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A worn flannel shirt and torn, faded jeans littered the floor of Sonny’s bedroom, caught in a shaft of sunlight from his window like the dust in the air, like old skin shed. Water ran in the bathroom, its heat touching Rafael’s skin as he pushed open the door and steam curled out. He knew the water was hot, as hot as it could go, but he could still see. See the man on the other side of the glass of the shower door.
Sonny was safe, and he was home. Done with Smitty or Jones or whatever persona he’d assumed these last few weeks, sent undercover, yet again, to take down the latest sex trafficking ring targeting children. One more case, one more success, yet one more crack into Sonny’s soul.
One more crack into Rafael’s. Every time Sonny was gone, every time he was not Sonny. Every time he had to step into the filth and the mire. Every time he had to live it. Sonny was not Sonny, then, but it was Sonny who carried the cracks. Rafael would carry them, too, because he understood. Because he loved.
But Sonny was safe, and he was home. This time. Again. Rafael exhaled the breath he felt he’d been holding since the last time Sonny was Sonny, and not Smitty or Jones or whoever. Sonny was safe. Rafael could see it in the lines of Sonny’s body, as he held his face up to the water, eyes closed and hair darkened by the stream. He could see it on Sonny’s skin, smooth and clear and washed clean. He could see it in Sonny’s strength, standing straight and tall and steady.
Rafael stepped back into the bedroom and picked up the discarded clothes on the floor, Smitty’s clothes, or Jones’ or whoever’s. Not Sonny’s. He reached into the pocket of the jeans and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he knew would be there. Sonny’s cigarettes. These were his, something he’d left behind back in high school, but still a part of him that had existed, that could fit in the filth and the mire. Unlike a badge or a rosary or a picture of his niece. Something to anchor him to who he really was. To Sonny Carisi. Not to Smitty or Jones or whoever.
Rafael saw only five cigarettes were gone, as he heard the water shut off in the bathroom. Sonny was safe, and he was home, and the last time he’d been undercover, it’d been almost the whole pack. The time before, a whole pack gone and more. Sonny had something else to hold onto, now, to carry with him, someone to hold him, to seal the cracks, to call home.
Rafael lifted his eyes and saw Sonny standing in the bathroom doorway, hair wet and disordered, his skin glowing and flushed, a damp towel slung low on his slender hips.
Sonny was safe, and he was home.
Rafael dropped the cigarettes and the jeans. He moved to Sonny and touched. He touched every part of Sonny’s body he could reach. Rafael felt the warm-washed skin, the strength of bone and muscle, and the beating heart.
He’s safe.
Rafael looked at Sonny’s face and touched. He touched like a blind man, tracing cheekbone and mouth and jaw. Rafael watched Sonny’s eyes, so blue and steady and clear.
He’s home.
They touched foreheads, sharing space and breath and love. Rafael inhaled, soap and shampoo, and clean, pure Sonny, free from the filth and the mire. From cigarette smoke. From Smitty or Jones or whoever.
Rafael smiled and touched. He touched the dimples on Sonny’s face and the laugh lines by his eyes.
Rafael smiled and held.
He’s safe. He’s home. He’s Sonny.