Work Text:
“Hey, you said you wanted to see me?” Barba asked, stopping in his tracks when Benson, Carisi, and Rollins all looked up in surprise. Every one of them had the same expression on their face—and he would swear he could see guilt in their eyes. He flicked a glance toward Fin, but the sergeant was unhelpful; he was leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, and he spread his hands briefly in a don’t look at me gesture before returning to his nonchalant posture.
“Barba, yes,” Benson said, giving her detectives a pointed look before straightening away from Carisi’s computer screen. She took her glasses off and fidgeted with them while she spoke: “We came across something during the investigation into the woman who’s been stalking Jack.”
“Okayyyy,” Barba said, skimming their faces. Carisi wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Rollins was meeting his eyes with a little too much enthusiasm. “So she was involved in something other than the asinine scheme to kidnap McCoy?”
“No, no, it’s not about her, exactly. As far as we can tell, it was only Jack that she was obsessed with. But…” She looked to her detectives for help, which was so unlike her that Barba felt a stab of real concern.
“Just spit it out, Lieutenant,” he said with more bite than he intended.
“Okay,” she answered, raising her eyebrows at his tone. She held a hand toward the empty chair beside Carisi and said, “You might want to sit down.”
He walked slowly around the desk, unbuttoning his blazer as he went, but he stopped behind the chair and rested his hands on the back. “What’re we looking at?” he asked in a more appropriate tone.
“Well, Abigail wrote stories about McCoy,” Rollins said. “I mean, you know that, they were mentioned in the case. About how she would meet him, seduce him and—she wrote out all these fantasies—”
“I’m aware of the details,” Barba said.
“Okay, well she wasn’t just writing these things in a diary or something, alright, she was actually uploading them to this site for fanfiction.”
“Fanfiction, like the stuff they turned into Fifty Shades of Grey and…that vampire thing?”
“More like Batman and Robin having sex in the back of the Batmobile,” Carisi said, and everyone looked at him. “What? It’s just an example,” he said as color stained his cheeks and crept down into his dimples.
“Ridiculous,” Barba said. He paused. “The Batmobile doesn’t even have a backseat.” He smirked at Carisi and got a grin and eye roll in response. “Anyway, I’m not really seeing the connection. McCoy isn’t some fictional character, he’s a real person.”
“Yeah, that’s a…thing,” Rollins said. “People write fantasies about real life people, like One Direction—they were a boy band—or George Clooney—”
“Jack McCoy is not George Clooney,” Barba interrupted in exasperation. “But we already know Abigail had problems distinguishing reality from fantasy. Unless you have new evidence that someone else is in danger—”
“You’re in one of the stories,” Benson said.
“I’m what?”
“One of the stories that she uploaded, you’re one of the characters. Nothing major, she wrote that you and Jack were in a meeting when she burst in on you and…Jack asked you to leave so they could…”
“Have sex on the desk,” Rollins said.
Barba opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head. Finally he muttered, “One of the characters,” under his breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay. So. I’m assuming there’s more or you wouldn’t call me in here.”
“Yeah, so we noticed that she’d tagged all the characters,” Carisi said.
“Tagging someone is when you—” Rollins started.
“I’m not that old, Detective,” Barba snapped.
She pressed her lips together and raised her hands.
Carisi cleared his throat. “Okay, so…”
“There was a tag for my name?” Barba asked as he finally caught up.
“Yeah, you can see here, Rafael Barba , Manhattan ADA – RPF ,” Carisi read, pointing one long finger at the screen. “So we clicked on it and there are…quite a few fics about you.”
“Fics are what—” Rollins started, but she cut off at the glare Barba shot her way.
“Most are explicit,” Carisi mumbled, and when Barba looked at him, Carisi’s face tightened in a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment before he turned his attention back to the computer. “We scanned some because we were worried there might be something threatening, we know that Abigail’s obsession got more dangerous before anyone was tipped off.”
