A/N: This chapter promises to be a little humor, a little plot, a little surprise, and a little fun. I struggled with the first draft, so much so that I debated pulling out of this entirely. But my wonderful beta readers helped me find my way, and I'm very thankful to them. By the way, if you're reading this, please do let me know if you're enjoying it. I feel like I'm shouting into the void! :)

Song: "New York New York" by Frank Sinatra

"Figures," Marissa said, pulling the tub of ice cream out of Eli's freezer. "Mint chocolate chip and nothing else. You're so predictable."

"You could always bring your own, you know," Eli replied, barely glancing up from his laptop. "Or you could go back to your apartment and let me work."

Marissa ignored him, opening and closing cupboards above the countertops until she found one with the bowls. "Hey! You actually unpacked something yourself!"

"Yeah, well, I needed to eat at some point."

"Really?" She scooped out two bowlfuls and then went back to the fridge, hoping for whipped cream, but coming up empty. "Because you don't seem to have any other food in this house."

"There's cereal. And soup. Are you sensing a theme?" He swiveled in his chair and narrowed his eyes at her. "And don't you have to be somewhere? It's Tuesday, you should be at work."

"I took the day off for a doctor's appointment," she said. "So nope, nowhere to go."

"This is New York! You're young! Go do something fun, something that doesn't involve annoying me."

"Oh, but annoying you IS fun for me," she replied, crossing the room and setting a bowl in front of him. "Eat. It'll make you feel better."

He stared at the ice cream, which had already begun to pool at the bottom of the bowl. "What makes you think I need cheering up?"

"Maybe because you've been staring at your computer for the last hour and a half, and snapping at me while I've been trying to get your house organized for you, which, by the way, I didn't HAVE to do."

He sighed and picked up the spoon. "I realize that. But in case you haven't noticed," he said, taking a bite, "it is not easy to convince someone to run for office when they're just as stubborn as-"

"As you?"

"Oh, that's lovely, thanks," he said. "But… yes. I'm trying to put the results of this polling data together in a persuasive enough way to convince him that he needs to do this, but I don't know if that's going to work."

"You're thinking about this all wrong," she said, hopping up to sit on the kitchen island.

"Yeah, thanks for that," he spat. "Can you just leave this to me? I think I've got a better handle on how to manage a campaign than you."

"Oh, because I didn't learn anything from watching you the last five years?" Eli's head jerked up at the tone of her voice, almost as sarcastic as his. She was still sitting on the counter, clutching the bowl of ice cream, and kicking her feet back and forth gently. Despite the glare she was giving him, for a second she looked like a little girl again to him. He took another bite of ice cream.

"Fine," he said, relenting, "what's your idea?"

"Well, part of the problem," she said, finishing off her bowl, "is that you don't seem sure of anything. And if you aren't sure, how do you expect him to be?"

Eli leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm sure. Why would I be doing this if I weren't sure?"

"Oh, you're sure you want him to run. But I've never seen you unsure of how to convince someone." She hopped down from the counter and leaned against it instead. She crossed her arms. "Dad, this isn't like you. What's going on?"

He sighed. "Do you know why I only keep mint chocolate chip in the house?"

She cocked her head to the side. "No, but I'll bite."

"Because," he said, standing up and walking past her into the kitchen, "it's what works, and once I find something that works, I see no reason to keep trying other things."

"I'm not really understanding the connection between my question and ice cream," she said.

"The problem here is that nothing is working," he said. He paced back and forth along the island and ran a hand through his hair. "I've got to find the thing that works, but it's obviously not going to be something that I'm used to doing."

When she didn't reply, he stopped pacing and looked up. Marissa was on her knees, digging through a box marked "books" that had, until that point, gone unopened.

"What the hell are you looking for?"

"Give - me - a -" she mumbled, and then suddenly popped up holding a large, thick book.

"What is that?" He was frustrated and becoming impatient.

She didn't answer, but instead walked to the couch and sat down, motioning for him to come over. When he sat down, she handed the book to him. He realized it was a scrapbook. The cover was the same maroon as the tie he had worn the night of Peter's election.

He pulled the ribbon that was tied around it to keep the pages together, and leafed through it. There were photos of him with various politicians: Michael Bloomberg, Rahm Emanuel, and of course, Peter. There were pages of news clippings where his name was mentioned. She had even included an original button from Peter's State's Attorney campaign. There were dozens of little mementos in this book, and yet, he had no idea why it even existed.

He stared at it, and then at her, repeating his earlier question. "What is this?"

She shrugged. "Look, I'm not usually the sentimental type. You know that. But I made this for you as kind of a 'mazel tov' when Peter's run as governor ended. I thought that was the end of your political career. I snuck it into this box when I was helping you pack. I just didn't think it would still be in a box six months later."

