enough to be heard of the chatter of the bar, soft enough that it isn't a question meant to sting, and there's only a trace of his usual smirk. Instead, he gestures vaguely at Roger's face before pausing to bring his glass to his lips, swallowing the pleasant warmth of the scotch down his throat. Once he's done, he sets the glass down, carefully, traces the rim of it with his finger and tries to stay sounding netural. "What the hell happened to you?"

[ishouldtellyou]

Fuck, Roger really was wasted. He'd put it away like he hadn't stopped for 6 months cold. If the bottle had been a vial, if he'd needed a lighter and a spoon to take it, the dose would have killed him. Roger needed more than one hand to count the number of people he saw leave rehab and end up in a body bag because they went ham like their body could take it. Like no time had passed at all.

Either Roger's liver was the only part of him that wasn't broken or being drunk was right. Besides the vaguely sick feeling that existed long before his job at the bar had, he was still standing. Leaning. The bartender brought over a shot and Roger took it without question. He'd heard Rafael speak to him. That may not have been clear.

"Should see th'other guy," Roger said, snickering a bit until he tasted blood in the back of his throat. He tapped the shot glass and kept his mouth shut for a bit. Long enough to wash the taste down with the random, shitty house beer the bartender had brought him. The dude knew he had $20. He'd take until the bartender stopped giving, and then he'd leave.

He washed half the beer down and felt suddenly very sick. He sat down heavily on the stool beside his companion in sharing fucking space. He winced when he folded, grabbing at his side. That motherfucker might have bruised his rib. How much of the fight did Roger not remember?

[ifswagwasacrime]

It's pointless now, to pretend he doesn't care, and Rafael's only selfish comfort for that lies in the fact that even if he hints that he does, Roger probably won't remember it tomorrow. He knows how that would sound if he said it out loud, but it's how he's programmed himself. Rafael isn't heartless, he isn't even particularly stoic. He has a habit of acting theatrically, of letting it be known exactly when he's fed up with whoever happens to have irritated him at any given moment. When it comes to victims he defends, he knows they generally tend to think he's an asshole because Rafael will freely admit that he can be short, act like it doesn't matter that each victim has been forever changed, but that's because he has a job to do. Get them justice, that's his objective, because they deserve at least that for their pain. Every loss cuts at him like a knife to the gut, every verdict that comes back not guilty makes him sick to his stomach, makes him question what the hell kind of world he lives in where a rapist can get off just like that. Then he questions how it's possible he'd failed that horribly.

But it's not his job to show that. It's just a luxury to feel it when he's alone. What he feels here, though, with Roger, is something else entirely. Fighting it has been futile, even if the feeling isn't mutual. It makes Rafael a different kind of vulnerable and that is, to say the least, terrifying for someone who's made a point of avoiding even toeing the line of that kind of connection as often as possible.

He watches Roger grab at his ribs and remembers doing the same thing in the ER when he'd been nine. Just an accident, Rafael had assured the doctor. He can feel the phantom iron grip of his father's hand on his shoulder, and Rafael has to keep himself from trying to physically shrug it off.

"Is the other guy trying to drink himself into an oblivion, too?" Rafael asks dryly. Pity won't work here, not with Roger, and Rafael doesn't pity him. It's just exasperating to watch him like this when Rafael knows, from sober conversation without as much animosity between them as there can sometimes be, that Roger is capable of more than spending his evenings fighting with people to the point of... this.

Against his better judgment, Rafael reaches out to steady Roger when he sways again, nudging the glass of water he'd ordered for himself earlier but hadn't touched since Roger's way. "If you're going to get hammered, at least be smart about it. Drink this first."

[ishouldtellyou]

Not a single person in Darrow had touched Roger until that night. This second set of hands was more welcome than the first. Roger didn't let on, except in that he didn't jerk away. Rafael's hands were cool against Roger's overheated, drunk, fucking furious skin. It felt good.

He winced on an exhale and took the glass of water. It was cool, too. He took a drink -- a small one -- and then he dipped his neck low to rest his unmarred cheek against the beads of the glass. He breathed again. The contraction struck him in the side again and he shifted. Then again. When he shifted a third time, he came up with a beat-up cigarette. With nothing more than a grimace of disapproval at the state of it, he lit it.

