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It's both stupid and, really, probably inevitable, the game they've started playing.
Two single people, relatively the same age, same level of attractiveness, often in high stress, adrenaline-fueled situations together, both with sexual orientations that at least include the other person's gender?
(She's been around the block enough, on the job and elsewhere, to not just assume the totality of anyone's anything, herself included, but she knows Carisi is definitely into women, at a minimum.)
It's – well, it's a tale as old as time.
(It is, in fact, the reason she has Beauty and the Beast stuck in her head near constantly these days, and Frozen, and Peppa Pig.
The product of this game can be a whole new human being, she knows.)
So, maybe she should've seen it coming.
But she didn't.
And so, when she'd find herself slumping into him, arm to arm in a hospital, or when Carisi inched a hand across a back seat to bump his pinky against hers and then…leave it there, when she pressed her thigh to his sitting on a bench outside a courtroom, when he returned the pressure, she'd been a little too caught up in the rhythm of it all to stop it.
But he didn't stop it either.
And, honestly, he'd fucking started it, looking at her all dropped eyelids and head tilted outside a West Virginia motel –
– and then he'd bailed.
But she's been playing this game for too long, which is the only reason she was quick enough to catch the split second he'd hesitated, quick enough to demure in time to save face for them both.
(But not in time to stop the itch from lighting low in her abdomen, and his reaction to Buck the next day? Carisi had started it and then continued it.)
(And maybe she'd pressed her foot down on the accelerator just a little back at the station, just to see if the car had gas – she does have sex with pains in the ass – and there was plenty of open road ahead of them.)
It'd made her view him in a new light though – not as someone fuckable, he was always a good looking guy, but as some she'd be able to fuck – he'd play ball, burn off some…well, burn off something, and it wouldn't have to mean anything.
This game – altar boy or not, Carisi knew how to play it.
Which is why last week, for the first time, she'd let him get a hand inside her pants, fingers pushing her underwear aside at the very end of a stakeout.
And then she'd let him make her come.
&&.
Look, they knew the perp they'd been watching for was almost certainly dead, that the time for him to return to this safe house had come and gone.
They were waiting for the formality of Liv calling them off, but this assignment was, for all intents and purposes, over.
But it was in the kind of neighborhood where bullets often ended up through random car windows and, out of an abundance of caution, they'd been set up with video equipment instead of their own eyes, leaving them closed off and alone together for hours.
She'd been sitting shoulder to shoulder (and thigh to thigh) with Carisi on the small bench lining the side of the van they were occupying for that entire time.
He'd talked – Jesus Christ, had he talked – mostly about nothing, but enough that there hadn't been space to feel weird, to really take stock of the circumstances they'd found themselves in.
Something she honestly probably should have done.
Because – the day before, ducking by her for a donut in an empty breakroom, he'd rested his hand so, so low on the back of her hip, almost-but-not-quite the top of her ass, and she hadn't exactly jumped away.
He was clearly dipping another toe in the water, she knew they'd been…touching, knew that this wasn't some random workplace harassment, and when he'd gone for a slightly bigger splash, she'd let him.
(Maybe she'd splashed him back a little, shifting her weight into his hand for a moment, catching the smell of his cologne in the air.
Maybe.)
(She had.)
It upped the stakes in the van though, as Carisi finally wore himself out, as the conversation slowed to the stretched-thin crawl of outletless adrenaline that so frequently accompanied cases.
They'd watched the street on the monitor in silence then, the threshold of the safe house as quiet and empty as it had been all night, but beside her, she could hear Carisi breathing, could feel the warmth where they were touching, and the thunder of her own pulse.
His hand rested on his thigh, sitting slightly higher than hers, above hers, due to his height, and she watched, but never directly, as he moved it incrementally, bit by bit, in a series of strung out moments, until it was dropped ever-so-slowly down from his leg to hers.
Where it rested, warm and large.
Carisi's hand.
On her thigh.
Fuck, that was hot.
The inner voice that occasionally spoke up in moments like this, the voice that was always so easy to bat away, barely made a sound.
She was not going to save herself – she was going to run screaming into the waves, reckless and sparking, her blood practically singing for it.
(Game on.)
Slouching just the slightest bit, she allowed her legs to splay, not a lot, just a handful of inches, but enough to tell Carisi what she was trying to say –
– and when his hand slid to her inner thigh, she knew he'd understood.
The silence between them was thick and heavy, just the sound of the occasional car passing by outside, the faint hum of electronics if she was really listening for it, and there was warmth and giddiness buzzing in her veins, as she slipped just a tiny bit lower in the seat and his hand slipped just a tiny bit higher up her leg.
She was glad he seemed to know how these things went, the slow-stepped dance that needed to be done when it wasn't a stranger in a bar you were eying for a hook up, but someone you knew.
Which meant he wasn't looking at her and she wasn't looking at him – but she'd never been more aware of him.