He set it on the coffee table in front of them, and rubbed his hands back and forth on his pants. He wasn't good at sentiment, even when it was his daughter. It was one of the reasons he and her mother had divorced. She accused him of being incapable of expressing his feelings, and he accused her of sleeping with a coworker. Turns out, both were true.

"So… why are you showing this to me now?"

"You looked like you needed a reminder of how good you are at this, when your heart is in it. But it doesn't seem like your heart is in it. Is this really what you want to do, Dad?"

"Marissa," he began, "I don't know. I honestly don't. But I know that your boss needs to do something more than what HE'S doing."

She didn't respond, so he continued.

"I've looked at his background, his court appearances, his record. And do you know what I've noticed?"

"That he has a great conviction record, and hardly ever breaks a sweat?"

Eli stood up and started pacing again. "Yes, he has a good conviction record. But do you know why?"

"Oh, enlighten me," she said.

"Because," he said, "he pleads out lewd conduct and public peeing cases. That's not to say he's not good at his job, but he only occasionally puts away a big bad criminal."

"That's part of the job, Dad," Marissa said. She felt like she was defending not just her boss, but her own job as well. "The D.A. will only allow him to actually prosecute certain cases."

"EXACTLY," Eli said, talking and walking faster. "Michael Long cares more about looking good than actually putting away criminals for the time they deserve. Crime in the city has gone up over the past ten years, and he is the only A.D.A. with a more than passable record. Prisons are overpopulated with people who shouldn't be there, and instead, we slap people on the wrist who should. That's why he needs to run. I just can't figure out how to personalize this for him in a way that will make HIM see that."

Suddenly, Eli stopped pacing and looked at Marissa, who was, by now, smiling helplessly and shaking her head. "What?"

"I hate to say this, but I'm convinced," she replied. "I haven't seen you this excited about a candidate since Peter. But what I don't get is why you seem at a loss for how to get him to run."

"This isn't like Peter," Eli said. "Peter WANTED to run. Even Alicia wanted to, she just didn't realize it. And let's face it, I can't call Gloria Steinem again. Maybe Bob Menendez-"

Suddenly, Marissa leaped from her seat and sat down at his desk, typing furiously. Eli crossed the room to look at what she was researching, and saw that she had pulled up a Google news page with Rafael's name in the search bar.

"Look!" She said it in a way that indicated she thought she had solved the problem and that, moreover, it was an obvious answer.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"When you tried to convince Alicia, why did you call in Gloria Steinem?"

Eli thought for a minute. "Because… Alicia would listen to her?"

"And," Marissa continued, "why did you think Alicia would listen to her?"

"Because Alicia would feel flattered that someone like Gloria Steinem asked her to run?"

"So in reality, what were you doing?"

"Marissa!" He was getting exasperated with this guessing game. "Just spit it out!"

"EGO, Dad. You played to her ego."

"I've already tried that!" Eli was all but flailing by that point. "I've told him how he's done in the preliminary polling. I've told him that he's got everything a candidate should have. I've kissed his ass in every way I possibly can. What else can I do?"

"Don't you get it?" She pointed at the screen. "He already HAS a huge ego. He's known for it. He knows he's popular. He's constantly invited to cocktail parties, out on people's yachts, to ski retreats. He's got no problem with his ego, so nothing you're going to say to play to that will make a damn bit of difference, because it's stuff he already knows."

Eli considered this. So, when your candidate is already sure of himself, how do you convince him to move out of his comfort zone?

"Of course, you could always just get him drunk," she joked.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. He knew exactly how to personalize this, exactly how to play it.

"Marissa," he said, "find out who does the political reporting for the Times and get me their number."

"Okay," Marissa said. "Why?"

"Because you're right," Eli replied, shooing her away from the computer and taking her place. "I can't play TO his ego. I have to play AGAINST it."

Not many people knew it, but when no one was around, Rafael had a habit of reviewing pleadings while lying on his office couch. While others might fall asleep that way, he found it relaxing enough to help him concentrate. Olivia had walked in once while he was sprawled there, and joked about how she didn't think robots needed sleep. He had since taken to locking his door.

Unfortunately, on this particular Friday, he couldn't concentrate no matter where he tried to work. He was supposed to be ripping apart a motion to dismiss a DUI that he'd agreed to take from a fellow prosecutor, but his mind kept going back to Nick's words from earlier in the week. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he had never been told he would fail at something. His father made sure that he heard those words almost every day of his adolescence. He had professors in law school who had told him he would never measure up to his (white, rich) classmates. But he had proven them all wrong. So he couldn't understand why the words of one detective bothered him so much.

He glanced over at his desk. Though he couldn't see the folder they were in, he knew the polling results still sat on top of the piles of dockets. I should just toss those out, he thought. He got up off the couch and snatched the folder up. Then, he hesitated. What's one more glance going to hurt?