"Don't remember," Roger admitted, even though the question was several moments old and not the most recently spoken thing by the time he got there. He'd taken the water. He drank it. Mostly, he leaned on it, too far over it. There were plenty of questions to be had, but all Roger could think was that he was miserable and he didn't want to be alone anymore. Anything he might have said could only have damaged him further.

[ifswagwasacrime]

Roger doesn't slip away from the touch the way Rafael thinks he might have done himself. It's more than a handshake, a pat on the back (not that he and Roger do that, either), it's more intimate in the sense that Rafael simply wouldn't do this for just anyone. Since arriving in Darrow, he can still only count on one hand the number of people he finds tolerable enough to talk to on a semi-regular basis and only one of them is listed in his Contacts. Pierce and Marius, they're good guys. Pierce has even inspired genuine laughter from Rafael a handful of times and that in itself is a thing rare enough that he doesn't just take it for granted. Molly, too, has been someone who's kept him sane while doing, more or less, scut work for City Hall.

There are people here he does like, people he wouldn't mind getting to know; but Rafael doesn't have a hand on any of them right now, he's got one on Roger and hasn't pulled it away yet, even though he could. He should.

"Okay," Rafael says. There's nothing to do but accept that answer, and it's not as if it isn't believable. He swallows, eyes flickering between the lit cigarette and Roger's half-prone form. With his free hand, he gently taps a knuckle against the rim of Roger's beer. "You sure this is what you want to do right now?"

[ishouldtellyou]

They were still touching, Roger's brain reminded him somewhere below the aches and the half-thought that he had no idea what time it was. It also occurred to him that he may not be allowed to smoke in the bar. No one had stopped him yet. All of the fight was out of him. This huddled thing was all that remained.

"Don't," Roger said of Rafael's gentle tap at his beer. He didn't need to be reminded that what he was doing was wrong, that his relationship with alcohol may have abetted his need for rehab. There were little things he needed to cope. This wasn't supposed to be one of them. It was hard to care when he was not over, but clearly under it all.

"Excuse me, you can't smoke in here," came a voice that Roger was entirely unsurprised to hear. He nodded his acknowledgement and shoved himself up from the bar. He stumbled. He clenched his jaw against the sway.

He headed outside. Before he got there, he turned around and said, "you comin'?"

[ifswagwasacrime]

Rafael's hand falls back down to his side when Roger pushes off from the bar and to be perfectly honest, he expects that's going to be the entirety of their encounter for tonight. Since the day they'd met, Roger's been an enigma, someone Rafael can't quite figure out because something about him doesn't quite add up. There are different acts warring for precedence, from angsty rock star to devil-may-care tough guy, but then there's this. There's a man whose eyes betray him, who carries a distinct sense of sadness with him that he may never admit to, but Rafael can see it. He's seen it in others, of course he has, that'd be difficult to avoid in his line of work.

Everybody's hiding something. Rafael had learned that early on in life, it's true of himself and of everyone he's ever met. He doesn't necessarily consider it a bad thing, people have their secrets and their rights to them (within reason, of course), whether they be like the old scars he still has on his back or why April had been important enough for Roger to tattoo her name on his knuckles. Rafael wants to know, he realizes. He wants to ask, wants to learn, wants to do more than just dance around Roger every time they accidentally see each other again. There's no endgame, really, no discernible intent, at least not that he'll say. Rafael's not about to admit he's lonely; but then again, maybe he's a little lonely.

Besides, Roger is the person who's made him feel the most since arriving to Darrow and even if those feelings have been bewildering, at best, that's not for nothing.

So when Roger asks if he's coming, Rafael has to make an effort to keep the surprise off his face, nodding even before he has a chance to recognize he's actually doing it. Downing the last of his scotch, he tugs a few bills from his wallet and lays them down on the counter before getting up to follow Roger out the door.

There's silence between them for a moment, not entirely uncomfortable, while Rafael watches Roger smoke. He tucks his hands inside his pockets, then asks, "Whoever you got into a fight with, do you at least remember if they deserved what they got?"

[ishouldtellyou]

Something happened. A conversation was had about loneliness where not a word was exchanged. It was like the night he met Molly, where he somehow knew she was safe to let in. She reminded him of someone. Someone with darker hair, within whom Roger had seen a flame extinguish. In Molly, the flame was still alive. Roger found a friend in those flames.