He traced his hand and the tip of his middle finger gently (and slowly, so slowly) up the inside seam of her pants, the slightly rough, black denim she was now cursing for being so thick, and when he reached where it joined the seam from the other leg, she'd shifted down even more.
It was everything in small, quiet movements, everything weighted with intention, and after he pressed down in the same loaded way, the pad of his finger and the thick bundle of cotton beneath it brushing against her clit, she'd heard the breath she exhaled like a gunshot, so there was no way he missed it.
(And he probably couldn't feel it, but she could, the slight slip of her underwear beneath her jeans telling her what she probably could've guessed – that she was maybe a little bit wet already.)
Other than the movement of his hand, the way he was circling his finger, the various levels of pressure he was applying, trying to find the right combination, Carisi was mostly still, but he was warm and solid and he smelled good, spicy cologne and cinnamon Altoids –
(She'd say that for him over even slightly more…refined men – Carisi never had coffee breath. There were actually four different packs of gum and mints between her desk and her bag at this point, because his commitment to it made her self-conscious about her own breath.)
– and they were doing something a little bit dangerous, so she was actually willing him to move a little bit more, a little bit harder and faster and maybe to the fly of her jeans.
She was trying to regulate her breathing, but was right at that close-but-not-gonna-be-enough point, frustration ebbing into a slow exhale.
His eyes glanced at her at that, she saw it somehow in her peripheral vision, and she lifted her hips just slightly, a nudge, and then his finger had drawn a line up her zipper, to the button of her jeans.
His hand stopped there once more and she knew she'd needed to give him a clearer sign, in fact appreciated his – not...hesitancy, but caution, maybe? Respectfulness? – and it's why she'd given it to him, a soft hum of agreement that sounded louder than she'd intended.
The corner of his mouth lifted, and she'd seen that, too, was maybe looking more at him than she was admitting, and then he'd undone the button, sliding it from its hole with a smooth flick of his thumb and a couple fingers.
The splay of her legs increased even more, promising and lewd, and he dragged her zipper down, revealing the crumpled bottom of her shirt where it had been tucked, a sliver of skin, and the waistband of her underwear.
He pushed her shirt out of the way gently, rucking it further up her stomach, as his palm slipped warm and dry over the skin of her abdomen, fingertips edging the blue elastic of her underwear.
She'd expected him to go in that way, slip under the band, and follow straight down, was, in fact, banking on it, and he had gone that way, but on top of her underwear, a light drag of cotton against the smatter of hair hidden beneath.
When his fingers reached the slightly damp patch of fabric he was apparently aiming for, it was a tight fit to get them between the denim, and there was suddenly a lot of his hand against a lot of her, with no room to move.
She raised her hips, a larger movement than she'd made the entire time, and he looked at her for real in response, his hand freezing, their eyes connecting before either could stop it, but she'd never been a coward, and she'd held his gaze.
The moment that passed between them had jolted her a little bit, a reminder that this was Carisi with his hand down her pants.
He looked just like himself, like he always did, except…except he was looking at her with heat, for sure with heat, but something more, too, the same warm, familiar (...handsome) face she'd seen a thousand times staring back at her, but somehow more open.
Like he wasn't – like he wasn't a cop anymore, like he was just himself, a reminder of the night this had all started.
She'd held his eye for one moment more and then looked away, tugging her jeans down a couple of inches, giving his hand – in her fucking pants – more space.
He'd used it to her immediate benefit, tracing a line along the elastic of her underwear where it met her leg, up and down, up and down, teasing, until finally – finally – pulling it to the side and slipping his fingers against her bare skin.
It was somehow hotter this way, and the sigh she'd let out was more of a groan, a slight thing, she'd swear, but he'd clearly found it encouraging, working his fingers against her, slippery and hot, until he pressed one inside of her, and she lost track of individual moments.
It was a slow dragging march until it wasn't, until he'd increased the velocity, incorporated her clit, she could hear the sound of it in the van, the wet friction between her legs and his hand – a thought she was only a little mortified over for a single beat, and then he'd pushed her over the edge.
He'd even worked her through it the way she liked, and left her alone when she got too sensitive, slipping his hand out of her jeans with just the faintest drag of wetness on her abdomen before he'd discreetly wiped his hand against his own pants. It maybe wasn't a huge thing, but it was further reassurance that he knew what he was doing, that any further…whatever this was would result in a good time.
She'd only had a few moments to think about what'd happened, about her next move – whether she'd return the favor or not, and how – before Liv had called him, the fumble he made for his phone allowing her time to zip and button her pants back up and jam her shirt into them in some semblance of a tuck.
When he'd hung up, she'd asked what Liv had said – an end to the assignment, as expected – and they'd taken turns climbing back into the front of the van.
He wasn't saying much, but not – not like he'd felt put out or disappointed.
They hadn't had a ton of time before Liv called, but enough of it that if he'd wanted to try and get her hand somewhere, or god forbid, her head, if he'd been expecting a tit-for-tat, in her experience, he'd have made the move to get it there.
And he hadn't.
