Work Text:
"You're dodging the question, Mr. Barba."
Camille Joneson tapped her pen against her lower lip, her green eyes narrowed in assessment. She was sitting in the corner of Rafael Barba’s living room, legs crossed, a digital recorder humming silently on the coffee table between them.
"I’m answering the question I wish you had asked," Barba corrected, pouring himself another finger of scotch. He didn't offer her one; she had declined the first three times, claiming it dulled her edge. "It’s a standard legal tactic. You should be familiar with it by now."
"I'm not a jury," Camille said, leaning forward. "And this isn't a courtroom. It's a profile. My readers don't care about your legal tactics. They care about the fall."
"The fall?" Barba raised an eyebrow, taking a sip.
"The Golden Boy of the DA's office. The man with the unblemished conviction rate. You kill a baby, you get acquitted, and then you vanish for two years, only to resurface defending the very people you used to lock up." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "They want to know if you sold your soul, Rafael. Or if you just finally admitted you never had one."
She was good. Barba had to give her that. Camille Joneson had a reputation for flaying her subjects alive with a smile, and she was living up to it. She was sharp, attractive in a terrifyingly modern way, and utterly relentless.
"You think the soul is a fixed asset?" Barba mused, walking over to the window to look out at the rain-slicked streets. "Something you lose or keep? It's currency, Camille. You spend it to get things done."
"And what did you buy with yours?"
"Freedom."
"Bullshit."
The word cracked through the room like a whip.
Barba turned around. Camille had put her notepad down. She stood up, smoothing the skirt of her charcoal suit.
"You didn't leave because you wanted freedom," she said, walking toward him. "You left because you were heartbroken. You talk about the law like it's a lover that cheated on you."
Barba felt a muscle in his jaw jump. She was getting too close. Not just to the truth, but to the raw nerve he kept buried under layers of cynicism and bespoke tailoring.
"This interview is over," he said coldly.
"Is it?" Camille challenged. She stopped two feet from him. "I have everything I need for the piece. 'Rafael Barba: The Man Who Ran Away.' I can run it as is. Or..."
"Or?"
"Or you can stop giving me the press release version and give me the truth. Off the record."
Barba looked at her. She was vibrating with ambition. She wanted the scoop, yes, but there was something else in her eyes. The thrill of the hunt. She wanted to crack him open just to see if he bled like everyone else.
"You want off the record?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
"I want to know who you really are when the court is adjourned."
Barba set his glass down on the windowsill. He closed the distance between them in one stride.
"Careful, Ms. Joneson," he warned, invading her personal space. "You might not like what you find in the discovery phase."
"Try me."
He grabbed her waist. It wasn't a gentle invitation; it was a seizure. He pulled her flush against him, feeling the sharp intake of her breath against his chest.
"You think I sold my soul?" he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. "Maybe I did. Maybe I traded it for the ability to take what I want without asking for permission."
He moved his hand up her spine, gripping the back of her neck, forcing her to look up at him.
"Is this part of the profile?" she gasped, her pulse visible in her throat.
"This is the research."
He kissed her.
It was calculated aggression. He kissed her the way he cross-examined a hostile witness—dominating the narrative, cutting off her escape routes, demanding submission. Camille hesitated for a fraction of a second—the journalist weighing the ethics—before her ambition (and her libido) won out.
She kissed him back hard, her hands gripping the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer. She tasted like mint tea and calculated risk.
Barba walked her backward. She stumbled in her heels but kept her balance, her body arching into his. He backed her until her legs hit the edge of the heavy oak desk where he did his consulting work.
He lifted her, sweeping a stack of case files onto the floor.
"My notes," she protested weakly as he set her on the edge.
"You won't need them," he promised. "You're going to remember this."
He stepped between her legs, his hands going to the buttons of her silk blouse. He undid them with efficient, practiced movements, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You like digging for secrets," he said, pushing the fabric aside to reveal a sheer, sensible bra. "Let's see what you're hiding."
"I'm an open book," she claimed, though her breathing was shallow.
"Everyone has a redacted file."
He unclasped her bra, letting her breasts spill out. He cupped them, his thumbs brushing over the nipples, watching them harden instantly. Camille’s head fell back, a low moan escaping her throat.
"Is the recorder still on?" she asked, her voice hazy.
Barba glanced at the coffee table where the red light was still blinking steady.
"Let it run," he said. "You wanted an exclusive."
The idea of the recording—of the sounds of their intimacy being captured, preserved, potentially analyzed—added a layer of voyeuristic heat to the moment.
He leaned down, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Camille cried out, her hands tangling in his hair.
"Rafael," she gasped, using his first name without the mocking tone she’d used earlier.
He moved his hands up her skirt, finding the warmth of her inner thighs. She was wearing pantyhose. He hated pantyhose. They were a barrier.
"Stand up," he ordered, pulling away from her chest.
She slid off the desk, her legs shaky. She looked disheveled—blouse open, skirt twisted, lips swollen. She looked like a story that was being rewritten in real-time.
