Chapter Text
They meet in a bar.
It's not a gay bar, not exactly, but it's a known watering hole for people who value discretion. The drinks are overpriced, but the dark mahogany details and the low amber lighting give off the illusion of exclusivity and luxury.
Barba doesn't know the other man's name, he only knows that the guy’s suit is actually cheaper than it looks and that he's interested in Barba. And right now, that's enough. The Brooklyn D.A.'s office has become a particularly hostile work environment and he'll take what he can get tonight.
The man waits until Barba's on his second glass of scotch before making his way over, and Barba admits that he has a nice smile--dark eyes, dark hair, and two days worth of stubble, too. His hands are large where they rest on the bar next to Barba's own; Barba cocks a smirk at him and is pleased when it's readily returned. The man orders a bourbon and asks Barba about his taste in hard liquor, which disappoints him a little--it's not much of an opener, but it's better than a cliché.
After a couple of minutes of easy conversation and a few traded quips, the man offers his hand, and Barba delights in the heavy warmth of it. He has a grip that’s strong and sure.
"John," the man says, by way of introduction.
They're both adults, there's no need for pseudonyms or last names.
"Rafael," Barba returns with a crooked smile.
• • •
They fumble into John's apartment and it's dim inside but one little lamp in the corner gives them all the light they need.
John strips him of his tie rather violently, but Barba’s just sober enough to appreciate that John doesn't tear the buttons off his shirt. John's outfit may not be as expensive as Barba's own, but at least the other man recognizes that and treats Barba's garments with care. Barba kisses him hungrily and sticks his hand in John's pants as a reward.
He grins against the other man's stubble when he's pushed against a wall and thoroughly groped. He's a little disappointed with himself for opting for a belt over something a bit flashier that morning, like his suspenders, but he forgets about it around the same time that John licks his way inside of his mouth. They moan together and Barba's suddenly certain he made the right choice when John's hips grind against his, almost hard enough to hurt, just on the right side of pleasure, and the pressure chases every thought of work out of his mind.
John abruptly pushes him down to his knees and Barba likes that, too--likes the roughness and the illusion of domination after a long day of maintaining tight-fisted control over himself in the courtroom. He might play hard to get later, but for now he eagerly pulls John's stiff cock out of his dress trousers and assesses the view.
John’s not long, probably about average, but he's thick and heavy in Barba's hands, and Barba feels his stomach tighten with want.
It's been a while.
Too long, really.
John's fingers impatiently snake through his hair and Barba takes the hint, and takes John into his mouth. The low, almost wounded sound John makes causes his own cock twitch in his pants, but he resists the temptation to touch himself. He can be patient. He bobs his head a bit and enjoys the way John pants and swears and murmurs his name.
It strikes Barba that it's been a while since he's heard that. The last man he was with--nearly five months ago, now--probably hadn't even remembered his name by the time they'd decided to sleep together. But to be fair, Barba didn't recall his either.
But John mutters Rafael like it's a prayer.
Barba's not looking for anything long term. Hell, he's not looking for anything beyond a possible round two in the morning, but he likes the way his name sounds in this stranger's mouth.
He's a bit sloppy, his head still glowing with the aftermath of too much liquor, and just as he’s really finding his rhythm John holds him by the hair and rocks his hips away. Barba glances up in surprise. John's breathing heavily and looking down at Barba's wet, pink mouth like he's never seen anything better in his life, so Barba wonders why he stopped.
"Bedroom," John tells him, and that answers that.
Nodding, Barba allows the larger man to pull him to his feet and lead him by the hips into the small bedroom, which is washed in a strip of molten gold from a streetlamp outside the window. Barba glimpses a neatly made bed, a clean floor, and a tidy IKEA dresser, and he takes a moment to be glad that John isn't a slob.
