A/N: Hello, dears! So sorry this took so long to push out. Life got in the way for a while. But this chapter will really move the story along, and you'll probably enjoy some of Barba's interaction with a REAL LIVE GIRL. ;) Chapter 11 will be coming soon, as this chapter got way too long and I had to split it up between two. So that one is already about 10 pages in. Thanks so much for reading!

Song: "Check Yes Juliet" by We The Kings

"Do you think the tie is too much?" Rafael held up a green and pink striped tie, comparing it to the surprisingly nondescript white dress shirt on the hanger. In response, Marbury took a deep stretch and yawned, then hopped off the bed. "Big help you are," he said.

He tossed the tie down onto the bed and rifled through the pressed shirts in the closet. He thought organizing it by color would have helped, but he just stared at them, unable to make a decision. Sighing, he shrugged his original choice, the white button down, over his shoulders and fastened the cuffs. The clock on the nightstand read 5:30pm, so he still had plenty of time. Still, he wished the minutes would pass slower; each one just made him more nervous. There is no real reason to feel this way, he thought. It was just dinner between two old friends. Yet the way his heart raced when he thought about how she looked in her courtroom clothes, the way his palms sweat when he thought of the tattoo he couldn't quite make out, said otherwise.

Such anxiety was unlike him. But he hadn't been so unsure of anything in a long time, either. In a perfect world, she would have asked him out the way a teenager might: those old "check yes or no" notes from middle school came to mind. Why couldn't adults be that direct? At least something like that would have told him exactly what the next logical step would be.

Meanwhile, Marbury danced around his still-pantsless legs. He had learned a long time ago to put on his pants only when he was ready to leave the house. Otherwise, his Armani suits ended up looking like they were made of shag carpeting.

"Is this your way of trying to calm me down?" The cat purred, apparently responding to the question with a resounding yes. He looked at the clock again, then put the tie on, leaving it a little loose at the knot. He was strategic in all of his clothing choices - he may as well have trademarked his wardrobe - and in this case, he wanted to portray a casual ease.

Lauren had texted him just before he left the office to ask if they could try out Mayflower, a new restaurant that had just opened on the Upper East Side. He'd had to have Marissa pull strings to get the last table, which, she had informed him, was situated in the very back of the restaurant. He took what he could get. He knew he would need at least half an hour to get there. So he still had almost an hour to kill. He was about to check his hair for the tenth time, when his cell started to ring with a deafening blare. He jumped, and when his heart had returned to his chest, he picked up the call without checking the caller ID.

"This is Barba," he said, using the name the squad and most of his colleagues used. Sometimes he wished more people would address him by his first name, but his last name seemed to command more respect.

"Rafael," Eli said, "turn on channel five."

"Hello to you too, Eli," he said, heading for the living room and rummaging through the coffee table drawer for the remote. He felt it under a stack of magazines and old mail, and clicked on the television. When he found the channel, his mouth opened and closed so fast he almost bit his tongue in two.

"-this city deserves better than the substandard plea deals and wrongful prosecutions it has had to endure until now," John Buchanan said, his jowls jiggling with every word. "And victims deserve better than to suffer through trials only to watch the truly guilty go free."

"Are you watching?" Eli asked. Rafael had forgotten he was even holding the phone to his ear.

"He's announcing," he said to no one in particular. "Unbelievable."

"Thank you, I hadn't noticed. But I admit, I wasn't expecting it quite so soon," Eli said.

"-and given his ineffective tenure as D.A., the entire staff of his office should be overhauled, from the bottom up."

Rafael was infuriated and incredulous at once. "Did he just threaten my job?" Was Buchanan so delusional as to think he could waltz into the office, unopposed, and unceremoniously kick all the current A.D.A.s to the curb?

"No," Eli said, "he threatened YOU. He knows you're coming after him. This is a warning shot."

Then Rafael heard Buchanan say something that made him want to reach through the television and throttle him like one of those old cartoon hands through a phone receiver.

"While I have been a practicing defense attorney, the D.A. has rushed to convict innocent people, forever tarnishing their reputations, while putting the victims through the torture of a trial without hope of seeing justice served. And when they aren't trying to convict innocent people, they are building reputations on the backs of victims. These men and women deserve justice, not needless revictimization by politically motivated attorneys."