"Turn around."
She turned, placing her hands on the desk for support. Barba gripped the waistband of the pantyhose and ripped. The sound of the nylon tearing was loud in the quiet apartment.
"That was expensive," she complained, looking back over her shoulder.
"Bill me," he retorted.
He tore a hole large enough to access her, leaving the rest of the ruined nylon clinging to her legs like a web. He shoved her skirt up to her waist.
He didn't undress. He just unzipped his fly. He wanted the contrast—the fully dressed attorney and the disheveled journalist.
He entered her from behind.
Camille let out a sharp cry, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge of the desk. She was tight, dry from the tension, but she adjusted quickly, her body yielding to his invasion.
"You write about power dynamics," Barba gritted out, thrusting into her slowly, forcing her to accommodate him. "You analyze motives. What's my motive right now, Camille?"
"To... shut me up," she panted.
"Wrong." He drove deeper, his hips slapping against her buttocks. "My motive is to prove that you're just as much of a hypocrite as I am."
"How?" she challenged, pushing back against him.
"Because you're enjoying this. You're sleeping with the subject. You've compromised your objectivity."
"I'm... participating... in the story," she justified, her voice breaking as he hit a sensitive spot.
Barba laughed—a dark, humorless sound. He sped up. He treated her body like a piece of evidence he was dissecting. He was rough, demanding, and entirely focused on his own release, yet attuned to every gasp she made.
"Tell me," he demanded, leaning forward to bite the sensitive cord of her neck. "Why did you really chase this story?"
"Because... you're... fascinating," she admitted, her head thrashing.
"Liar. You chased it because you wanted to know if I was broken. You wanted to see the cracks."
"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes!"
"Here I am," he growled, slamming into her. "Look at the cracks."
The friction was building. The sound of their bodies colliding, the wet slap of skin, her ragged breathing—it was all being captured by the little device on the coffee table.
Barba reached around, finding her clit through the torn nylon. He rubbed it rhythmically, mercilessly.
Camille fell apart.
She screamed, her legs giving out, leaving her suspended by her grip on the desk and his grip on her hips. She convulsed around him, her internal muscles milking him.
"Don't stop," she begged, "God, don't stop."
"I'm not done with you," he promised.
He pounded into her through her climax, chasing the high. He felt the familiar pressure building in his own groin—the need to expel the frustration, the anger, the endless questions.
He let go. He groaned, burying his face in her hair, and poured himself into her. It was a violent, shuddering release that left him seeing spots.
He held her there for a moment, his weight pressing her into the desk, waiting for his heart rate to drop below a sprint.
Slowly, he pulled out. Camille sagged against the desk, her forehead resting on the cool wood.
Barba stepped back, adjusting his clothes. He zipped his fly, tucked in his shirt, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked remarkably composed, considering what had just happened.
He walked over to the coffee table and picked up the recorder. The red light was still blinking.
He walked back to the desk. Camille was straightening up, trying to fix her blouse with trembling fingers. She looked at him, her eyes wide, waiting to see what he would do.
Barba held the recorder up.
"You have two choices," he said calmly. "Choice A: You keep this recording. You write your story. You mention the sex, or you don't. But if you do, I sue you for defamation and I bury your career so deep you'll be writing obituaries in a newsletter in Topeka."
Camille swallowed. "And Choice B?"
"Choice B: You delete it. You write the profile. You say I was enigmatic, guarded, and brilliant. You say I left the DA's office because the system was broken, not me. And..."
He paused, looking at her ruined stockings.
"And you come back next week for a follow-up interview."
Camille looked at the recorder. She looked at Barba. She looked at the desk where she had just been thoroughly dismantled.
She reached out and took the recorder from his hand.
She pressed the 'Delete' button. The red light vanished.
"I prefer follow-ups," she said, her voice steadying. "They allow for deeper analysis."
"I agree," Barba said, a smirk touching his lips.
He walked to the bar cart and finally poured two glasses of scotch. He walked back and handed her one.
"To the truth," he toasted.
Camille took the glass. She took a long sip, the amber liquid burning her throat.
"To the version of it we can print," she corrected.
She finished the drink, gathered her notepad from the floor, and shoved it into her bag. She didn't bother fixing her hair. The messy look worked for her.
"Same time next week?" she asked, heading for the door.
"Don't be late," Barba replied. "I bill by the hour."
She opened the door, then paused.
"Barba?"
"Yes?"
"You didn't answer the question."
"Which one?"
"Did you regret it? Leaving?"
Barba looked at her. He thought about the gray. He thought about the freedom. He thought about the empty apartment and the nights like this.
"No," he said. "I don't believe in regret. I believe in precedent."
"Good quote," she said.
She closed the door.
Barba stood alone in the living room. He looked at the empty glass in his hand. He looked at the desk.
He walked over to his sound system and turned on some jazz—Coltrane, chaotic and loud.
He sat down at the desk, pulled a fresh legal pad toward him, and began to work on a motion to dismiss.