That's about all Barba has time to observe before he's pushed playfully onto the bed, which is softer than he expects. He leans back on his elbows and watches John strip naked, and then allows the other man to tug off his own pants--even helpfully lifts his hips to make it easier. Once they're both well and truly bare, John settles his rather considerable weight over him and he can't contain a groan--the unique heat of another body, the scrape of stubble and blunt nails, the way John's strong fingers dig into the flesh of his thigh, his wrist, his knee, his neck--
"It's been a while," Barba has the presence of mind to murmur in between his heaving breaths.
John kisses his throat and doesn't reply for a moment. Barba feels a tickle of apprehension, but then John pats him on the knee and shifts away, moving into the bathroom.
He returns with lube and a condom and Barba's relieved.
"Me too," John says, and then clarifies at Barba's obviously distracted expression. "Been a while."
Barba licks his lip and nods, watching John roll the condom over his red cock. Like most men he knows, Barba's versatile in bed, and he doesn't especially mind that John has apparently made some assumptions about how the night is going to go--Barba prefers to be asked, but he's eager enough to be open-minded about who is going in who.
He accepts John's weight against his body again and sighs at the slide of skin, caught between appreciating the moment and wanting to move things along to the main event. As if reading his mind, John wraps a thick hand around his hip and manhandles Barba until he's on his belly, and they both sound a bit winded by the time that John works a well-lubed finger inside of him. It's a little sudden and a little rough but Barba can’t think of the words to politely protest when John abruptly ups the ante a few moments later and skips to two fingers--he just winces and fists his hands in the sheets and rides out the discomfort.
John alternates between panting and kissing the back of his neck as he works his way to three fingers, and Barba tersely warns John against hickies with an embarrassingly strained voice. He can only imagine showing up at the office on Monday, covered in violet kiss-marks like a teenager--
John rumbles a laugh into his ear but complies, switching his attention to Barba's shoulder, where he scrapes his teeth and huffs hot air as he withdraws his fingers.
Barba has only a moment to process the implication before John lines himself up and pushes his cock in quickly, and Barba spasms unpleasantly at the intrusion, stomach muscles cramping with the effort of holding in a shout. He sucks in a breath instead, wanting to tell the older man to take it slow, but John starts muttering reassurances and kneading the skin at his hip, and he forces himself to relax. He's just a little out of practice, they both are, he just needs a moment.
John shifts slightly as he waits, rocking shallowly but with great impatience. Embarrassment reigns over pain so Barba only takes a few moments before nodding, and then he's forced to grit his teeth as John enthusiastically shoves in deeper.
He reaches out and grabs one of Barba's wrists in a crushing grip, grunting as he bottoms out.
Barba sucks in air, shuddering beneath him, and is glad when the ache relents soon enough, as he knew it would. John has him effectively pinned down, and now that his body is warming up to the welcome predicament he feels his cock respond. He ruts against the sheets as John sets a punishing pace, losing himself to the snap of their hips and the fire in his stomach.
God, it feels so good, after so long--
John pulls Barba's wrist until it rests against his back, not unlike the hold a cop might have on an arrestee, and Barba spares a moment to secretly appreciate the irony. But then John's shifting his weight and pushing down, and Barba finds it hard to breathe as the pressure increases on his arm and ribcage.
He wheezes. John pants and thrusts.
Barba's face flushes and he feels a roar of unease--he can't really breathe--then John digs his fingers in harder and moans and rocks back a bit, allowing Barba to gasp in air. He feels trapped but the angle is incredible, and his sudden, feverish need to come takes over his discomfort. A breathy moan tears itself from somewhere deep inside of him and John picks up the pace, clearly pleased at Barba’s pleasure, his sweat dripping down onto Barba's skin.
Barba writhes as he comes, lightheaded and reeling with the glory of it, nearly oblivious as John’s thrusts become bruising in pursuit of his own climax.
He bites the junction of Barba's shoulder and throat, hard, and shouts against his flesh.
• • •
Barba lays in a daze through his afterglow. It feels like his skin and lungs are on fire, his brain a hazy glowing ember of satisfaction.
He hasn't come that hard in a while.
John seems similarly content if the way he smiles and pulls Barba close afterward are any indication. Barba's not much for cuddling after a casual lay but he's too tired to move away, even if the sticky confinement of John's arms is a bit too much stimulation in that moment.