He paged through the results again. Doing some quick math, he figured he averaged an 85% approval rating among women in various race, age, and socioeconomic groups. He had a 75% approval rating with men in the middle-to-upper income range. Apparently, both Catholics and Jews also loved him, which seemed bizarre given his general ambivalence toward religion. What struck him, however, was where he didn't poll well: the very socioeconomic class in which he was raised. Among minorities living below and just above the poverty line, he only had a 50% approval rating. This seems so backwards, he thought. I will never understand politics.

He tossed the polling data back onto the desk, cracked his neck, and was just about to lay back down on the couch when there was a knock at his door. No sooner had he unlocked it than Eli Gold, dressed in an unusually informal outfit of jeans and a collared shirt, started talking.

"Look," Eli said, "before you say anything, I'm not here on business. I happened to be down at the courthouse paying a parking ticket and decided to drop by." He set his messenger bag (another Marissa gift that didn't get much use) down on the floor next to him.

"Well, that would be because you have no business here, wouldn't it?" Rafael was in no mood to be polite. Eli was not fazed. In fact, he expected no less.

"I think it's a mistake for you not to at least consider throwing your hat in," Eli said, "but if you're dead set against it, I can't force you. I would, however, like to make amends for annoying you these last few weeks."

Rafael crossed his arms. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"Well," Eli said, "I never officially congratulated you on your big win in the Pollack case. Marissa told me how long it had dragged on and how much time you put into it. I also read that the kid got a pretty harsh sentence. I think that merits a drink."

Rafael stared at the grey-haired man, searching for any trace of dishonesty or ulterior motive. All the years he'd spent as an A.D.A. gave him a pretty decent bullshit meter. He hesitated to say yes, but checked his watch. It was nearly five o'clock anyway, and he wasn't getting much accomplished.

"Where's Marissa? Should she join us?" Rafael looked out past Eli to his assistant's desk, but he saw it was empty.

"I think a twenty-something woman has better things to do on a Friday night than hang out with her boss and her father," Eli replied. Rafael sighed, defeated.

"All right, fine," he said. "Let me just leave her a note to let her know where we're going in case something comes up. Do you have someplace in mind?"

"Well, that depends. Do you like scotch?"

"Two of the 18 year Highland Park, up, please," Eli said to the bartender as they found two empty seats at the bar. They had taken a car to one of Eli's favorite spots that had two of his favorite things: live piano music and good scotch.

"Wait a minute, that's a $100 bottle," he said. Eli shrugged.

"As much as I annoyed you, I'm surprised you didn't drink at least the equivalent of that." Eli draped his bag over the back of his chair as the bartender brought two caramel-colored tumblers to them. Eli picked his glass up and inhaled deeply. It smelled like dried fruit and marzipan, honey-sweet.

"There are few things in life I love more than good scotch," he said. "I might even sell my daughter for a bottle of Macmillan 'M' to be honest."

"Ordinarily the sex crimes A.D.A. should not endorse human trafficking, but for that scotch, I wouldn't blame you."

"This one isn't that bad, all things considered. At least it's not Johnnie Walker," Eli said.

"I'm a government employee. My apartment is barren," he said, "but I just can't abide bad scotch and cheap suits."

"Nice tie, by the way," Eli said, admiring Rafael's navy blue and white diamond print tie. "You always dress so…"

"Let's just say I know why people think I'm gay," he said. "I singlehandedly keep the suspender industry afloat."

Eli laughed. "That's all right, for a while there, I did the same thing for hair gel." He pointed to the poofy grey tufts on his head. "My daughter finally told me I was starting to look like a drag queen Dracula."

Rafael almost inhaled his drink. "That's frightening," he said.

"She was convinced I was having a midlife crisis," Eli said, shrugging. "She might have been right. Speaking of which, how's she doing?"

"She's a lifesaver," he said. "As I told her, I have something of a reputation for being difficult."

"I've gathered that," Eli said.

"What else have you gathered in your exhaustive research into my life?"

Eli set his scotch down and looked at Rafael. "Don't think I didn't go digging," he said. "You're not very well liked in defense firms, or in your own office, for that matter."

"Well, there's a shock," Rafael said ruefully.

"But that doesn't mean people don't respect you," Eli continued. "I learned a long time ago that when you're good at what you do, you're not often well liked."

"Anything else?"

"You want your own life history?" Eli shrugged. "Fine. Your father was a steelworker in the South Bronx, and your mother was a teacher and later a principal of a small private elementary school. You went to Catholic school, but you haven't been to Church in two decades. You pledged Alpha Epsilon Pi. Your best friends are now in prison because of an election scandal, which is probably part of the reason you hate politics."

Rafael gave him a contemplative look.

"What?" Eli said.

"I'm trying to decide whether I should bring charges for stalking."

"I don't know what you expected," Eli said. "This is my job."

