It's been 43 hours since the first shot rung out. 35 hours since the pattern was established. 29 hours since he awkwardly lifted Noah from his mothers arms and nodded.
They've barricaded themselves into the inner-most meeting room, impromptu bed set to the side, and he's somewhat proud of himself for the smile that lives on the little boys face. He never thought he'd be good with children, had never had the opportunity to find out; and yet here he is, entrusted with the life of a little boy who he's fallen a little in love with over the course of a day. There's mushed sweet potato on his shirt and his tie has long been discarded on the pile of toys; and all he can think is that his abuela would smile if she could see him right now.
There was a time, back before el tiburón, when he was just Rafi, that he had imagined this kind of life – singing Spanish nursery rhythms, building sand castles on the beach… But Yelena chose another man and the little nino from el barrio traded in his dreams for ambition.
Noah has fallen asleep on his chest, one hand wrapped around his suspenders with a content little snore. Barba is just so tired, eyes sore and stomach tight with anxiety. It's dark save for the desk lamp and no one has updated him since midday. He's made a point to leave the TV off, not needing the news coverage working him up even more. He'd tried checking the news on his phone but cringed away from the headlines, pulse racing: NYPD TARGET OF VICIOUS SNIPER. DETECTIVES FAMILY MASSACRED IN PARK. SIX POLICE DEAD AS ATTACKS CONTINUE. All he can do is hold the little boy close and pray that his squad comes through unharmed.
He jumps as the door opens - instinctively spinning his body to shield Noah - before he recognises the silhouette and lets out a relieved sigh of her name. Without thinking, his feet lead him right up to her, bodies too close as he rests his head against hers and closes his eyes.
She hasn't sleep in two days, she's seen officers gunned down, families torn apart; and yet she surprises herself with a little smile as her eyes set on the boys. Barba looks exhausted and on-edge, but her son is asleep on his hip and it feels like a puzzle piece sliding into place. So when he sags against her she brings her hands up, one on her sons back and the other sliding up and down the ADA's arm. His voice cracks as he mutters a quiet "God, Liv, I was so worried."