"Calm down," Eli said, as if he instinctively knew Rafael would be ready to explode. "We knew this was coming."

"But he's so full of shit that I don't even know how to respond," Rafael said, words coming out as fast as his brain could form them. He stared, slackjawed, at the television.

"-and that is why," Buchanan said, "I am announcing my candidacy for District Attorney of Manhattan." The crowd of reporters gathered beneath him on the courthouse steps immediately launched into a thousand questions, none of which Buchanan seemed inclined to answer.

"Typical," Eli said, and Rafael could almost see his eyeroll. "At least his speechwriter is as bad as ours."

"And yet a dozen reporters want to know more," Rafael replied.

"You can't judge his popularity by that," Eli said. "He's the only candidate who's announced. I've already been getting calls from newspapers asking for comment-"

"I saw the blurb in the Times." There had been a pretty substantial column the previous day discussing potential candidates for the upcoming election cycle, and his name had been mentioned alongside Marvin Exley (that one had been laughable - he was even worse than Buchanan) and Derek Strauss, a lesser known A.D.A. Rafael happened to know that Derek had no interest in the position; he was much happier having some semblance of a life. But that article must have been why Buchanan announced early. He must have assumed Rafael would, and wanted to beat him to it.

"I don't want you to worry about this," Eli said. "We knew he would announce, and as soon as your speech is ready, we'll throw our hat in. Speaking of which, I wish you would reconsider-"

"Oops, sorry, Eli," Rafael said quickly, not letting him get a word in. "I'm late for an appointment.

"All right, but let me have your draft-" Rafael hung up the phone without Eli completing his sentence. He went back to the bedroom and sat down on the bed, where Marbury lay sleeping. He didn't really know how to feel. One part of him quaked with excitement at the idea that he would soon officially be in the race. But the other, louder part of him screamed in terror at the prospect of running against Buchanan, because there was always a chance he would lose. He didn't know how he could bear that kind of blow, and the idea was even more real now that Buchanan had announced. Then again, he had something Buchanan didn't. He had Eli. Though he didn't know who was running Buchanan's campaign, he knew they couldn't be nearly as good as a man who turned a felon into a Governor.

He checked the clock again: only 6:00. But at this point, he needed a drink to calm his frayed nerves. He started to debate canceling; maybe he should stay in and work on the speech. But when he imagined Lauren's disappointed face, he thought better of it. You're being ridiculous, he thought. Now put your damn pants on.

"Nora? You home?" Marissa called into the apartment as she tossed her keys onto the counter.

"Hang on a second," Nora replied from somewhere in the back of the apartment. "Just got out of the shower."

"No problem," Marissa said. She leafed through the stack of mail next to her keys, sorting into piles for each of them. Most of the envelopes for her were bills, but since she now split the cost of the apartment, she didn't dread them quite as much as she normally would have.

"My furniture came today," Nora said, stepping out from the hallway wearing her bathrobe. "Not that I had much of it, but it's nice to have some of my own things here."

"Did they say when the rest of your stuff would get here?"

"Probably in the next couple days," Nora replied. "Honestly, I just want my shoes and jewelry."

"Do you want me to ask Mr. Barba for a couple days off to help you unpack?"

"Oh, no need," Nora said. She grabbed a Coke out of the fridge - apparently, Marissa realized, Nora had gone grocery shopping. "It won't take long. Most of what I had, I gave to Mariah for her new place."

"That was nice of you," Marissa said, grabbing a soda of her own. She leaned on the counter.

"I guess I'm kind of hoping that if she starts out on the right foot, this time will be different."

"How long has she been out of rehab this time?"

"About a year," Nora sighed. "Right around now is the time where she starts making bad decisions again, so when she decided to get her own place, I guess I kind of thought that by giving her a good foundation, she might actually stick to her program."

"I sometimes wonder how I would react if one of my parents died," Marissa said. "Especially at the age Mariah was when your dad did."

"I wish I could say I understood her." Nora chugged the rest of her soda. "I understood her depression. But I will never understand how she dealt with it. She's an adult. I wish she'd start acting like it."