It was also nothing like that. Molly made his heart beat slower, not faster. He imagined his blood pumping overtime, exhausted from toxins of all kinds, his heart working overtime the way it did, reviving him. Every moment he thought he could just stop breathing and let the world go, his heart pumped him back there. It kept him alive. It reminded him what there was to live for. The ties to his brain had been successfully severed. The fight was far away. There was just company -- silence because of a hand he wasn't used to lending.

Once they were walking, Roger's heart chilled the fuck out. He'd asked for company and been given it without a word, without judgement, without a single snide remark from a mouth that seemed to like to twist into these things.

Roger lit a cigarette and blew it out, looking at the tops of the buildings, the changing storefronts, the flatness of the land and all of its lights. A little brighter and a little smellier, and it might as well have been New York. Post-apocalyptic New York where no one is out for some reason.

"Mm?" Roger transferred the cigarette to his hand, exhaled, and looked over at his -- fuck, had he always been that short? -- company. Roger grasped onto nothing but fight and deserved. "Fuck yeah," he slurred, indignant. He couldn't actually really remember what happened, so he narrowed his eyes and looked for the answer in the lines of sidewalk they travelled. "Something about the floor. N' Imma faggot because I don't wanna let him watch me fuck his wife." He tipped his head back with a loud, short laugh. That was pretty funny.

"Ugly as shit," Roger said, sucking down another drag like it might erase the thought. "She liked to grab my ass and then play like it di'nt happen. I thought girls knew no means no." This seemed to amuse him as well. He snickered, because it was better than remembering he was a piece of meat to them. They didn't even know he wasn't sellable stock.

"S'place is a mindfuck." Roger said, shaking his head.

[ifswagwasacrime]

Rafael's hands curls into fists in his pockets as he listens to Roger describe what he remembers about the fight, the lines on his forehead deepening just slightly as his hooded eyes narrow and darken. It's an instinctive reaction, one he'd stopped resisting years and years ago, when he'd decided it was okay to let himself feel the way he does every time something reminds him of his father. He remembers when his father had first learned the truth about his sexuality, vividly remembers the disgust followed quickly by rage, the smell of alcohol on his father's breath and the fist that'd flown at his face. It'd been one of the few times Rafael had been hit somewhere that visible.

He'd told his teachers the next day that a couple of punk kids had cornered him on his way home from school. The mother who'd caught Rafael kissing her son and told his parents about it had seen him and looked like she wasn't sure whether she should have felt guilty about it or not, even though she couldn't have known for sure who'd been responsible for his black eye. Rafael had never blamed her for it. If anything, he'd just been glad she probably wasn't the type to hit her kid, too.

"People, in general, don't always understand the concept of 'no means no,'" Rafael says, his voice kept carefully steady. That's not the point of what Roger had been saying, but it's what he can grasp onto to drag him back from that dangerous edge of wading too deep into memories he prefers to keep at a distance. Part of the convenience of burying himself in work in Manhattan had been that it'd allowed him to keep his mind distinctly off his own personal life. He'd been too busy to do much of anything aside from prep for cases and grab the occasional drink in a bar, spending more time at the office than anywhere else, and it'd worked. As selfish as it might sound, doing what he could to bring justice to someone else helped let him forgot for a little while that he'd never get that for himself.

His father's long gone. There's no justice left to be served there. Rafael suddenly feels very tired.

"I would've done the same thing," he adds.

It's a simple statement, strange common ground found that he might not have admitted to someone else. Rafael would have thrown the first punch because here in Darrow, he's got nothing to lose. It stings to remember that but at the same time, it surprises him to realize that it's also freeing, in some ways.

[ishouldtellyou]

This time, it was Barba's turn to go somewhere. The place was familiar. For Roger, it was a hollow place just behind his eyes were time went backward. There was nothing in the future for Roger. Why bother being here? He wished constantly for another time, another place.

With a stagger-step that looked less intentional than it was, Roger bumped Barba's shoulder with his own: a gentle call back to Earth. He didn't wait for the inevitable touch down. Coming back to reality was always a harrowing, private ordeal for Roger. He wouldn't blame Rafael for not wanting to be watched, if that was the case. It was better to err on the side of empathy in such matters -- at least after enough alcohol and pot.

Roger went away to occupy his brain, but he didn't go far. It was just a nice thought: that he had a bed in a good apartment waiting for him when the night came to a close. A place of his own. That was something he never thought he knew.