He was eager and not untalented and he'd seemed to genuinely enjoy it, getting her off, just the way it'd happened, but then they'd just…driven in silence.
"Carisi, are we – are we good?" she'd asked him quietly, when they'd stopped at a light.
He'd looked at her then, soft and a little flirty – more than she'd ever seen from him, at least.
"I'm good, are you good?" he'd said lightly, but somehow still holding the same weight she'd put behind her words.
In a way, it was reassuring he'd said it like that – this was the other part of the game – there had to be willing participants.
"I am," she'd confirmed.
And the game had gone on.
&&.
In the week that's passed since then, the following has happened:
She'd backed her ass up against him in a crowded elevator.
He'd exited the elevator with his bag in front of him.
That was it.
She'd been on a different case, helping Fin with something, while Carisi had helped Olivia, both of the cases concluding, in some divine alignment of the stars, just an hour ago, leaving them most of Friday evening and all of Friday night off duty.
Amanda hadn't been expecting that, had already arranged the nanny to stay until much later, so when Carisi brushes by her where she's packing up her things, she's…receptive.
"Buy you a beer?" he says, quietly.
She feels confident that if he'd caught feelings or was going to make this into anything more than it was, that it would have started this week, but there's been none of that.
He looks at her the same way he always has, or at least since she started paying attention to the way he looks at her – since Jesse, probably.
So, agreeing seems safe, and she does.
"Sounds good," she says, and then adds lowly, "We should ask these two, they won't go, but –"
"We should ask these two," he repeats just as softly, and she can tell he understands.
"You two wanna grab a drink? Celebrate a couple of successful cases?" Amanda says, directing her attention at Liv and Fin.
"Not me," Fin says. "Got a date with my controller and some zombies."
Olivia shakes her head at him and then waves them off. "None for me either, I was gonna have to duck out of here one way or another, Noah's got a school recital."
"Ah, tell him to break a leg," Carisi says. "Not, you know, literally – I get a superstition, but feels weird to tell somebody you hope their kid –"
"I got it, Carisi," Liv says, cutting him off, and Amanda can't believe she's hoping to let this guy back in her pants.
&&.
They walk to a bar a little farther than normal by some unspoken agreement, passing by their normal stop in a way that she would've thought might feel loaded, and maybe did, but in a – in a hot way.
She's missed this, since Jesse arrived, feeling like she needs to be more responsible, which is why Carisi falling into her lap like this (a little bit literally) seems so promising.
If they can keep this thing from blowing up in any of the ways she's seen something like this blow up (and any new ways, she gets a superstition, too, and she's not interested in taunting the universe), it could be good for her – keep her at home and out of trouble, and, you know, occasionally getting off.
And Carisi would get off, too, which is what she's sure he's after.
A win-win.
She lets him open the door to the place she'd tipped her head toward, and he follows her in and through the crowd, as she leads him to a small, single-sided booth, facing a mirror.
It's empty only because it's so far removed from the main part of the bar, tucked in a corner behind a large square post, a place she has occasionally done paperwork just to – okay, yeah, she stays out of trouble, but sometimes she likes to be adjacent to it.
"Do you actually want a beer?" he says, one knee lifted to rest on the booth next to where she's sliding to sit. "Or something else?"
"Whatever you're having's fine," she says, and reaches for her wallet, laughing at the exaggeratedly affronted look he gives her when he waves her off.
"This round's on me," he says and she loses sight of him beyond the column.
While he's gone, she takes a second to text her nanny, reassuring her she should be home by 11, midnight at the latest.
If she's home earlier, she'll still pay her for the night, and anyway, that's hours away, and she's not really sure how this is gonna go, better to give herself the time.
She takes a long look at herself in the mirror in front of her, the faint dark circles of her eye make up looking extra raccoon-ish in the dull bar lighting, but she – she looks pretty good, could definitely be worse, and she rakes her hand through her hair before giving herself a nod and going back to her phone.
She opens and closes a series of apps, finally landing on Instagram.
Her fingers tap their way to Carisi's, the handful of photos there. She doesn't know why any of them even have these apps really, privacy locked to the teeth, and the same three dozen followers between all of them.
Carisi has more followers than most of them, though she knows from the comments she sees on his occasional posts that the majority of them are related to him – and that's who makes up most of his photos, too.
He posts so infrequently that in a series of two lines, Mia goes from a kid to a teenager, grinning next to Carisi over an ice cream cone, and then suddenly in a dress at what looks like a wedding, Carisi's tie just a slightly too shiny shade of periwinkle to be anything other than a groomsman requirement.
She wonders about that – the person he is outside of work, with all these other people.
She can't shake the feeling that it's probably pretty similar to who he is at work, and it's endearing, in a way, this guileless puppy that looks like a fucking model when his hair is mussed just the right way, but he's – he's clearly got this other part.
Because, well – the way he'd fingered her in a stakeout van, that wasn't very guileless at all.