"It's only your job if I hire you," Rafael said, the alcohol going down slightly easier now. "You know, it occurs to me that you seem to know all about my background, but I know very little about yours."

"You mean Marissa hasn't spilled all my dirty little secrets?" Eli replied.

"As much as it might surprise you, she never seemed particularly interested in involving you in her work life," Rafael said. "You seem to have taken that upon yourself."

"Wait, did you just say 'if' you hire me?"

Rafael debated going down this path. On one hand, he knew if he gave an inch, Eli would take a mile. On the other, he so rarely got to mess with minds that were not Carisi's. "Let's say I did. I would need to know about you before I agreed to work with you, wouldn't I?"

"Fair enough," Eli admitted. "Jewish, fifty-six years old, divorced, one kid. I grew up in Chicago and lived there until seven months ago. My mother is a retired director of a Jewish day school, and my father is a music teacher. They wanted me to be a concert pianist. I got an economics degree instead. I have a sister and a nephew. I eat one flavor of ice cream, I never use my kitchen, and I have no personal life."

The place was starting to fill up; couples sneaking into leather booths along the walls for pre-theatre meals, singles filling in empty seats at the bar around them.

"So what got you into politics, then?"

"I wouldn't say I'm in politics," Eli said. "At least not currently. But when I got my first job, I realized I hated economics. It's funny how you can study something in school and then in practice end up hating it."

"I thought I was going to end up a psychologist," Rafael said, smirking. "I'm not exactly the warm and understanding type, though."

"Exactly," Eli replied. "Anyway, even though I hated my job, I got something out of it. I got to see what happens when crises arise and no one knows what to do. People flailing around, trying to figure out what to do when they're too emotionally invested in it to be effective. Eventually, I realized I was pretty good at managing those situations. Fortunately for me, other people started to realize it, too."

"So you started in crisis management?"

"Mmm. I did that for something like twenty years, actually. Built my own consulting firm from the ground up. The first client I ever had was a law firm that had a partner with a penis problem. Try saying that three times fast."

"As you can imagine, I see that a lot in my line of work," Rafael said.

"Ah, but this guy's idea of a good time was dressing up as Jackie O and schtupping one of his clients," Eli replied. This time, Rafael actually did inhale the scotch.

"Just when I think I've heard everything," he said.

"I got them out of it by sending him to rehab. This was before it was trendy. That's the kind of thing I ended up dealing with a lot, actually."

"I assume you're talking about Peter Florrick," Rafael said. It was hard not to immediately think of Florrick when Eli brought up sexual indiscretions. The former governor had been in the national news years before, when he had the Illinois equivalent of Rafael's job. And, of course, Marissa had worked for his wife, "Saint" Alicia.

"Well, I've probably already said too much about confidential client matters," Eli began, "but Peter was a very unique case. I hadn't yet managed someone who had been to prison. I took it as a challenge to rehab someone for political office who was, at the time, a convicted felon."

"Were you as rabid with him as you are with me?"

"I didn't need to be," Eli replied. "He wanted his career back. He wanted to be back in the public eye for a positive reason. I knew he could make a difference to people, and more importantly, he knew it."

Rafael glanced over and saw Eli giving him a penetrating look. He was about to ask why Eli had such faith in him, when Eli leaned back over his chair and flipped up the top of his bag, pulling out another manilla folder. Rafael rolled his eyes and unintentionally slammed his glass on the counter.

"I KNEW it," Rafael said. "I knew there was something going on. You don't do anything without an ulterior motive, do you?"

"Look," Eli said, "that's true. But this ulterior motive isn't selfish. At least, not entirely. You need to run. And do you want to know why?"

"You've already told me," Rafael said, finishing what was left in his tumbler and standing up, ready to walk out the door. He pulled out his phone and started to call an Uber car. "Because I'd be good at it. Because I'm a minority. Because I'm handsome. I don't care. I'm not a politician, and I have no reason to become one."

"Okay, but you do realize that whoever DOES win is ultimately your boss, right?"

Rafael stopped. Of course he realized that Michael Long was his boss, but he hadn't really considered the thought of his replacement, an unknown. Eli realized he had finally found an in. He tossed the folder onto the bar.

"I didn't just do polling on you," he said. "Someone else is planning to announce."

Rafael hesitated.

"Go on," Eli said, urging him to open it. "I have a feeling you'll want to do something about this before it becomes reality."

Sighing, Rafael opened the folder. Inside were polling results similar to his own - not just in data collected but in results. Somehow, however, in his haste to appease Eli, he missed the name of the candidate for whom the polling data was collected. He flipped back to the first page and glanced at the top.

Eli watched as a horrified look darkened Rafael's face.

"No," he said.

"Unfortunately, yes. He's announcing on Monday."

"How do I know this isn't bullshit?"