"Maybe this time, she will," Marissa said, giving Nora an encouraging smile. "She's been sober for a year now, after all."

"Yeah, but like I said, this is the time where something happens," Nora replied. "That said, she does have a steady job now, at a grocery store, and she actually goes to the NA meetings. So that's progress."

"I'm sure she appreciates having your support too, you know."

Nora smiled sadly. "If only that were enough to fix it." There was a silence that echoed loudly through the room, until Nora changed the subject. "How was your day at work?"

"Oh, it was fine," Marissa said. "My Dad came by to talk to Mr. Barba about the campaign announcement, and of course, Mr. Barba hated the draft of the speech."

"He's an attorney," Nora said, pushing back from the counter and heading toward her bedroom. "I'm sure he's going to want to write it himself."

"Probably," Marissa replied, following behind her. She flopped down on Nora's bed while Nora sat at her vanity and smoothed oil into her hair. "Actually, there was something a bit weird that happened today."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Mr. Barba asked me to make him a reservation at this new place on the Upper East Side."

"Does he not often ask you to make him reservations? Eli made me do that constantly. It was hell coming up with new and interesting places for him to take clients."

"That's the thing. He never asks me to make personal reservations for him, and I think that's what this was. Not that I would mind if he did, but he refuses to let me. He says he's perfectly capable of running his own non-existent personal life."

Nora snorted and dabbed some eye cream under her eyes. "Really? A boss who actually respects the boundaries of your assigned job? What's that like?"

"I'm serious, Nora, something is very weird here," Marissa said. Nora spun around on the stool quite suddenly, a serious look on her face.

"Okay, Ris, let's think this through. You say he never has you make personal reservations, but you suspect that's exactly what this reservation was. Why do you suspect that?"

"Because it's a Friday night, and he was very secretive about who he was meeting. He also seemed kind of… I don't know, nervous? Like, jumpy. Plus, this place is supposed to be pretty romantic - it overlooks Central Park."

"And why is it concerning to you that he would have suddenly involved you in his personal life?"

Marissa shrugged. "Because he's hiding something. He wasn't straight up with me, and he's always straight up with me. And because he's going to be announcing his campaign soon, and whatever he's hiding will eventually come out."

"And?" Nora raised an eyebrow.

"And," Marissa continued, a bit sheepishly, "I'm nosy."

"As long as we've established that," Nora grinned. "Okay, so, you're concerned about the campaign. That's valid. And you think something weird is going on because he wasn't acting like himself. Also valid. So…"

"So…"

"So, the question is, what do we do about it? And the sad part is, I know how to figure out the answer." Marissa cocked her head, questioning, and Nora sighed. "We have to ask ourselves: what would Eli do?"

"Oh, God," Marissa groaned. "I hate that THAT'S how we have to go about this."

"I'm not thrilled about it either, Ris, but let's face it. Your Dad is a sneaky bastard, but he's almost never caught off guard. So. What would he do in this situation?"

Marissa thought for a second. Her father was suspicious of everyone and everything. He never trusted anyone to tell the truth, a sign that he had been in politics too long. For a second, she wondered if she was becoming too much like him.

That being said, as she had admitted to Nora, she was nosy. Separate from the potential political backlash, she wanted to know why he was being so secretive. He had promised her he wouldn't lie to her if she didn't lie to him. If he was breaking that promise, she wanted to know why. Somehow, this didn't seem quite as unethical as being strategically sneaky for political reasons. A grin spread across her face. She looked up at Nora through her eyelashes and said, "Up for a drink?"

She wasn't coming.

That's what Rafael told himself at 7:40. Lauren still wasn't there and hadn't texted him. He even told himself that it was better that way - getting into a relationship now would be disastrous. Then he kicked himself - why was he so convinced this was a date at all? At any rate, he was dead set on enjoying at least a good, stiff scotch before slinking home.

Suddenly, the front door opened and, ahead of a rush of cool air, Lauren stumbled into the restaurant looking harried. She was clutching her thick, woolen scarf around her neck and smoothing her wavy hair out of her face. She made her way through the tables looking for him, and he rose from the table to help her find him. Suddenly, he felt astonishingly calm once he saw her. It was as if the anticipation was more nerve-wracking than actually seeing her. When she finally saw him, her face broke into an easy smile. As she approached, he admired her chocolate-colored boots. He felt that if he were a woman, he would likely own a pair in at least two colors.