It's nearly 1AM by the time that he untangles himself from John and hits the bathroom, feeling faintly relieved when his host doesn't stir. He closes the door quietly and flips the light on, and blinks in surprise at his reflection. He looks thoroughly debauched and just a bit haunted. Several sleepless nights have taken their toll and John's nails and teeth have left faint, raw-looking marks across his skin. Barba touches the bite on his shoulder and is vaguely disgusted--John hadn't broken the skin but now, in the aftermath, Barba's annoyed by the gall of it and the tacky remnants of salvia. He runs water over his hands and wipes himself down as best as he can without soiling the red towel that hangs on the back of the door. He desperately wants a shower, but he wants to sneak out even more than that.
Clicking the light off and opening the bathroom door slowly, he peers across the room and sighs with relief when he finds that John hasn't moved an inch--still asleep, unable to protest as Barba collects his scattered clothing and redresses, carefully checking his pockets and confirming that his cell phone and wallet hadn't spilled out in the mad dash to get naked.
He lets himself out and then hesitates in the hallway, staring blankly at John's front door. He hasn't snuck out on a lover since college and it hadn't been a big deal to leave a dorm room unlocked, but this is a mid-priced apartment complex in New York City, not Harvard--there is a difference.
Barba curses and lets himself back in, making his way through the apartment with annoyance. He gently lays a hand on John's bare shoulder, and the older man shifts and mumbles.
"Hey. I'm heading out," Barba tells him in what's little more than a whisper, feeling awkward and out of place. "Lock your door."
John grunts and lifts a hand to scratch his cheek, and Barba decides that that's acknowledgement enough. He quickly retreats back into the landing and adjusts his jacket as he waits for the elevator, unspeakably grateful that the hall is empty.
His gratitude is magnified tenfold when the taxi driver doesn't comment on his disheveled appearance and faint limp.
• • •
They meet again, two months later, after Barba figures that enough time has passed to risk going back to the bar. He's not proud of running off in the middle of the night and he has some lingering unease about how his encounter with John had gone, but it's been long enough that it all feels like a distant, unwarranted concern.
He assumes that the other man has moved on, so he feels like an idiot when John slides into the seat next to him an hour later with a somewhat bitter smile tugging at his mouth.
Barba knocks back the remainder of his liquor and curses himself.
"Scotch, right? Nice choice," John says, his tone teasing but level. "Can I buy you another?"
Barba feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. He'd expected anger, maybe even disgust, and he's pleased that John isn't the type for melodramatics.
He considers his shitty week, drinks in the sight of John's dark eyes, and nods.
John's smile widens as he orders them both two fingers’ worth of the good stuff.
• • •
It’s pouring rain when they leave an hour later, and they stumble around the block together and into the dark parking garage where John’s sedan waits. The car gives off a friendly beep when John unlocks it, but he presses Barba up against the passenger door instead of climbing inside.
Barba feels a thrill of anxiety--the garage level is abandoned, save for a few empty vehicles a ways away, but he still doesn't want to risk being seen. He gives John a light push to get him off and watches as John's expression sharpens into a predatory smile.
"Eager, aren't you?" John mutters, voice husky, and Barba has a moment to be embarrassed that he mistook Barba's desire for privacy for impatience. But John doesn't protest, he just crosses to his side of the car and gets in.
Barba follows suit and feels the world spin as he collapses into the black leather seat, throwing his head back with a sigh. He hears a jangle of keys and shoots John an apprehensive look as his brain catches up with the situation.
"You shouldn't drive," he says, bleary-eyed, then smiles as John reaches a hand over to caress his thigh.
"It's fine," John reassures.
Barba feels the sloppy grin slip from his face. He tries to remember how many drinks John had but he can't even recall his own count. "You shouldn't," he warns, not even bothering to reach for an eloquent argument about the dangers of drunk driving.
John watches him closely, his eyes just a bit too sharp, and then relents and squeezes down with his hand and leans in closer over the center console.