Barba's voice called him back, and Roger's brows knitted together. "Would've not fucked the boss's wife?" He asked, confused as to why that was relevant. It was the smart call, but he didn't know why it seemed so important that Barba tell him that.

[ifswagwasacrime]

That earns Roger a surprised burst of laughter, even if the question hadn't been meant to be funny, and Rafael ducks his head to restore a more sobered look on his face. It's both revealing and not of Roger to ask it, Rafael thinks, though there are more questions popping into his mind now that he doesn't plan on asking himself.

Would Roger not fuck his boss's wife because she's his boss's wife or because she's his boss's wife? Because she'd played grab ass and neither she nor her husband had appreciated that Roger hadn't responded the way she might have liked? Because she really had been "ugly as shit"? Does it even matter whether Roger is interested in men or women or both, one way or another? Rafael supposes not and anyway, it's ridiculous he's even entertaining this particular train of thought because that isn't their dynamic. Things that might be related, like flirtation, aren't what they engage in, except Rafael gets a little happier to see Roger every time they randomly meet and is making real attempts not to drive Roger to stalk off yet again and wouldn't even mind taking on the responsibility of making sure Roger makes it home safely tonight.

That's not flirtation, he reminds himself, that's just wanting someone to stick around. That's wanting someone to be there without ever having to admit it out loud. The problem is, Rafael doesn't just want someone to be there. Increasingly so, he finds that, in spite of how irritating their encounters can be and how much more irritating it is that he feels this at all, he wants Roger to be there. He can't explain it, the closest thing he can compare it to is the way his tolerance for Carisi's presence had grown until it'd become a comfort. Maybe it's because Roger's the first person he'd met in Darrow. Roger brings with him a certain familiarity. Even as he thinks it, Rafael knows that's bullshit, but he can't let it go further than that.

"I wouldn't have fucked the boss's wife, no," Rafael agrees, "for a lot of reasons. I can't remember the last time I thought about wanting to fuck anyone's wife, I don't make a habit of it."

Well, he thinks, there's Yelina; but she'd married his best friend and that door had closed a long, long time ago.

[ishouldtellyou]

Roger's confusion melted into laughter. It endured. Out here, the air was fresh, the company was unobjectionable. The next drag on his cigarette was a more languid one, his head dropped back. After an evening of hot -- from tempers to temperatures -- he'd never felt so relieved to feel cold.

It was nice to laugh, too. It usually took some kind of effort to get his mouth to form such things. Something about some combination of the cold and the alcohol and the way he'd forgotten about the tinge of fever that was all alcoholic glow, now. His stomach lurched -- a reminder of how far he'd pushed his luck that evening.

"This way," Roger said, steering Rafael right at an intersection. He had weed at his place and that might have been the difference between him hurling himself into dehydration in the next few hours. He went at it like a man with much more fortitude than himself, or a man with a death wish. So, to the Bramford building they went.

Roger wondered vaguely what time it was.

"I don't think people fuck people's wives on purpose," Roger speculated, letting go of another drag in a smooth curl of smoke from between pursed lips. "Shit happens."

[ifswagwasacrime]

Rafael tries to remember if he's heard Roger laugh like that before but comes up empty. Between that and the press of a not unwelcome (and isn't that something?) hand against him, he finds himself leaving frustrating introspection and falling into something a little easier, a little more familiar. He thinks better when he's in motion, when he's actively doing something rather than standing still, just waiting for God knows what (and God does know it's more than likely nothing at all), because nothing has ever truly gotten accomplished that way.

For years, Rafael had let his two best friends keep him out of trouble, pave the path ahead to keep him clear of the bullies who'd been fond of pushing him around just because he'd been a little smaller than everyone else. Alex and Eddie, they'd done their jobs well, but Rafael hadn't truly felt like he'd been a deserving member of los tres mosqueteros de Jerome Avenue until the day he'd finally stepped up to throw a punch back. That's not how he wins anymore, obviously, but it'd been a start. If there's only one thing in the world he has his father to thank for, it's his ability to prepare for a good fight. That, and a drive to take real initiative for himself.

Rafael takes back what's his now. He's not a man who spends much time thinking about what a mess his personal life is and why; frankly, he wouldn't call it a mess at all because that would imply there'd been something available to sully in the first place. Not so, not here and not in Manhattan. For the most part, he's a closed book when it comes to what really makes him him, save for very few exceptions. Liv, he'd let in, to a point. Carisi had been an accident, though he wouldn't admit it. Every so often, Roger nearly becomes one, too.