She feels her legs shift together of their own accord at the thought, just in time for Carisi to deposit a pint of beer on the table in front of her; it's joined quickly by another pint, and two shots of whiskey.
She nudges over toward the wall, so he can sit down, though there's not very far to go, and she realizes she's never sat at this booth with another person.
He picks up his shot and looks at her in the mirror, dancing it over the top of his pint and then up to his mouth, with his eyebrows raised in question.
She shrugs, the movement dragging her shoulder against his in the tight space. "Dealer's choice."
He tips his head in respect and drops the shot into the pint. She follows suit, both of them scooping up the glasses to throw them back.
She watches in their reflections as Carisi finishes his, a solid, respectable chug that probably shouldn't turn her on as much as it does.
The cold, steady flow of beer mixed with the whiskey turns to warmth in her veins what feels like immediately, and she feels herself relax enough to chase after the feeling. The tight reign she keeps on whatever this is inside of her loosening in a way she can feel even in her posture.
"Do I need to go get another round?" She nudges him to scoot out of the booth, so she can get to the bar, but he doesn't move, and she stays in the space she'd closed between them.
"They're bringing another round by," he says. "If you have a table, they'll bring it to you. Apparently even this counts."
He knocks his hand on the small rectangle of varnished wood in front of them, the movement sending the shot glasses tinkling inside the pints.
"So you…opened a tab," she says, considering what she thinks of the implications of that.
He half-shrugs and it drags her own clothing in the tight space, the way she'd done to him. "I can close it when they come by, if you want."
He's watching her carefully, but it's not a delicate thing – he's calibrating, matching her pace – but they are, uh, aligned on the destination, she can tell.
"We can figure it out," she says.
"Yeah," he says, catching her eye in the mirror, and then, like it's the other day with that kid and he's flawlessly sinking a free throw, he puts the perfect amount of heat on it when he adds, "we can."
Under the table, she presses her ankle against his, the only place they weren't touching eliminated.
They're still watching each other in the reflection in front of them, it's kind of a weird orientation, she's not exactly sure how to proceed, but she licks her lips unconsciously, and his entire face changes, so that's a start.
"You, uh, you wanna talk about work or –" he says, and it's a glaring neon sign, like the one above the bar, that this is a different sort of Friday night, that he'd even asked.
She considers it for a moment, does she wanna talk about work?
It seems silly to try and deliberately avoid it, they both know what they're doing is…ill-advised in the eyes of their superiors, is maybe how Carisi'd say it.
But they also both know – and so do their superiors – that it happens.
Sometimes, as the little girl she loves more than anything in the world proves, it happens with superiors.
Whatever the combo, the whole fucking force would implode itself in days if it didn't.
(Fucking force, indeed.)
"Yeah, how was Liv?" she says. "I worry about her sometimes."
"I know," Carisi says, his voice sliding right into his regular patter. "You working moms of the NYPD are…something."
As he'd trailed off, he'd seemed to catch himself, and she can tell he was going to say more, that he was battling back that guileless part of himself in favor of…the other part.
Which is perfect because – the dance is part of it for her, the nerves and the anticipation and the adrenaline –
– the jump in her bones as a runner sets down two more pints.
It's proof that there'd been something intimate here, by virtue of it shattering, and she raises her glass to his in the mirror.
"Cheers," she says, and they clink their glasses together before she takes a small sip.
It's almost too easy to reach for a line then, rifling through approaches, and settling where she most likes to be with him – teasing.
"All right, speaking of work," she says, setting her glass down, and Carisi's entire posture shifts to be more fully turned to her in the small space, his arm casually stretching out along the back of the booth – along her shoulders.
His knuckles knock into the wood-paneled wall she's pressed against, but he adjusts smoothly, curling his wrist so his palm dangles loosely just over her bicep.
"You gotta settle a bet between me and Fin," she finishes.
"Yeah?" His eyebrows raise.
"You like Billy Joel, don't you?" she says it faintly accusatory, and he walks right into it.
"Are you saying you don't?"
(She makes a mental note to bait Fin into talking about Billy Joel and Carisi the very next time she sees him – prepared to fabricate evidence, in this specific instance, without hesitation.)
She shrugs the shoulder under his hand, bringing them in further contact for a moment, as she hedges, "Ahh, I don't know –"
"Rollins, I might have to reconsider whatever it is we're doing here –"
She raises her eyebrows in the mirror, a challenge, and he looks sheepish enough as he backs down.
" – all right, but The Stranger? C'mon, you can't tell me that isn't a perfect album."
"Vienna, maybe," she says, and it feels like she's admitting to something more than she'd meant to, the opening notes and lines dancing in her head.
He squints his eyes ever so slightly, barely at all, but she gets the feeling he'd realized it, too, though he lets it go.
"And do you know what's after Vienna?"
She does not, but even if she did, he's clearly going to plow ahead regardless.
"It's Only the Good Die Young."
"Catholic girls start much too late a little too relatable?" she quotes.
"Not in my experience," he says, taking another long sip of his beer.