“And I still think there has to be an invasion of privacy or something,” Rollins said. “One of them spent a full page describing the size and shape of—”
“It’s fiction,” Benson and Carisi said in unison, and an awkward silence descended.
“There’s no law against it,” Carisi added, and his cheeks were darker than ever.
Barba looked from him to Benson, and her eyes held sympathy. Barba pulled the chair back and sank into it. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Carisi’s right,” he said. “I assume they’re not making money off writing this…” He curled his lip at the monitor for a second, trying to find the right word.
“Porn?” Fin suggested unhelpfully.
“Nonsense,” Barba said, ignoring the sergeant. Barba’s eyes, without his permission, scanned some of the text on Carisi’s computer screen, and he jerked his gaze away as heat crept out of his collar. “And there’s no law against fantasizing about people, even if you…put it out there for the world…” He blew a puff of air through pursed lips and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Alright, so this has been fun, but I—”
“Wait, there’s more,” Benson said.
He blinked at her, his stomach clenching. “More?”
“Well, we’re still looking,” Rollins said. “But Sonny decided to search your name on Facebook—”
“And there’s a fan group,” Carisi finished. “It’s a closed group, so we couldn’t see the posts.”
“So instead of sending it to tech, we figured it’d be faster to just start a fake account and join the group. But you have to answer a question before you’re approved, so Liv thought it best if we each make an account, answer the question differently, for maximum chance of getting in,” Rollins said.
Barba looked at Benson. “Surely there’s a better use of your time?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Not at the moment,” she said with a smile. She knew exactly how uncomfortable he was, and while she had sympathy, she was also enjoying his discomfort.
“What was the question?”
“What feature we like best about, and I quote: ‘New York’s sexiest ADA, Rafael Barba,’” Rollins said. “I said your desire for justice, but I don’t expect to get in for that. I’m guessing it’s not that kind of club.” She grinned at him. “But they took all the good answers.”
“I…Do I want to know?” he asked Benson.
“I said eyes,” the lieutenant said.
“I said tits,” Fin offered. When everyone looked at him, he held out his hands. “What? I don’t get paid enough for this, man,” he said. He pushed to his feet. “I’m going to get coffee,” he told Benson, and she nodded.
“Hey!” Carisi exclaimed, leaning toward the computer as a notification popped up in the corner of his screen. “I’m in!”
Rollins sighed. “Glad I wasn’t allowed to make that bet,” she said, glancing over at Benson.
Carisi had already closed out of the fanfiction site and pulled up Facebook. Barba saw two photos of himself—the cover photo was him in front of a mess of microphones, clearly a still pulled from the evening news, and the smaller inset was a candid shot of him walking out of Forlini’s. His stomach squirmed uneasily at the sight.
“Okay, there are a lot of pictures,” Carisi muttered after a quick scroll down the page. “There might be some stalking goin’ on here.” He went back to the top of the page. “Four hundred and twenty members.”
“Ah, man,” Rollins said, reaching over to hit Carisi in the shoulder. “Lucky number four-twenty goes to Dominick Carisi, Jr.”
Carisi smiled good-naturedly, but Barba’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the nervousness hidden in the corners of the detective’s lips. “What was your answer?” Barba asked, and Carisi cut him a sideways look.
Before Carisi could answer, Rollins said, “Ass—and no wonder he got in. Seem to be a lot of people appreciating your backside, Counsellor—”
“Rollins,” Benson said, the warning in her tone unmistakable.
“Sorry, Liv,” Rollins answered, “but the first post here says ‘ADA Barba has everything a girl could want—class, sass, and an incredible ass.’ And there are twenty comments about how his tailored suits—”
“Chief Dodds,” Benson said, her posture stiffening as the police chief walked into the squadroom.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” Dodds said. “Detectives. Counsellor.” He surveyed their expressions. “Something I should know about?”
“No,” Barba said before he could stop himself, and Carisi snorted softly beside him.
“We’re looking into the possibility of someone stalking Rafael,” Benson said. “We don’t have anything concrete at the moment, just some online posts and pictures. This is only preliminary.”