"Hi, Rafael," she said, and he smiled at the way his name sounded in her slightly Midwestern accent. He remembered that she had moved with her mother to New York when she was thirteen, but she'd never really lost the hard Indiana accent. "I'm so sorry I'm late - some jackass on the subway decided to play grabass with a teenager and the train was delayed at the station til the cops showed up."

"Oh, good, another case for my office," he said, a little too sarcastically. If she noticed, she brushed it off.

"Keeps you in business, though, right?" If only you knew, he thought. She took a seat across from him, unwrapping herself from her heavy trench and scarf. Once she sat down, he followed suit. "So, have you ordered-" Just then, the waiter came back with Rafael's scotch. He took it gingerly and motioned toward Lauren.

"I am apparently late to the party," she said to the waiter. "Glass of riesling, please." Then she picked her menu up. "I appreciate you being willing to move dinner to this place. I've wanted to come here since it opened. A shame we don't have the Central Park view, though."

"No problem at all," he said. "As long as I can get a decent scotch, I'm happy."

After they placed their orders, Lauren leaned back in her chair, fingering the edge of her wine glass. "All right, tell me everything."

"That's a lot to cover," he said. "What do you want to know about? My stellar conviction record? My reputation as the shark of the D.A.'s office? My impeccable taste in scotch?"

She laughed. "Why don't we start with what got you into sex crimes prosecution?"

"I started off in Brooklyn, actually, just doing standard cases - burglary, armed robbery, the occasional assault. But I guess I got a bit of a reputation as a hardass when I prosecuted two Johns for the rape of a prostitute."

Lauren flinched. "Kind of a difficult one," she said. "Most prosecutors wouldn't touch an NHI case."

"NHI?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh," she said, softer now. "That's what the lawyers at my firm call those kind of cases. NHI. No humans involved."

This time, Rafael flinched. "Kind of gives you a great insight into how defense attorneys think. Speaking of, how are you stomaching that type of work?"

"Oh, I don't usually handle criminal cases. Not really my wheelhouse. I was covering for a colleague whose kid got the flu."

"Funny," he said, as the calamari arrived. "I was doing the same thing for a colleague whose wife went into labor."

"I guess no one wants to go to arraignment court," she said. "Slackers."

Rafael smiled. Her sense of humor was still sarcastic, but also light, just as he remembered it.

"Anyway," he said, "that case led me to request a transfer to Manhattan. I knew they needed a good A.D.A. after Delia Wilson. And I was tired of the commute anyway."

"I remember the Adam Cain trial," she said. "Made quite a splash with that one."

"That was mostly me showboating," he admitted. "Back then, I was just starting to get some measure of notoriety. I was interested because convicting him would be a big gain for the office, and for me."

"And now?"

"Now… well, let's just say I've evolved as a prosecutor AND as a human," he said.

"Well," she said, swallowing, "you seem to be one of the good ones. I've met too many prosecutors who are more interested in their conviction rates and looking good to their bosses than actually doing their jobs."

"Thanks," he said, blushing slightly. "So now you know about my evolution into a powerful, terrifying A.D.A. I want to know how you got sucked into private practice."

"Well, I was working for a solo practitioner in SoHo while I was in law school. The pay wasn't great, but I learned a lot and I really liked him personally. Around my second year - I was in night school - he decided he wanted to join a bigger firm, but he would only go where they would take me, too."

Rafael's eyebrows shot up. "Wow, you must have been some assistant."

"You should see me collate," she said with a wink. "Anyway, a lot of firms balked because, you know, they have their own staff, et cetera, but he insisted. Eventually, he found us a home. When I passed the bar, they promoted me to associate, and I've been there ever since."

"You said you don't do much criminal work?" He wiped his hands on his napkin. She took a sip of wine and shook her head.

"Usually, I'm on landlord/tenant negotiations, some business transactions, things like that. I much prefer operating in contracts and settlements. I like that corporations don't really want to exert much influence into my job. They just want you to handle their business. People, on the other hand, cause too many complications. They're too unpredictable and unreliable."