"You want the name of the reporter I got this from? Here," Eli said, pulling out a business card from the Times for someone named Glenn Danbury. He tossed it on the bar next to the folder.

No way can this be real, Rafael thought, aghast. Yet, the numbers were there in black and white.

Eli casually sipped his scotch. "It's up to you," he said. "But I know if I were you, I wouldn't want to work for John Buchanan."

Rafael sunk back down onto the bar stool. His head was spinning. The idea of working for that insufferable prick was incomprehensible. He'd be terminated in a week. He rubbed his forehead, a headache building.

"Do you think," Rafael said, choosing his words carefully, "he has a chance of winning? Or is this just what it looks like right now?"

"Oh, he's got more than a chance. Old white guys like him, so you're evenly matched there. But so do young white guys, since that's who he spends his time defending. And you've got a problem with the poor Hispanic and Latino vote, as you well know. And do you want to know where the biggest turnout comes from?" Eli turned to face Rafael, who looked very pale.

"Let me guess."

"Rafael," Eli said, looking quite serious, "I know that you think I don't care about the process or the result, outside of my candidate winning. But the fact is that I work in this business because I care more than most people about who runs our government. John Buchanan's campaign could pay me. But I don't work for candidates I don't believe in."

"And you believe in me because…?"

"Because," Eli continued, "I saw you in court. I saw how you fought for that girl. I saw how you threw yourself into it. You think I don't know what they pay you? I know you don't do this job because of the money. Look, you've pushed back at me every time I've suggested you run. Why?"

In the background, the band had begun playing the evening's entertainment, a collection of standards and soft rock that would neither offend nor excite. Eli was momentarily distracted. Please God, don't let them start with Piano Man again…

"Because I like doing my job," Rafael said. "I like fighting. And as much as I would never admit this to anyone, I like helping people. You can't do that as a politician."

"But you can when you don't care about BEING a politician. John Buchanan doesn't care about victims. He cares about the power. You don't. THAT'S why I believe in you, and that's why you need to do this. He doesn't deserve that office. You do."

Rafael looked at Eli for a long time, then back down at his empty scotch glass. "Alex Munoz told me," he began, "that I would never see the D.A.'s office after what I did to him."

"Didn't you hear me?" Eli smirked, knowing Rafael's resolve was breaking. "I spent twenty years as a crisis manager. I helped a convicted felon become governor. You don't think I can handle another felon's empty threats?"

"If I do this," Rafael said cautiously, "I have conditions."

"I'm sure you do," Eli replied. "But the first step is saying yes."

Rafael sighed. He had spent the last decade fighting for other people, but he knew enough about politics to know that half the battle was going to be for himself. He needed to know he could be successful without compromising his integrity. He wondered what Olivia would say.

And then his mind drifted back to what Nick had said. That he couldn't do it, and wouldn't be good at it.

Would John Buchanan be that much better?

"Okay," he said, after a deep breath. "I'll run."

"Well, it's about time!" Eli smiled, a wide, toothy grin that Rafael had never seen from him. This must be his "genuine" smile, he thought. In his elation, Eli, in an uncharacteristically impulsive move, stood up from his chair and called out, "Attention everyone, meet your new District Attorney, Rafael Barba!"

After the Martin Pollack case, Rafael Barba was now a household name in Manhattan. So, Rafael was embarrassed but not entirely surprised when the bar, which was now full of happily tipsy patrons, erupted into claps and cheers. He wanted to leave before he changed his mind about this entire thing. Suddenly, another glass of scotch was in front of him, but he knew Eli hadn't ordered it. Oh well, he thought. Might as well have one for the road…

"It's 8:30 on a Friday night, why's his light still on?"

"You know Barba," Fin said as he and Carisi approached the A.D.A.'s office. "He's probably got some new case already. The guy really needs to get a girl."

"You think bringing me along was such a hot idea?" Carisi rubbed the back of his neck. "He's not my biggest fan."

"That's part of why I'm doing this," Fin replied. "It's been almost three years, you two have got to stop acting like an old married couple."

They opened the door to the office to be greeted by the sound of Marissa's surprised yelp. With her bare feet on her desk and her keyboard in her lap, she was obviously not expecting late-night visitors.

"JESUS CHRIST, Fin, what the hell?" Although she didn't appreciate him in this particular moment, she genuinely liked Fin. They shared the same sarcastic sense of humor, and didn't tolerate bullshit. Catching her breath and rising from her chair, the two gave each other a quick fist-bump.

"Sorry, M. What're you doing here so late on a Friday?"

"Eh, I'm a frustrated novelist. I work better when I change the scenery," she said. "Besides, if I go home, the temptation to marathon Disney movies will be too strong. What's up, Sonny?"

Carisi gave a quick, awkward wave.

"Where's your boss?" Fin asked.

"He left me a note a couple hours ago. Apparently he went down to Foster's with my Dad, which concerns me, but I'm in no mood to go play designated daughter."