“Pictures and posts,” Dodds answered. He frowned as he reached the desk. “What kinds of posts?”
Rollins said, “This one says, ‘That’s one Cuban cigar I’d love to smoke, if you know what I—’”
“Detective,” Benson snapped, and Rollins fell silent.
Barba cursed the heat in his cheeks a thousand times. Benson walked over behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Right, well I’ll leave you to it,” Dodds said after several seconds of uncomfortable silence. He turned on his heel and left the way he’d come in.
Carisi started laughing. He looked up at Benson and saw her warning look, and he held up a hand, but he couldn’t fully erase the amusement from his expression. “Sorry, Lieu, but if I knew all we had to do to get rid of the chief was mention Barba’s dick—Okay, okay, sorry.” He looked at Barba. “Sorry,” he repeated, sounding more contrite.
Barba cleared his throat. “Happy to…play my part,” he said, his lips quirking in spite of his embarrassment.
Carisi and Rollins both laughed, and Barba looked over his shoulder at Benson. She shook her head in exasperation, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. She squeezed his shoulder in a show of support.
“Alright,” Carisi said after a few moments, “I went to the most recent announcement posted by the mods, and apparently things have gotten heated lately. Look here, there are a bunch of banned words.”
“Long live the first amendment,” Barba muttered sarcastically.
“Oh, no wonder Fin didn’t get in. ‘Tits,’ ‘titties,’ and ‘tiddies’ have been banned.”
Barba barely resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest, and his face burned hotter than ever. Carisi reached over absently and patted his arm. “A lot of objectifying words, here. Guess ‘ass’ didn’t make the list, but ‘dick’ and ‘any synonyms including bulge’ are against the rules as of two days ago.”
“I—What—Jesus Christ,” Barba said. “I don’t—Who are these people? Four hundred people ?”
“Look, it’s not all bad,” Carisi told him, once more pointing a finger at the screen. “A lot of people are actually going after others for objectifying someone as ‘morally-sound’ and ‘brilliant’ and saying that the world needs more people like you.”
“Yeah,” Rollins said, “and the next person after that comment said the world needs more people who fill out their trousers the way you do.”
“Amanda,” Carisi said, shooting her a pointed look.
She glanced from Carisi to Benson. “I’m just reading the posts,” she said defensively. “We want to see if there’s anything illegal here. They clearly pay close attention to details—this comment talks about his socks—” She broke off at the sound of her phone and fished it out of her pocket.
“My socks?” Barba asked, looking at Carisi because he was afraid to read the comments on the screen.
Carisi grimaced. “Someone said that your bright-colored socks made them develop a foot fetish—Look, you probably don’t need to hear all of these.”
“Nick,” Rollins answered her phone. “Here, let me put you on speaker so you can say hello to everyone. Liv, Sonny, and Barba are here.” She held up the phone.
“Hey, guys,” Amaro’s voice said, and Carisi and Benson said a couple of brief hellos. “How’s it going?”
“Did you know Barba has a fan page on Facebook?” Rollins asked.
Barba closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Barba has fans?” Amaro teased. “Just kidding, Counsellor, you know everyone loves you,” he added. “What kind of things do these ‘fans’ say?”
“Someone mentioned a foot fetish so now they’re talking about the size of his shoes,” Rollins supplied, and the sound of Amaro’s laughter made Barba grind his teeth.
“He does have big feet for someone his height,” Amaro said.
“Let’s move this along, Carisi,” Benson told her detective, and Carisi scrolled a bit further.
“Okay, well this woman says she goes to Forlini’s and hangs out just hoping to see him,” Carisi said. “And she posted two pictures of Barba at the bar, someone else commented that they wish his lips…were, uh…on them instead of the glass, but then the next person said they wish there were videos of him eating because she said she’s seen it and there’s nothing…sexier. That’s super squicky.”
“Whoa,” Amaro said from the phone’s speaker, “are we looking into people following him?” All traces of humor were gone from his voice.
“We?” Barba couldn’t help the jab; his hackles were more than a little raised.