"Believe me," he said, nodding, "you're preaching to the choir."

She finished off the last couple pieces of calamari. He liked that she wasn't afraid to eat in front of him. "What's the worst courtroom experience you've had?"

He shuddered involuntarily. He knew the answer to the question, but didn't want to talk about it. "I…"

"If you don't want to answer, you don't have to," she said, sensing his anxiety. He breathed a sigh of relief as their entrees arrived. What he really needed was a change of subject.

"How's your mom?" He asked.

She cast her eyes downward and absently cut into her asparagus. "Mom died."

Oh, this is going great, he thought. Last time he'd seen Mrs. Sullivan had been at the last choir concert he and Lauren had shared before his graduation.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, feeling horrible for bringing up the subject.

"It's okay," she replied. "To be honest, I didn't go home much after graduation."

"We have more in common than you think," he said. "Once I got out of el Barrio, I never wanted to look back."

"Is your Dad still a mean drunk?" The question was both blunt and surprising - how had she known? When he didn't answer, she touched his forearm, which was resting on the table. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so… sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. I shouldn't have asked."

"How did you know, though?" He glanced down; her hand still lay on his arm, and he wondered if she realized it. Her nails were manicured and painted a dark shade of purple, but he could see she still had the same nervous habit of picking her cuticles.

"Rafael, it wasn't rocket science. When the rest of the boys were allowed to wear polos in the spring, you kept wearing sleeves. When you weren't looking, I could see you roll one of them up one day to check a bruise. Your Dad never came to any of our concerts, and I knew he wasn't just working late. Plus, it's a little hard to explain a broken nose when you don't play sports."

He was speechless. He'd never intended for anyone to know back then about his father's abuse. He didn't realize anyone HAD known. He took his arm from her gentle grip and lifted his glass to his lips, draining it.

"Are you upset with me?" She asked. Her facial expression was a cross between worried and embarrassed. A piece of hair floated over her eye. For a second, she looked exactly like her fifteen-year-old self. He had to resist the urge to move it so that he could see her eyes completely.

"No, of course not," he said, smiling. "Ancient history." Her face brightened.

"Thank you for not making it awkward," she said.

"Far be it from me to ruin a perfectly good meal. Speaking of which, how's the chicken?"

The remainder of the meal was spent reminiscing about high school, discussing the finer points of the hearsay rules, and debating what show was slated to win a Tony for Best Musical.

"Oh, please," Lauren said, sipping her last glass of wine languidly, "there is no way that dreck by David Hyde Pierce is going to win against Neil Patrick Harris."

"Harris is so ten years ago," he replied. Having finished his scotch ages ago, he was merely thumbing the glass at this point. The remnants of their tiramisu sat between them, long since vanquished. The waiter had dropped off the tab with their dessert, but they hadn't cashed out quite yet.

"Whatever, Doogie Howser is a god," she said. "Besides, your opinion can't be trusted. You listen to opera."

"That's not ALL I listen to!"

She sat back and crossed her arms. "Oh, really? Are you going to tell me you're a fan of Nine Inch Nails too? Should I call Paul Ryan and tell him he has a new best friend?"

He laughed, a little too loudly. It was clear they were both a little inebriated. Suddenly, he had the presence of mind to check his watch. "Oh God, it's 9:30. The waiter probably wants to kill us," he said.

"Then I guess we'd better tip him well," she replied, taking out her wallet.

"Oh, no, I've got this," he said, shaking his head. "I drink expensive scotch."

"Implying I can't afford you?"

"I'm not a cheap date." He smirked, the liquor making him feel more confident.

"Judging by the Armani tie, I'd assume not," she said with a wink. He smiled. They sat in silence for a moment, and then he realized he hadn't finished their earlier conversation.

"Michael Bublé," he said. "And Weezer."

"What?" The waiter came by and grabbed the book, a little haughtily.

"You apparently thought all I listened to was opera. So I'm telling you what else I like. I also like foreign films, McDonald's french fries, the Yankees, and you." He said it before he could stop himself. The scotch had loosened his tongue. He immediately wished he could take it back. But Lauren looked both pleased and surprised. Then, a smug, playful smile crossed her face.