At this, Sonny perked up. "Your Dad, he's the one who's been telling him he'd be a good D.A., right?"

"One and the same," she said. "But Mr. Barba's completely against it."

"So why's he out with your Dad, then?" Fin cocked his head the way he did when he wasn't one hundred percent convinced of something.

"I don't know. All I know is they're at Foster's. Why are YOU looking for him?"

"We wanted to take him out for a drink. Y'know, celebrate the Pollack case. Plus, Carisi here," Fin gestured to the young detective who was staring at his shoes, "needs to bond."

"Well, I'm sure if you go down there, you'll find them knee deep in scotch," she said. "Now get out of here, I need to finish this chapter before Monday and I really don't want to stay here all weekend."

"You sure you don't wanna come?" Carisi asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she replied. "That bar's not really my scene anyway."

Fin shrugged. "Don't work too hard," he said, giving her a wave goodnight. Carisi opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it and rushed out the door. Fin and Marissa exchanged a quizzical look, and with a roll of his eyes, Fin followed him.

"So, I told him, you're setting the clock back on rape law fifty years," Rafael said, slurring a bit. Having long since discarded his suit coat and loosened his tie, he looked less like a political candidate and more like an average attorney at the end of a long week. "He looked at me like he was going to jump over the bench and slap me."

"Sounds like you lost it for a minute there," Eli said, taking the glass that was just placed in front of Rafael by another well-intentioned bar patron. He was only allowing Rafael to have one of every three drinks that were sent his way, either drinking the others or passing them discreetly to a bartender or other patrons to enjoy.

"Well, I was mad!" Rafael said. "Judges don't get to do that. I fought hard enough to get that damn case in front of the jury anyway. The D.A. didn't want me to take it, a pornstar rape." He shrugged and took another sip.

"So how'd you manage to convince him?"

"A little charisma... and a lot of ass kissing," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "Is it hot in here?"

"A bit," Eli said. "So, tomorrow, I'll be talking to my contacts at the DNC and we'll start putting together a campaign strategy. I'll manage it, but I'm going to need to find a few consultants-"

"Oh, great. So I can have even more people digging into my past."

Eli sighed. "If something is going to come out, it's better that we know about it in advance. The best defense is a good offense. Buchanan knows that; he's a defense attorney, after all. Besides," he continued, "it's not like there won't be plenty of dirt on him."

"I'm no saint."

"Neither was Peter Florrick."

"There are gay rumors." Rafael didn't often verbalize that particular rumor.

"So?"

"Well, it's not that I think being gay is a problem," Rafael said, rubbing his forehead. "I'm just… not. And, you know, people will accuse me of being in the closet. They do it, I know they do."

Eli took Rafael's half-empty glass away from him. Seeing even this little bit of raw emotion from someone normally so buttoned-up was a bad sign where alcohol was concerned.

"If you're that concerned, we can find you a girl to be seen with. Are you reconsidering? Because if you're reconsidering-"

"I'm not reconsidering," Rafael snapped. Then, his face softened and he rubbed his hands on his knees. "In fact, the more I think about it the more it makes sense."

"Not that I'm complaining, of course, but have you switched to Kool-Aid suddenly?"

"No," Rafael replied, "but the more I think about Buchanan being my boss, the more I need to drink, the more this idea makes sense and the more comfortable I feel with it."

"I hope you don't need to be loaded to be comfortable with the idea," Eli said, "because this is most definitely the last time I'm letting you get even slightly inebriated-"

Just then, the house lights dimmed, and the band's piano player spoke into a microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. As it's now 9:00, we'd like to begin the group participation portion of the evening."

"Oh, great," Eli muttered. He'd forgotten about this. It always happened on Friday nights. The band would allow requests, and occasionally invite bar patrons onstage to sing with them.

"You know, it's getting late, and awfully crowded," Eli said. "Maybe we should-"

"Are there any requests?" The piano player looked out over the crowd.

"'New York New York!'" Rafael called out, immediately looking as if he did not recognize the sound of his own voice. Eli glared at him, eyes narrowing.

"What the hell was that?" He growled. "Don't you realize that this entire bar knows that you're running for-"

"Okay, 'New York New York' for the man in suspenders!" The piano player nodded toward the rest of the band, who started the opening notes. The trumpet blared louder than the rest, with the trombone following behind. Rafael shrugged at Eli, and took the scotch glass back, throwing the last of it back.

Suddenly, a group of twenty-something men in tie-less suits surrounded them. One of them, who had a build like Captain America, took Rafael by the shoulder. "Come on, guy!"

"Huh?" Rafael looked panicked. "What are you-don't touch the suspenders!"

"C'mon, it's Friday night, man," said one of them, a short Indian guy with his tie draped around his neck.

"And you just announced this big campaign! You gotta celebrate!" Eli glared at Captain America.