“This must be grounds for at least a warrant ,” Rollins said. “That’s stalking—”
“No,” Barba said despite the acid churning in his stomach. “While it might be squicky , it’s not illegal to wait around hoping to see someone. If it was, the NYPD would spend all their time on Broadway breaking up crowds of people hanging around stage doors. Unless there’s evidence that they’ve followed me home…” He felt ill at the thought.
“Not so far,” Carisi said, frowning as he scanned post after post. “This is Spanish but I don’t know what these words mean.” He looked at Barba. Barba pressed his lips together and shook his head. Carisi looked at Benson, instead.
The lieutenant put her glasses back on and leaned down to read the post. She immediately straightened and said, “I am not translating that. But it’s not relevant.”
“Hit me,” Amaro said.
“Amanda,” Benson warned, but Rollins was already reading the Spanish aloud.
Amaro whistled, then laughed and said, “‘One day I hope to choke to death on his enormous—”
“Okay!” Carisi interrupted. “Okay, I’m sorry I asked.”
“Time to say goodbye, Nick,” Benson said.
Amaro laughed again. “Alright, take care, everyone.”
Rollins ended the call and slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Well, if we can’t charge them with anything for waiting around the bar, what about posting pictures without his permission?”
“He could probably sue, but he’s something of a public figure,” Carisi said. “It would depend on the judge.”
“And we all know how half of them feel about me,” Barba added. “Not that I would sue. If there’s no video—”
“Holy shit, that’s me ,” Carisi said, suddenly leaning forward again. There was a post of five photos of the detective and the ADA together—two having drinks in Forlini’s, one at a press conference, one on the courthouse steps, and one of them in court, sitting at their table with their heads bent close together in conference—with the caption: Our hot little ADA with the FINEST of New York’s finest—are they more than coworkers?
“First comment—‘How does he run in pants that tight?’” Rollins said, “and the next person says, ‘Do you think they just spend all day spinning in circles, admiring each other’s ass?’”
Carisi made a choked sound and looked helplessly at Barba.
Barba cocked an eyebrow at him. “Feels a whole lot squickier now, doesn’t it?” he remarked drily.
“‘There’s no way he’s gay,’ this woman says,” Rollins continued. “‘Give me five minutes alone with him and I’ll prove it. In fact, leave him at my place for the night.’ Someone called her out, said that was homophobic and gross, she said, ‘You’re just jealous—don’t worry, I don’t mind sharing. I’m going to kidnap a Cuban hottie! I’ll drop him by your place when I’m done.’”
“That’s a threat of kidnapping,” Carisi said.
“This other woman went off on her, so she says, ‘I’m only joking, Becky! I’m so sick of this PC bullshit—oh wait, is that a banned word?’ followed by an eye-roll emoji,” Rollins said.
“I think at the very least, we need to shut this group down,” Benson said. “And send a clear message—”
“There are pictures of you, Liv,” Rollins cut in. “Look, the comments keep going, everything from how Barba and Carisi must be fucking all the time—I’m sorry, that’s what it says! It goes back and forth from that to how Barba’s not gay and someone posted a picture of him with Rita Calhoun and said they’re clearly fuh—involved, and then this person here just started spamming the comments with pictures of you and Barba together. Forlini’s, having drinks, having dinner. In the courthouse. Walking down the sidewalk together with coffee. Outside the precinct. In your car . Okay, come on, this looks pretty stalkerish to me. All from the same person—maybe they googled them but there’s no way they just happened to run across you two in all these places. It must be worth looking into it?”
“Alright,” Benson said. Her voice was tight. “Look into it. Are there any pictures at or near our apartments?” she asked, and Barba reached up to cover her hand on his shoulder. He knew she was worried about Noah, and he didn’t blame her. It was one thing for people to take pictures of Barba when he was out and about, and talk about his ass, but lines had been crossed if the detectives or their families were being compromised.
“No, not that I see,” Carisi answered. “There’s just a lot of arguing about who makes a better couple.”