"Oh, really? And why's that?"

Oh, to hell with it, he thought. Mustering all his courage, he said, "because I always liked you. Even when we were in high school."

At that, Lauren REALLY looked surprised. "Then why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Well, first off, because I was a teenage boy who didn't want to be rejected. Second, you were younger than me, by what seemed like a lot back then."

"Three years isn't so much," she said.

"Not NOW," he said, "but fourteen and seventeen… that's a big difference. Believe me, I know. My line of work."

"I suppose so," she said, quieter now. "It wasn't like it was illegal, though. And I would have said yes."

His heart leapt into his throat. "Really?"

"Of course," she said. "I waited for you to ask me out that whole year. I was kind of hoping for a Prom invitation, honestly."

"I didn't even go to Prom," he said. "I couldn't afford it."

"And now you're wearing Armani." She smiled, leaned across the table, and put her hand back on his arm. He stared down, surprised any of this was happening. Logically, he knew it was probably a stupid idea. He knew Eli would throw a fit. He knew campaigning meant scrutiny, and the slightest hint of a relationship would be subject to it. But for the moment, liquor and the soft lines in her face won over. He took her hand anyway. Her skin was cool and soft.

"I don't want to make the same mistake twice."

"I think," Lauren said, nodding toward their intertwined fingers, "you've already avoided that."

In the time it had taken for Lauren and Rafael to work their way through dessert, Nora and Marissa had arrived at the restaurant.

"Good God, people are going to think we're together," Marissa said. The place was dimly lit, with tea lights on the center of each table, and a three-piece band situated in the corner playing old standards. Two walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded a beautiful view of the Park. The bar area was right in the middle of the space, its counter lit from underneath with soft colored lights. It was, indeed, very romantic. And very busy.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Nora replied. "How the hell are we going to find him in this mess?"

"Very carefully," Marissa said. "We have to make sure he doesn't see us. I don't want him thinking I'm suddenly stalking him - or worse, that my Dad has me stalking him." She started for the bar and Nora followed closely behind her. For once, she was glad she'd chosen to wear flats. She was tall enough to be noticed as it was. Luckily, just as they reached the bar, a couple got up to be led to their table, so Nora quickly grabbed the seats. They ordered two glasses of wine, and tried to look inconspicuous while also scanning the room.

"I should have asked this before," Nora said, taking a sip of her Merlot, "but what's your plan if we do find him?"

"For right now, I just plan to observe. I could be totally wrong about all of this. It could be a work thing. But if it IS something, it'd be better for me to know ahead of my Dad."

"This is true. You could prevent a heart attack."

"Wait." Marissa held a hand up. "I forgot, I got him a table in the back. It was the last one available. So he should be somewhere back there." She nodded in the direction of the solid walls, which did not have the spectacular view of the Park. Nora craned her neck, trying to see between the diners. Suddenly, her face brightened.

"I think I see him. I think he's coming back from the - yep, that's him. If he wants to be covert, next time he should consider a more conservative tie."

"Who's he with?" Marissa asked.

"Well, I think you'd be better equipped to answer that question," Nora said. "You know his coworkers better than I do. All I can say is that it's definitely a woman."

Marissa sighed. "Time to take a risk, I guess. Save my seat."

"Wait, where are you going?" Nora asked.

"Bathroom," Marissa replied casually. His table was technically closer to the restroom, but she chose to walk on the opposite side of the room. Because of where they were seated, his back would be toward her, so she would be able to see his companion without him knowing she was there. The closer she got to the hallway leading to the bathroom, the slower she walked, trying to see if she recognized the pretty brunette sitting across from him. She didn't look familiar, though. And just as she reached the hallway, she spotted something that turned her stomach in dread. She spun around and headed back the way she came.

"Oh man, this is not good," Marissa said to Nora, who was waiting for her return on pins and needles.

"What's wrong?"

"I went over there and saw her. I don't know her, but whoever she is, this is definitely a date."

"How do you know that?"

"Well," Marissa said, "I don't often hold hands with colleagues over candlelight, do you?"