The third one, who looked not unlike a younger version of David Lee, popped up from behind Eli. Based on appearance alone, Eli hated him most of all. He said that since Rafael picked the song, he ought to sing it. But before Eli could react beyond the utterance of a curse word, Rafael was being ushered away from him by the Three Stooges and pushed onstage. The piano player grinned and announced, "Looks like I've been replaced temporarily. Go on, guys, have at it!"

"Start spreadin' the news, I'm leavin' today..." The piano player led them into the opening lines of the song. The three men with whom he was on stage sang along happily, if a bit drunkenly, while Rafael stood between two of them, looking at Eli helplessly. Eli's eyes darted from side to side, trying to think of a way to get them both out of this situation while simultaneously trying to make sure there were no recognizable media members watching.

"I want to be a part of it. New York, New York..." Rafael looked to his left, then to his right. The drunken trio seemed lost in the music, so he tried to move, but the tall blonde one managed to sling an arm around his shoulder. Realizing he was stuck and too inebriated to argue, he decided to try to blend in. He started mouthing along with the words.

"These vagabond shoes are longing to stray right through the very heart of it... New York, New York..."

Eli's brain was rapid firing. For a minute, he thought about jumping on stage and dragging his candidate away before something truly embarrassing happened. But then he remembered what he'd told Alicia during the first days of her short stint as State's Attorney: that making an issue where an issue hasn't been made yet is a stupid idea. If he panicked, he would make it an issue. Maybe, Eli thought in desperation, everyone who's here now wasn't here when we gave our little pre-announcement. Maybe this won't be an issue. He left his seat, making his way through the growing crowd. His head was like an owl's, swiveling from side to side, looking for rogue cameras. Despite the growing popularity of the motley crew on stage, it didn't appear as though anyone was interested enough to film the scene.

"These little town blues are melting away... I'll make a brand new start of it in old New York..." Someone passed drinks up to the stage, and soon, Rafael found himself holding a final glass of scotch, unintentionally singing along now to the old standard, along with the rest of the room. Somewhere in the only remaining sober part of his brain he knew this was a bad idea, but at the same time, it was kind of fun to turn off his straight-laced personality just a little bit. Besides, it wasn't as though he was LEADING this singalong. He was just along for the ride.

Meanwhile, Eli wandered through the mass of people near the middle of the room, where he suspected surreptitious filming might be going on. "...if I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere! It's up to you, New York, New York..." He finally zeroed in on two frat-boy looking kids, laughing while one of them held up a cameraphone.

"Dude, this is hilarious," one of them said, watching the scene unfold through the screen. All of a sudden, the scene changed from four drunken men, including a district attorney candidate, singing a Frank Sinatra song, to a pair of very angry eyebrows attached to a pinched, volatile face.

"Delete that video, DUDE," Eli snarled, "or I swear to God, I will find your girlfriends and tell them that you were over there flirting with that good-looking bartender." He pointed to an extremely pretty, red-haired woman who, at that moment, was flipping a vodka bottle over in her hand.

"Yeah right," the other guy said, standing a little taller in an attempt to be intimidating. "Like you can prove that."

"That bartender is a friend of mine," Eli said, crossing his arms. "Do you really want to test your little theory?"

The two men hesitated. Eli raised a menacing eyebrow. A standoff ensued for about fifteen seconds before the man holding the camera sighed and, with Eli watching, deleted the video.

"And just to make sure," Eli said, "I'm going to stand here for the rest of the show."

Meanwhile, Carisi and Fin entered the packed restaurant, pushing their way through the crowd. Carisi was a head taller than Fin, so he scanned the bar area for any sign of flashy suspenders or a brightly-colored tie. "I don't see him," he called out behind him.

"Maybe they moved to a quieter place," Fin said. "This doesn't seem like Barba's kind of-"

Just then, Carisi stopped dead in his tracks, causing Fin to run into him. Fin came around to Carisi's side and was about to curse, but stopped when he saw the look on Carisi's normally stoic face. It was an odd mixture of shock, horror, and amusement. He didn't say anything, but merely pointed ahead of them, toward the stage at the back of the bar. Fin followed Carisi's gaze and could not believe what he saw. He grabbed Carisi by the arm and pushed through the crowd. He HAD to make sure he wasn't having delusions.

"I want to wake up in a city that never sleeps..."

There, on the stage, in front of a sea of people holding bottles and glasses in the air, was a group of four men, drinks in hand, singing a Frank Sinatra song backed by a full big band. One of those men was Rafael Barba.

"To find I'm a number one, top of the list, king of the hill, a number one..."

"Holy shit," Fin said. Rafael's tie had been removed and his sleeves rolled up, and his normally perfectly-gelled hair was a mess.