After a few beats, Rollins said, “Should I be insulted that they don’t think I should be sleeping with the ‘hottest lawyer in five boroughs?’”
“Guess you should’ve spent more time admiring my eyes and ass than my desire for justice,” Barba said, earning a laugh from the three cops. He sighed and reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Look, obviously I can’t be involved in warrants or the investigation, here. But this is a gray area at best, there’s nothing that explicitly says anyone is following me or any of us, there’s no posts of audio recordings and photos by themselves aren’t necessarily illegal.”
“Until they catch you changing in a locker room,” Carisi muttered.
“They’ll be waiting a hell of a long time,” Barba returned.
“We need to arrest them for something,” Carisi said. “This is gross. I thought the fanfiction was bad—”
“I don’t think we read enough,” Rollins interrupted. “They were all reader-insert, but maybe we should check to see if you have a tag.” She glanced at Benson. “Either of you. Maybe this person is also writing explicit—”
“If they are, I’d rather not know,” Benson interrupted.
“Seconded,” Carisi said.
Barba snorted. In spite of himself, he was beginning—finally—to see some humor in the situation. “Next time we all go to court together, I’ll put an arm around each of you and really get them talking.”
“We’re shutting the page down,” Benson reminded him.
He looked over his shoulder at her and smirked. “Shame,” he said.
“Before you get too cocky, remember that this started because someone was obsessed with McCoy ,” Rollins said.
Carisi spoke before Barba could answer. “You’re just jealous because you don’t get to sleep with these people’s fantasy version of Barba.”
Rollins sighed, and Carisi grinned, shooting Barba a quick wink.
“Maybe you should join this group,” Fin said, sauntering into the squadroom with a cup of coffee. “Give the people what they want.” He looked around at them. “What? I miss something? Nope, wait, I don’t wanna know.”
“Okay, well, I’m going home to take a scalding hot shower,” Barba said, pushing to his feet. “Not that it’ll get rid of the grossness.”
“We’ll follow up on all of this,” Benson promised.
He nodded once. “I appreciate you all looking out,” he said, and he meant it—even Fin and Rollins would have his back. He glanced at the computer screen, where he could still see photos of himself with Carisi and Benson and all the speculations accompanying them. He grimaced and shook his head. “I’ll see you all tomorrow,” he said, getting a chorus of farewells in response. He walked across the room, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. He knew none of them were staring at his backside, but his tailored suit suddenly seemed indecent and ill-fitting.
He fidgeted when he was alone in the elevator, trying not to think about all of those comments about his body—about the size of his feet and hands, the tightness of his slacks, the broadness of his chest, the gray in his hair; Carisi and Rollins hadn’t read all of the comments aloud, but he’d seen more of them than he cared to admit, his eyes scanning them before his brain could catch up.
He walked out of the precinct and looked around. In a borough of two million people, he’d never felt watched the way he did now. He’d always enjoyed press conferences and the pomp that went along with making the evening news, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel the same way again. Part of him wanted to hurry home and never leave his apartment again.
He felt a hand at his shoulder and whirled, startled.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!”
Barba released a breath as relief coursed through him. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”
“Understandable, considering. You want to come over for dinner?”
Barba raised his eyebrows. “You sure you want to be seen with me? You never know who might be watching and taking pictures. Apparently,” he added.
“Let them watch, maybe they’ll learn something.”
Barba laughed—his first genuine laugh since walking into the precinct. The corners of his eyes crinkled and he shook his head. “Maybe they can finally settle that bet,” he suggested.
“Or at least they’ll think it’s settled.”
Barba laughed again and gestured with his head. They started walking toward the precinct’s parking, falling into step together. After a few moments of silence, Barba felt the familiar and comforting touch against his back, and he smiled. “So, about your answer to that question…”
“Absolutely true. Although…I can’t say the other answers didn’t occur to me.”
Barba chuckled, looking out of the corner of his eye. “All of them?”
“Yep.”
Barba smiled and leaned into the touch while they walked to the car.