"Then how about a quickie while we sober up?" He suggests, and Barba's eyes flicker down to his smiling mouth.
"Now who's eager?" He grumbles with a laugh, closing the distance between them with a messy kiss.
John is quick to unzip and pull his half-hard cock out, and Barba blinks and tries to catch up. He doesn't doubt that his expression is anything less than pissy at the realization that John has, once again, made some assumptions. But Barba wants it too, and for once in his life he's not in the mood to start a fight.
"Did you bring protection?" Barba slurs.
"Left it at home, figured we were going there."
Barba's a bit flattered at John's anticipation of him but he's not drunk enough to be stupid. He fumbles with his wallet and pulls out a condom and watches as John's face rolls through something like surprise, and then settles on hunger. Barba gives John a warm-up with his hand and then rolls the condom on.
He awkwardly positions himself across the center console, his back protesting a bit, and John curls a firm hand around the nape of his neck. John's cock twitches and his hips move restlessly but Barba takes his time, enjoying feeling in control of John's pleasure.
Barba strokes him and tries to figure out how to get off, too, because their positions don’t allow John much access.
As if sensing his frustration, John murmurs, "let me see you touch yourself."
Barba flushes but likes the sound of it, likes the needy huskiness in John's voice. He glances around in hope of a spare cloth or an old t-shirt, but John kneads the back of his neck impatiently.
"You can come on my seats, I don’t mind," John says and Barba's not sure if the man’s just that worked up or if he really doesn’t care about having to wipe down the car later.
"It's leather, easy clean up,” John reassures with a voice like gravel.
Barba hesitates but unzips his own slacks and then puts his mouth on John, who swears and throws his head back. His hips canter up a bit, and Barba's grateful he restrains himself from thrusting. The angle isn't easy but Barba finds his pace and soon he's lost in the familiarity of it, the practiced ease of tongue and lips and his hand working himself feverishly.
He's almost startled when John's nails dig into the skin of his neck and push him down harder.
"Do you know how hard it is, finding someone?" John asks absentmindedly, and Barba tries to glance up at him through his eyelashes but can’t manage it from his position.
John uses his free hand to thread his thick fingers through Barba's hair, and then he takes a fistful and tugs. Barba gives an appreciative moan. John's answering grunt of satisfaction sends a thrill through his blood.
"Someone who can take it, without all that fake bullshit. Without being a fucking pansy," John gasps and gives a particularly hard thrust as though to make a point, and Barba gags but doesn't pull back. "And you can take it, can't you, Rafael?"
Barba enjoys dirty talk with the right person, in the right situation, but it's hard to be an active participant with a cock in his mouth and two hands holding him steady--and maybe that is the point, he realizes with irritation. But his annoyance is tempered by the promise of release, so he hums around John's erection and twists with his hand against his own cock.
"God, you're so good, so good," John murmurs and jerks his hips, forcing Barba's nose to press into his thigh. "So fucking good for me."
Barba groans, feeling close enough not to care about what John’s saying anymore. He does his best to relax his throat and breathe.
• • •
John pulls him in for a long, forceful kiss afterward and Barba pants against him, still winded. He sits back up once released from John’s strong fingers, ignoring the twinge of protest in his neck, and gives a contented sigh. John roots around behind the seat for a minute and then produces a rag that looks like it's been used to wipe down the exterior of the car, and Barba takes it gingerly and does his best to clean his hand. He starts to wipe down the seat and console, but John is quick to grab the rag and do it for him, and Barba feels a pleasant twist of gratitude at the gesture.
He's drunk and spent and satisfied.
"I'll be good to drive soon," John murmurs, stuffing the rag under the seat, and Barba spares a thought for how much he wants to shower. "You want to head back to my place?"
Barba hesitates out of politeness, but he has no intention of cuddling into bed and picking things up in the morning. They both got what they wanted and he has a particularly difficult case to prepare for.
"Sorry," Barba says after he's given it a courteous pause. "I should head home."