Carisi stared down at Fin, still open-mouthed, clearly not knowing how to handle this. He idolized Rafael, secretly wished to work with him someday after law school. But he'd never actually thought of him as... well, a person. Carisi thought of him more as some kind of machine with human qualities.

Obviously the man isn't just a star performer in the courtroom, Carisi thought. He nudged Fin, who looked over to see Carisi with his phone raised up over the crowd, filming the performance.

"What the hell are you doing?" Fin said.

"Oh, come on," Carisi said. "All the crap this guy gives me, you think I'm not gonna save this for a rainy day? Besides, it's not like he's running for office." Fin shook his head, but even he had to admit, this was too funny not to record.

The song was about to hit its apex, and Eli stood ready to fling himself at the stage and grab Rafael as soon as it ended. The men were singing to one another, to the band, then back toward the audience, really hamming it up. Rafael had clearly loosened up since he was first dragged onstage. Looking at him now, you wouldn't even know he was there against his will. Eli shook his head, defeated, a small part of him hoping he hadn't made the worst decision of his life.

For his part, Rafael knew he would never do something like this again, but also thought that maybe it would be good to get some recklessness out of his system. Every decision, every word, every action would be judged for the remainder of the campaign. He would have to keep control of his temper and his tongue for the foreseeable future. So he chalked this up as a preemptive balm, a salve to get him through the strictly monitored and scrutinized days ahead.

"Aaaaaaand if I can make it there, I'm gonna make it anywhere..." He bent at the waist a bit, pushing the notes out from deep inside himself. The crowd went wild, cheering and whooping support. The four wannabe Rat Pack members capped off the song with a raise of their glasses, a gesture which the audience returned.

"It's up to you, New York, New York... New York!"

Eli watched Indian Tie Guy, Captain America, and Son of Satan take bows, while Rafael tried to catch his breath. He started to make his way to the stage while simultaneously trying to pull up Uber to request a car. Rafael felt suddenly exhausted, the liquor finally catching up to him. Just then, he caught sight of a pair of familiar faces as they were turning away from the stage. Oh, no. No, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He shoved his way toward the front door, one of his suspenders falling off his shoulder in the process. Eli chased after him, having little luck keeping the smaller man in view. Finally, he found Rafael standing at the door of the restaurant, talking animatedly to a very odd-looking couple: one, an amused-looking black man in a sweater and jeans and the other, a tall, blonde man with the largest forehead he'd ever seen, who was looking very pleased with himself.

"Carisi, I swear to all that is holy, if you tell anyone about this-" Rafael looked to have immediately sobered up at the sight of these two men.

"Do you really think it's smart to threaten me right now, counselor?" Eli could immediately sense an animosity between the two men, but he could also tell that this "Carisi" person was both immature and probably very stupid. He straightened his shirt out, ran a hand through his disastrously unkempt hair, and approached the group.

"Is there a problem here?" He glared at Carisi but did his best to sound nonthreatening. A quick judgment told him it was better to tread lightly with these two.

"Lemme guess," Fin said, "M's dad?"

"Excuse me, 'M'?" Eli gave Fin a look that read, C'mon, really? Fin gave him the same look back, except his had an unspoken expletive attached to the end. "I'm Eli Gold. And you are?"

"DETECTIVES Fin Tutuola," Carisi cut in, pointing first to Fin and then to himself, "and Sonny Carisi." It was his tone that made Eli snap. Politeness went out the window.

"I'm sure I'm supposed to be impressed," Eli said. "Listen, I don't know what the relationship is here, and I realize the NYPD has more leaks than a New Orleans levee, but I'm going to need you to forget what you've seen here tonight."

Fin studied Eli's pointed, stern face, and then Rafael's. His years of detective work allowed him to realize that something was going on that neither of them was saying. And he already did not like Marissa's father. But he respected Rafael Barba, and didn't think it wise to make an enemy of the best A.D.A. they'd had since Alex Cabot.

"Come on, Carisi," Fin said, turning to leave. "Barba's gonna have one hell of a hangover without us rubbing it in."

Carisi and Rafael stared at one another for a moment longer. Rafael was about to make a smartass remark, but Eli, sensing this, grabbed his arm. Carisi pursed his lips, and then turned to follow Fin out of the bar.

"Friends of yours?" Eli said, keeping his eyes on the door until he was sure the two detectives had left.

"One of them, anyway," Rafael replied, finally unclenching his fists.

"That Carisi guy's gonna give me migraines, isn't he?" Sensing Rafael's tension, he tried to crack a joke. It seemed to work, because Rafael half-grinned.

"He's been giving me one for the last three years."

Eli sighed and checked his watch. "They were right about one thing."

Rafael started to walk back to the bar to grab his jacket. "What's that?"

"You'd better prepare yourself," Eli said. "Campaigning basically feels like one big hangover. Everyone talks too loudly, and you're sick to your stomach most of the time."