"Is that a hint of optimism I hear? 'Shit happens so I only accidentally fucked someone's wife.'" Rafael shoots Roger a wry smirk, making no effort to conceal his teasing tone as he dramatically waves the wafting smoke out of his face. "Don't get me wrong, I don't object. Well, I might in a courtroom but depends on the context." Maybe he's just seen too damn much of humanity's dregs that he finds it hard to think the best of people now. Nearly three decades spent trying to seek justice for sex crime victims can do that to a person.

Glancing around at their surroundings and finding things only vaguely familiar, Rafael then tilts his head and asks, "Where are we going?"

[ishouldtellyou]

Roger's smile was crooked, more committed on one side. He said, "people lose their minds for a pretty face and a guitar." If Roger knew any single thing, it was that. His heyday was fucking magic, never paying for shots, sleeping in a different bed every night, searching and not finding and feeling a-o-fucking-kay with that. If his life couldn't be measured in love, he would measure in the next best things. People loved Roger; Roger loved people's love. He loved being fucked up. He loved all of the excuses he had to do whatever he wanted. He was invincible.

Then, he wasn't. Love lifted him up, and loving someone back took him right down. On the other side of what seemed like bliss, all he had left was a taste for poison that lingered in his blood and the ink on his knuckles. It spelled out his misery.

He was on the other side of the good feelings, again, headed for his apartment with company trailing him and a sense that he was walking into something he couldn't handle.

"The good ol' Bramford Building," Roger reported somewhat sourly as he flicked his cigarette butt to the curb before he started smoking filter. "Number...... whatever number my apartment is." He breathed out a noise that was more like the "laughter" Roger had become accustomed to: empty. Silent.

"What do you do in New York? You don't fuck people's wives, you put my friends in jail. What else? Let me guess: yacht trips? Expensive dinners? Distinguished old, white guy orgies?"

[ifswagwasacrime]

Rafael hums, though doesn't make any further effort to agree, because any sharp-witted mockery he might have for Roger when it comes to having that pretty face falls flat before it can pass the tip of his tongue. It's the truth, after all, there's a sucker born every minute and for whatever reason, some people seem to be willing to live vicariously through someone else's spotlight if they can't get into it themselves. Besides, acknowledging what Roger has said without arguing about the pretty part is a little too self-revealing for his taste. He does have a filter outside of the courtroom, contrary to popular belief, it serves him pretty well in moments like this.

It occurs to him then, lightning quick, that Roger is taking Rafael home with him. Nothing's going to happen, of that Rafael is sure, but it very nearly elicits an hysterical burst of laughter. Late night apartment visits aren't very high on Rafael's typical list of things To Do and with anyone else, he might have already politely (or not, it really just depends) declined. Instead, he makes a choice to keep walking alongside Roger like this is a perfectly normal thing for them to do together. Leave a bar, one of them having reached drunken oblivion, and head back to Roger's place. Rafael wonders if it should feel more wrong than it does and is a little surprised to find it doesn't necessarily make him uncomfortable.

"Unless your friends are all guilty of sexually assault, I doubt I've put any of them away," Rafael tells him, giving Roger a pointed look. "I may be a prosecutor, but I'm not actually hiding horns and a tail. You could do worse than me when it comes to soulless attorneys."

Buchanan, for example, will always sum up the scum of the earth, as far as Rafael is concerned. The methods Buchanan uses, the way he talks to victims like they're the ones at fault for what'd they'd been through, it's always made Rafael a little sick to his stomach. By no means does he consider himself the pinnacle of moral goodness, but Rafael does like to think he's kept a pretty firm grip when it comes to doing the right thing for his clients.

"Yachting and expensive dinners aren't off the table, though," Rafael admit. "Not so much here, luxury isn't what it used to be in Darrow. I've actually had to force myself to remember how to cook. Also get used to the fact that I have time to cook. It's all very upsetting."

He outright ignores the orgy bit, though he does roll his eyes at it, the slightest bit of offense taken. There'd be nothing distinguished about any orgy he may or may not partake in and furthermore, he's quietly concerned about what it is about him that screams "fan of old, white guys."