"I can give you a ride," John offers, and although Barba glances over he can't quite read the other man's expression in the dark. His voice, however, is tinged with a surprising vulnerability, and that only makes Barba want to leave the car faster.
"That's okay. Thanks, though."
John's brow lowers but he doesn't argue, and Barba tells him goodnight as fondly as he can before he stumbles out of the car. His head is still rushing with the aftermath of a bit too much scotch but he manages to find the elevator without incident.
He pulls up the Lyft app on his phone as he rides down and tries not to feel guilty.
• • •
Barba's back at the bar again the following weekend but he's sitting at a small table instead of the counter this time. It's Saturday and busy, and he's waiting for someone in particular, although he and John never actually agreed to another meeting.
Barba stares down into his glass and tries to find something other than work to think about, but his life is so lacking in other enrichments that it creeps in at the corners. He's spiraling fast into melancholy by the time a heavy hand settles on his shoulder forty minutes later, and he jerks with surprise. John squeezes down and then sits across from him, and his eyes glowing with warmth in the dim light.
"You waiting for me?" He asks, leaning forward on his elbows like they're about to discuss state secrets and not what they're both really after tonight. Barba licks his lips and offers a lopsided smile.
"I wasn't," he says loftily, and some part of him is pleased that John is smart enough to recognize the teasing lie and answer him with a grin. "But now that you're here, I'll admit you are a welcome sight."
He feels John's knee brush against his, and then shift so that it's resting on the inner side of his right leg. His liquor-addled brain stutters when John presses higher.
"I was hoping to find you here," John says, and Barba feels a pinch of envy at how easily the admission seems to come to him. "You never gave me your number, Rafael."
Maybe it's the use of his name, or maybe it's the crowded movement of bodies around them, but Barba can't deny the unease that comes with the thought of exchanging contact information. It makes him feel cheap and callous, but he prefers their current arrangement--a clandestine meeting in a bar, no-strings-attached hookups, and the freedom to cut ties when and where he wants.
He just isn't sure how to say that, not when he's already a drink or two past buzzed and John's got that hopeful look in his eyes.
"We should keep it casual," Barba suggests, and then feels like an asshole when the other man's face tightens with disappointment.
Barba lays a tentative hand on top of his and is grateful when John doesn't tug away.
"For now, at least," Barba offers, but cringes inside. He's not trying to lead John on, not really, and he isn't necessarily opposed to the idea in general. Just... not right now.
John considers that, his face unreadable, and then he smiles. It's an oddly flat expression, but Barba thinks he might be reading too much into it because John doesn't remove his knee from Barba's thigh.
"Okay, sure," John agrees, and then goes to order them both some hard liquor.
Barba's head is already feeling light and loose when the fresh glass is set down in front of him but he drinks it anyway, grateful that John's not the type to make a scene.
He's also grateful when John's leg slips back between his own under the table.
• • •
John barely waits for the door of his apartment to close before he's working Barba's suit jacket off and has his fingers picking apart the button of his slacks. Barba's grateful for the breakneck pace because it helps to silence the doubt that had been creeping in over the short taxi ride, despite the way John's hand had been toying with him the whole way.
Now he's backed into the bedroom and kissed so hard he feels the flesh of his lips bruise against his teeth. But he groans all the louder for it, not caring that he sounds like a sloppy drunk. Whatever doubts he'd had about John after their first encounter, well, he’s ready for the rough treatment right now.
John keeps a grip on him and seems more desperate to hold on than before, as if Barba will dissipate the second John's hands leave his skin. Barba feels a punch of guilt for sneaking off in the night that first time, and does his best to reassure John now--he cups his hand around his face and lets the other man put his tongue in his mouth.
He's been stripped bare before he knows it, and if his head's spinning he can blame the scotch, which has worked its way beneath his skin like a bubbling river and makes time flow in strange, stilted fragments. He moves with John and doesn't protest when he's laid flat on his back on the bed.