He's giving her a Look, with a capital L, all bedroom eyes, and she gives herself a mental clap on the back – there are times when her role as a mom feels all consuming; when she thinks she's losing the woman she used to be.
She's not sad to say goodbye to some of it, but – this part, it might have gotten her into some trouble here and there, and she'd be pressed to admit it out loud, but there was always maybe a little pride over this part.
And it's clearly still there.
She settles into his side further, a slight slouch. "So's that all you listen to? Billy Joel?"
"All right, we gotta clear this up now, I like and respect the Piano Man himself, Mr. William Joel – "
He's such a fucking goober and she is so stupidly into it.
" – but I am like, the same age as you, close enough at least, I probably listen to whatever you listen to."
"Oh, I love The Black Eyed Peas. Remember them?" She hits it loud and enthusiastic, fucking with him for the sake of fucking with him.
"Uh, sure, yeah," he says, and she has not had enough men like Sonny Carisi in her life, dweeby and sweet and – fine, she'll say it again – hot.
But she's not gonna make it easy for him.
"Fergie, she's from Georgia," she lies, but what are the odds Carisi knows where Fergie is from? (She doesn't.) "We're real proud of her."
He looks a little lost, like his brain is genuinely trying to compute how to respond, so she throws him a line. "Is that the kind of music you listen to?"
"Uh. Not – not exactly," he says, and she can't help it, the laugh breaks out.
"Are you kidding me?" he looks offended, but he's clearly playing along, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the smile he's holding back. "Thought I was done because I couldn't say My Humps with a straight face."
"My Humps, huh? That's – that's something in that accent of yours, Carisi."
"I'll remember that for karaoke night," he tips his head in mock thanks.
(... fuck, this feels good.)
They both go back to their beers, and he does eventually tell her about the bands he likes, and she does the same.
It's such an easy conversation that her bladder sneaks up on her, and she nudges Sonny to make her way to the bathroom.
He shifts out of the booth, turning around to face her and stepping back to give her room in the tight hallway their table borders.
When she gets to her feet, she realizes how close he's standing – out of necessity, it really is a weird, small space – and she glances up at him on reflex.
It's a switch to suddenly be standing face to face, having looked at him in the mirror for so long, and he seems to realize it, too, holding her gaze.
He takes a small step forward and she backs into the column behind her, until it rests against her back and he's a few inches away from hovering over her.
She glances at his mouth, but forces her eyes away quickly, back to his. He'd caught her though, and mimics the action, too fast to be anything but reflex.
"Is it, uh – is it like this?" he says lowly, and tips his chin toward her slightly. "Or only like this?" and he finds her waist with his hand, squeezing softly.
She knows what he's asking and it's not even a question – without kissing it feels like…it feels like she's too far gone, like she's being too reckless – kissing gives it weight, and she has to understand the consequences of the things she does, she needs it to stay grounded.
"It's like this," she confirms, and kisses him softly.
She pulls back at the same time he does, another calibration synchronizing between them, and then he's pressing his mouth to hers again, crowding her back into the column.
She moves to swipe her tongue against his lip at the same time he does, and the misalignment brushes his tongue against hers, both of them opening their mouths in reflex to chase the feeling.
His leg works its way between her own and he presses it up into her, dropping his mouth to kiss and suck and lick at her neck until she's grinding against his thigh, in a way that –
She has to pee.
Fuck.
Well.
"This is – this is good," she pants, "but I – Sonny, I really do gotta pee."
He pulls back, leg relaxing against her. "Oh, uh, right, sorry."
She pees quickly, another small, historical point of personal pride, but takes her time washing her hands.
They'd broken the glass on the evening, pulled the alarm, and she knows it'll still be ringing when she gets back out there.
She also knows Sonny would have gotten her off on his thigh if she hadn't had to go, and for as hot as that is, she can't go two down, can't get in a situation where she owes him anything, because what if she resents him when he tries to collect?
What if she implodes the only stable male relationship in Jesse's life?
No.
Better to do it this way, keep it even, and she heads back to the table with that intent.
Sonny's leaning against the hallway wall when she returns, finishing the last of his beer standing, since he'd have to let her back in the booth anyway.
As she approaches, he deposits the empty glass on the table, a quick lick of his lips that she knows changed her face, even without the mirror.
He sees it, shouldering casually off the wall to sway into her space as she passes by, and she uses the momentum to spin him, putting his back to the column where she'd been standing, before kissing him again.
He makes no complaints over the new arrangement, tugging her into him to lean once more on his thigh, a solid friction with the weight of the wall at his back, as he licks against her tongue and nips at her lip.
She can feel him getting hard against her hip and she works a hand between them, palming him through his suit pants and forcing a low sound from his mouth to hers.
She finds the shape of him with one hand, fingers wrapping around him, and tugging his shirt from his pants with the other.
When it's untucked, she arranges it over her hand and then sneaks the second hand inside, unbuckling his belt as he gives up all pretense of kissing her.