[ishouldtellyou]

This answer surprised Roger. In their assorted snatches of time together, Roger had always pictured a hard-up litigator, the kind that Maureen's new boyfriend Joanne went toe-to-toe with. Most of the New York DA's Roger had been so fortunate to encounter were greasy and crooked and so fucking white. The one Roger had dealt the most with in his tenure as a street rat wouldn't have known a joke if it was Exhibit A. Prosecutors were like that: generalizing, pressed-for-time, lifeless fuckwads that lived only for the next monetary nut.

Knowing he had a specialty, knowing it was the sort of task force New York needed -- suddenly it was all a little easier. Realer. He wasn't just some disappointed sober hallucination of a person. For the first time, Roger could see Barba in context. Roger could see Barba as having a place in New York -- his city.

Roger rolled his eyes in return. Fucking yacht. Of course. Amused, he said, "next time just stick with the orgy story."

The Bramford Building came into view -- a real art deco eyesore, as Roger saw it. It looked like it had once been something majestic, and now it was where the filthier creatures of Darrow were assigned their dwellings. Huh. It was more like New York by the minute.

Roger just looked up at it, his arms dangling sort of lamely. After a moment, he grumbled, "home, sweet home."

[ifswagwasacrime]

"Look, when you're a kid on scholarship at school surrounded by assholes talking about their dads' yachts, it becomes surprisingly satisfying to end up being one of those asshole on a yacht," Rafael counters, shameless except for the memory of the dubious look his mother had given him after he'd presented the same argument.

Then again, he supposes she's never been too pleased about the implications that his father had done absolutely nothing intentionally positive for him and for the most part, Rafael has learned to stop slipping those vague insults in at every chance because there's no winning an argument with Lucia Barba. Not even for an experienced DA.

As they come to a stop in front of a building that looks more like it belongs in some period piece horror flick, Rafael can't help but wrinkle his nose. His own place isn't the Ritz, but it's more than a few steps up from this. Hell, though, he has to admit he's seen worse in Manhattan. And the Bronx. And Chelsea. He's seen worse in a lot of places in New York, actually, maybe Roger had actually lucked out.

"My place is better," Rafael says, glancing at Roger. It's not even meant with arrogance, just a fact. Possibly even a moderately veiled invitation. "Well, debatable, I guess. Depends on whether you like being by the beach or not, but it doesn't look like it's potentially on its way to being condemned." Even so, he doesn't mind the idea of going up, as long as the floor doesn't collapse beneath them once they do. He shifts on his feet, and they're standing close enough to each other that Rafael's arm briefly brushes against Roger's. "So are we standing here the rest of the night, or are we going inside?"

[ishouldtellyou]

Unfortunately, Roger could understand that. Though he found more satisfaction in shitting on the idea of a yacht -- or actually shitting on a yacht -- it made sense that one might find comfort in "making it." Maybe that was how Benny had felt.

Not that it mattered. Benny was a fuck, a squelcher, a pussy-whipped flaccid dick with bulging eyes and a throat that was dry as fuck. The only lubrication he wanted was money. Maybe Roger did, too, but there was a limit on what he would do to get it. Suck a couple of dicks, rob a store, sure. Marry a debutante and hide out in their love nest with Mr. Muffy? Nope. Not for all of the nickel-plated strings in the world.

"Of course you live on the beach," Roger said with a spectacular eyeroll. And hey, what were they doing here? Roger shifted on his feet. He hadn't exactly thought about it much except that he didn't want to be alone on that walk. That drunken, unfamiliar walk. It wasn't New York: the only streets he knew. Drunk, he may have ended up in the fucking suburbs.

Were there suburbs? Wait, nope, Roger didn't care.

He opened his mouth to speak again and his pager rung to life. His face flushed furiously, a flash of that bitterness in the back of his throat. The thing was deafening in the silence of the street -- another thing that Roger was unaccustomed to.

He lifted the side of his shirt and pressed the thing off. He thought AZT break.

Roger was frozen for a few seconds. His pills were in his apartment. All he had to do was separate himself from these prying, intense eyeballs and he would be home free. Free enough to take his pills without judgement. Not that he was great at taking them in the first place without Mark's incessant nagging.

It was crazy what kind of dumb shit he missed.

"Thanks for the walk," Roger said, tone sober as it ever was. With that, he headed toward the stairs, quick enough that there was not a chance Rafael would think he should follow. He might have anyway. It was clear this one was a glutton for punishment.