He feels incredibly relaxed and almost more asleep than aroused by the time John has lube at the ready, so it's nearly a surprise when John cups his hands under Barba's thighs and pulls him closer.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about getting back inside of you," John tells him hoarsely.
Barba gives him a drunken, uncertain smile, but then John's got a finger in him and he sucks in a breath and drops his head back against the blankets.
The prep is minimal, but Barba's not feeling much beyond a warm tingle and a whisper of impatience, so he doesn't object when John sets the blunt head of his cock against him and pushes in.
The next coherent thought that Barba has is alarm. Somewhere in the heat of it all, John has wrapped a firm hand around his throat. Barba arches his back and wraps his fingers around John's wrist, uncertain.
John slows his pace, panting, and mumbles a reassurance, something that sounds like "it's okay, I've got you”, and then he rocks his hips again and presses down with his hand.
Barba's uneasy but he can’t think of an argument, not even when John squeezes hard enough to hurt, and it only lasts for a few moments before John’s shuddering through his release.
Barba pants and swallows hard when the pressure lets up off of his neck, and although he feels John pull out and slide up beside him, he's out before he can think to ask about the chokehold.
• • •
Barba wakes up at 2:47AM with a sore throat and a pounding headache, and he only just manages to stumble into John's bathroom before throwing himself to his knees and heaving liquor and the remnants of a late lunch into the toilet. He trembles and coughs and doesn't give a shit about waking John up this time, but his hacking doesn't bring the other man running.
Barba collapses against the wall, nestled between the tub and the toilet, and leans his head back against the cool tile.
He tries to think about his latest in a series of bad decisions but it's all a painful haze in the aftermath. It hurts to swallow and his muscles ache and his head hasn't stopped throbbing from the moment he woke up. Despite that, he doesn't feel the same rush of shame as the first time he’d found himself in John’s bathroom, and he doesn't yet feel pursued by the imagined judgment of others. He just feels tired.
He decides to take a shower to wake himself up. He doesn't waste much time under the hot water, just scrubs the sweat from his hair and squeezes out a dollop of John's bland body shampoo to take care of the rest.
He freezes when he realizes that John didn’t use a condom.
He holds his breath and swallows hard despite the pain in his throat and he thinks back, but the memories are already soft at the edges. John had gotten lube, he knows that much, but...
The rest doesn’t come to him.
He finishes rinsing off and steps out, chilled in the worst way, and quietly decides to cut back a bit on hard liquor as he towels off. He's sure that they must have discussed having unprotected sex, he just can't remember, can't think of why he would have agreed to it in the first place--he's always been careful.
He quietly pries the bathroom door open and watches John sleep for a moment, curled toward where Barba had been resting beside him, and he feels a rush of anxiety.
This man is a stranger.
He'll have to get tested.
John shifts in his sleep but doesn't wake, and Barba decides that he'll never go back to that damn bar, and that this is his last, humiliating glimpse of his sometimes-lover.
He dresses in the dark.
He shakes John awake, waiting for his head to lift from the pillow this time before speaking.
“Lock your door,” Barba suggests with just a bit too much bite, and then he hurries out of the bedroom. The threat of an STD sticks in his throat, like phlegm he can’t quite clear after a cough, but he only has himself to blame for his recklessness. He has his hand on the door knob when John appears behind him, still naked, in the threshold to the living room, rubbing at his eyes.
“Rafael, wait--”
John sounds confused, maybe even hurt, but Barba’s not in the mood to talk. He’s sore and exhausted and he can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s going to have to use a free clinic like some kind of wayward teenager. He doesn’t need recent STD tests on his medical record any more than he needs his doctor commenting on the constellation of bruises across his hips and thighs and throat.
He leaves and shuts the door behind him and staggers toward the stairs, not willing to wait for the elevator despite how exhausted and unsteady he feels. But he doesn’t have to worry--there’s no one chasing at his heels.
• • •
The next time he sees John, it's almost two years later in the halls of the Manhattan Supreme Court, and he's introduced to Barba as Mickey D’Angelo, Nicolas Amaro Senior's defense attorney.