"Is this a good id–" he begins and cuts short when she gets his zipper down, the release of pressure making him trail off.
Before he can find his voice again, she slips a hand under the waistband of his underwear, wishing she could see what they looked like under the tails of his shirt – she's picturing black boxer briefs, seems like they'd fit his whole…slimly tailored suit image.
They're early enough for a Friday night that there aren't so many people the standing crowd spills over back here, but late enough that there's still a decent roar of voices and music, masking the way he groans when she wraps her hand around his bare cock.
She considers it in her hand as she works a slow rhythm, it feels like a good size and length, would do just fine for any of the plans she might end up having for it, do nicely, even.
But right now, her plan is just to get him off, nipping her mouth against his jaw, as she tightens her hand and increases her rhythm.
He's being so damn nice, all respectful movements and aborted thrusts, it's nice, but it's…restrained, and he's not gonna come quick enough like this.
So, just to see what he does, she hooks two fingers into his mouth.
He bucks into her hand, hard, and she rewards him by replacing her fingers with her lips, using the faint wetness gathered on her fingertips to work a slicker rhythm against his cock.
It's gonna make the difference, and his hips finally gallop to life, bucking into her hand as he chases his orgasm – she watches it get closer and closer, his breathing stuttering, a low, needy sound working its way from his throat –
At the last second, she grabs a handful of cocktail napkins from the table, getting them in place to catch, fuck, to catch Carisi's come, but she's too late, and he's already grabbed the tail of his shirt, so her eyes snap to his face.
His mouth is open and any noise he makes now is going to be much louder, so she claps a hand over his mouth, and he comes.
"Fuck," he breathes, when she loosens her hand, and she grins at him.
She takes a step back, giving him room to clean up and get his clothing back in order, sliding into the booth as he's discreetly re-buckling his belt.
He joins her, sitting down slightly more gingerly than she had, and she laughs to herself, draining the last sip of her beer and relaxing into the pleather of the booth.
She watches him get situated in the mirror, and when he finally does, his reflection makes a sheepish smile at her reflection before swiveling to look at her.
She turns her head to meet him, waiting.
"Do we need to –" he says. "Look, should we talk about this?"
She watches him carefully, trying to decide why he's asking.
"I just – I wanna make sure I'm doing right by you, is all," he adds.
"Sonny," she says, and he brightens, "We're good, okay? I'm good. Are you good?"
"I'm good," he says.
"All right, that's all it needs to be."
"Okay, okay," he says. "But if I, uh, if I should be taking you to dinner or something, you gotta let me know."
"You've made me dinner before."
"And I'll do it again, I promised Jesse I'd use fusilli next time. But I mean – "
"I know what you mean."
"Should I get another round?" he says, after a breath. "Or I can, uh –" He nudges his leg against hers, eyebrows raised in the mirror in implication.
"Another round, sure, the other – I'm – I'm good, but I appreciate the offer."
He almost looks disappointed (he does look disappointed), but she doesn't need that now, burned enough of the edge off that she can have another beer, split an Uber with Carisi home, and go to bed.
(He gives her a hickey in the Uber, but it's fine.)
&&.
It – they – move quickly after that.
She feels a little bit like a teenager, they're not reckless at work, but there are moments where they take a small risk, to do something a different kind of dangerous, that feel like more than Carisi had in him.
(She's usually simultaneously a little impressed, a little turned on, and a little worried she's a bad influence.)
Mostly though, it's on their own time.
Jesse's used to being around him, and is too young to question what it's clear she perceives as her own good fortune that he's over more, abiding her bedtime dutifully each night as Amanda lets Uncle Sonny help tuck her in.
And after she goes to bed, Uncle Sonny is – Sonny.
And sometimes Carisi.
And – the fact that they've been doing this long enough for him to have made the same joke twice is mind-blowing – on occasion, Jesus Christ.
("'Manda, trust me, he's not here," Sonny had said, mouth wet, as he looked up at her from between her legs.
Twice.)
She has a theory – about the sorts of men who are good at going down on a woman. Or, well, not so much of a theory, as a belief that she has excellent radar for it.
The times she's gone against her instincts, gone home with someone who didn't set it off, she'd invariably regretted it.
Sonny set it off, Sonny had always set it off, and he seemed to get off on proving it – always a cherry on top of that particular sundae.
(Honestly though, the amount he uses that mouth to talk? He ought to be good at more than just that.
…the talking's good, too, though.
The first time he'd slid inside her, the way he'd narrated it, you feel so good, fuck, you're so wet – standard stuff, but in his stupid, endearing accent, making her claw at his back, teeth seeking into his shoulder – well, she didn't hate it.)
They don't just have sex though. It's like he still gets to be regular Sonny, too, stuff like – they still watch bad TV, but then, slowly, good TV.
There's another season of Stranger Things coming, but neither of them have seen any of it, and they start it together. She's never had that before, needing to wait for someone to watch something, wanting to wait for someone.
(She'd been home alone one night, he was fighting a cold he didn't want to give Jesse, and she'd called him to watch an episode – which had turned into them talking each other off.
The way neither of them had tried to switch to FaceTime made it…difficult to be normal on the phone with him, relaying suspect locations, the next day – the rumble of his voice down the line sounding exactly the same as it had, making her feel warm in the middle of the freezing park.)
It's, well, she'll let herself call it…nice.
&&.
They're making progress with a vic one day, and Carisi in particular's been building a good, trustworthy rapport, opening up a little, so that the guy feels like he's being spoken to as a human being.
"I understand what it's like to worry the people you love will think differently about you if they find out – " Carisi says, but the guy waves him off.
"It's not that – it's – I don't know how to explain it – all right, look, do you have a girlfriend, Detective Carisi?"
"I, uh –" Sonny says, hesitating, and she's thankful the mirror is to their backs because she sees him glance at her. " – I don't. I don't have a girlfriend."
Liv pulls her out shortly after that, sending Fin in for more guy talk, and she makes it the two hours it takes for her and Carisi each to get a lunch break, but as they're walking to the deli, she can't keep it in.
"You seeing someone, Carisi?" she says, trying to keep her voice light.
"What?"
"Well, you just – you hesitated when he asked you if you had a girlfriend, I thought maybe you were seeing someone," she says, glancing casually at him as they stop at a crosswalk. "It's okay if you are."
She feels…a little jealous.
A lot jealous.
But it's – she can't feel that way.
And she forces herself to face him more fully when he answers, but the light switches, and they're walking again.
"I am seeing someone, but it's – it's complicated." He gives her a look then, like he's searching for something, testing the waters to see if she's gonna…what? Cry or something?
She won't.
She – she knew what this was, that it probably had an expiration date, he's seeing someone and now they'll go back to being…colleagues.
Platonic friends.
She takes a deep breath, pulling him out of the flow of foot traffic by his arm to talk to him, because this is going to cost her something. "I'm happy for you."
He looks immediately confused, and then a little angry, and then confused and angry.
"Wait, what? You think I'd do that to you? Mess around like that? Do that to some other woman, too?"
Now, she's confused, isn't this how she's supposed to respond?
"Carisi, you don't owe me anything," she says, and she wishes he did. "And unless you've had the monogamy talk with the not-girlfriend, I'd say you're good there, too."
"Are you – are you serious?" he says, ushering her to the front of a narrow alley.
"Yeah, I mean, especially if you met on an app or something, she probably wouldn't –"
"What?" He waves a hand. "No, no, you don't think I owe you anything?"
"Why would you? We're just sleeping together, friends with benefits, whatever you want to call it –"
He looks at her so seriously then that she stops short. He seems to be searching for something again, and she's not sure what to show him, finds herself looking away because there's – there's stuff she doesn't want him to know.
And right now, finding out she's gonna…lose him to whatever this woman's name is, some of that stuff is a little close to the surface.
"'Manda, we're – we're dating, you and me," he says, quietly, and she snaps back to look at him. "I know that's maybe not what you want to hear right now, and it's not something I'm forcing on you, I'm just telling you – what we do? All the time we spend together? The, uh, ways we spend some of that time? I'm not gonna say you're my girlfriend, but we're – I think we're dating. Might even hold up in court."
He gives her a rueful little smile at the end, and she hears a roaring in her head, staring at him.
"That's how it feels for me, anyway," he adds, and she can see his confidence, and his frustration, faltering. "Maybe it's…different for you, but –"
"Just – " She puts a hand up to stop him. " – just give me a second."
Oh my god.
She's – holy fuck – is she, like, in a relationship with Carisi?
He's watching her carefully, a tentative fondness in his face that she's only just now recognizing for what it is, and before she can stop herself, she meets his eye and feels her own face go soft.
Jesus. Is she giving him the same moony look back?
He seems to recognize it, whatever it is, nodding his head slightly.
"Yeah, listen, why don't you take a minute?" he says. "I'll go grab the sandwiches, meet you back at the station."
He squeezes her shoulder, gives her one more long look, and exits the alley, heading away from the station.
What the fuck just happened?
She takes a deep breath and is met with a hot rush of tears at the back of her eyes, embarrassment flooding her veins that she didn't notice, but that's – that's not it exactly.
Because she…had.
She'd noticed that on Tuesdays he seemed to do better at his weekly pick up game if they'd had spaghetti the night before, until she'd finally just made it a Monday night tradition.
She'd noticed that he always hummed the same song when he was rubbing Jesse's back to sleep, a melody she catches herself humming to her, too, now.
She'd noticed the way Liv looks at them, constantly on alert for Liv getting suspicious as they are, but it's never that, always something closer to – exasperation.
And she's noticed – well, maybe, in the quiet, dark stillness of her room, she's noticed she's a little bit in love with him.
Shit.
They're dating.
She might actually be his girlfriend.
&&.
When Sonny gets back with the sandwiches, Liv has them all post up around the briefing table, giving Amanda time to look at him.
He's got an eye on her, checking in every so often, but it doesn't feel different from any other meeting lately. They look at each other all the time.
(Oh.)
Now, though, it's a different look, tender, but cautious, and she knocks her foot against his under the table just to get him to smile.
When he looks up, she nods. She's not sure what it means, so she's not sure how he could know either, but it seems to put him slightly at ease.
On the notepad in front of her, she scratches the word, Later? and shifts it slightly so he can see, scribbling it out when he nods.
Later.
&&.
It is, because of course it is, a Monday night.
Jesse's already clamoring for spaghetti, having come to associate it with the day she goes to the library with the nanny, and Amanda's not exactly surprised Carisi shows up, but she is certainly not, like, emotionally prepared.
"Hey," he says, when she answers the door.
"Hey, I got the water on," she says, in the seconds before Jesse barrels at him.
"Uncle Sonny!"
"Jumping Jesse!" He lifts her by the armpits, bouncing her across the floor a few times as she giggles, until he deposits her on the chair in one big bounce, where her attention promptly refocuses on Bluey.
Carisi does a short lap around the kitchen, inspecting what she's laid out in her best attempt at getting everything together for dinner, and smiling to himself as he puts a few things away and pulls out a few more.
"Really? That's not in it?" she says as he puts a can back in the cupboard. "I could swear I had that one right."
He pulls the can back down, looking at it in his hand, and then back to her, laughter in his eyes. "Rollins – this is a can of soup."
"Are you sure? I thought it was like, part of it?"
He holds the can up, pointing at the word soup under the words chicken noodle.
"It's soup," he says, and she can hear the laughter in his voice, too.
"And you don't use it in your spaghetti sauce?"
"I don't use chicken noodle soup in my spaghetti sauce? No."
"All right, smartass, when you say it like that –"
She sees it now, suddenly.
Feels it.
What happens between them, what exists between them.
With a glance at Jesse, who's moved on from Bluey to her stack of library books, she edges closer to Sonny, brushing into his space to speak quietly.
"You were right," she says.
The ghost of a smile slips across his mouth. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"And are you, like – mad at me?"
She rocks back slightly. "What? Why would I be mad at you?"
He shrugs. "I just…let it happen."
"Oh, you let me fall in love with you?" she teases, trying to put him a little more at ease. "Listen to this guy, thinks he's –"
"What?" he says abruptly.
"What?" What is he – oh.
This is – okay, all right, okay – she takes a breath. This is happening, this has happened, he'd, fuck, heard her.
"Do you mean that?" he says, and there's a sudden guardedness to his face she's rarely seen, like he's – like he's protecting himself.
God, what did she do to him? Wouldn't let him get her off twice in a row because she didn't want to owe him, but now she knows she owes him this.
"I do. If we – if we don't have to talk about it right now, maybe, that'd be great," she says, looking up at him. "But, Sonny – I mean it, I do."
He nods, a quick glance to Jesse, and then he's looping his arm around her waist loosely, drawing her closer to him.
"Can I – say it back?"
She gives him a sideways smile, because he kind of just had, but she – she can't hear it right now, every part of her on overload, in uncharted waters.
"Um, actually, it's, uh, it's already been, like, a big day. Maybe we can…save it?"
He nods, dropping a kiss to her forehead before tipping his head toward the stove.
"Let me get this dinner going."
(It is Spaghetti Monday, after all.)
&&.
Whatever game she and Carisi are playing, sitting in her apartment on this random Sunday night, she is winning.
There's a stack of cards in front of her and very few in front of him, and though she can't remember what he'd said the name of this game is, she is about to beat him at it.
Which is why the urge to throw up takes her by surprise.
It passes quickly, but leaves a nauseous echo, and she pushes the rest of the milkshake they'd bought with Jesse, while out walking Frannie, away from her.
It had sloshed in the cup, almost entirely melted, Jesse long asleep, and her stomach roils again at the thought of it.
Sonny glances up from studying his meager handful of cards.
"You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, just a little nauseous for some reason."
He nods, but it's perfunctory, because a second later his head snaps up to look at her.
"You're nauseous?"
"Yeah, probably just all that ice cream. I told you we should've gotten a smoothie."
"Were you, uh, you know, like, craving a smoothie?" he says, watching her carefully.
"What? No, I just – it sounded better, but I was overruled fair and square, two to one, don't worry about it. Let's play."
She goes back to studying her cards, plotting her next move, but he reaches out a hand, stilling hers.
"'Manda," he says gently.
"What?"
He raises his eyebrows and glances down the hallway, toward where Jesse's sleeping in her room, before looking back at her…pointedly.
"What?" she says again.
"Could you –" He takes a breath, starts again. "Could you be – ?"
She finally catches his meaning, in part sheerly because of the look on his face, the incredulity and hope and anxiety she can see there, and tries to remember the last time she'd had her –
"Oh."
(Let the games begin.)