#Headcanoning Barba as good at singing naturally

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Out Tonight (Part 1)

Part 2 ->

Summary: Barba would never admit to being a RENT geek, but when he gets drunk and no one from the SVU squad is there to see him, he can’t resist the siren call of the karaoke stage. You would never approach a stranger at a bar, but when you hear Barba singing your favorite musical, you gather the courage to ask for a duet. 

Rafael Barba x Female Reader

Warning: NSFW, 18+, Dub-con!! Everyone is enthusiastically willing, but also super drunk. So... use your best judgement. (No smut this chapter just some intense kissing)

4,144 words

The thing about Scotch whisky is, it’s a drink meant to be sipped. A.D.A. Rafael Barba drank a Scotch every day, especially after a difficult case. One or two, mulled upon over the course of an hour. 

At over 40 percent alcohol by volume, the practical difference between Scotch, the gentleman’s drink favored by lawyers and Wall Street executives, and the tequila swigged by rednecks ripping their shirts off at a dive bar is the speed at which the beverages are consumed.

The thing about being a Scotch drinker is, you’re only ever one particularly bad day and a few extra drams carelessly tipped down the hatch away from getting well and truly shitfaced.

This would never happen to A.D.A. Barba. He had complete control of himself at all times. In the courtroom. In his manner of dress. In his speech. He won cases other prosecutors wouldn’t dare to take on, because he was meticulous. He was relentless. And he never let his guard down.

But on this particular day, nothing was going according to plan. All week, in fact, a case he was certain of had been falling apart piece by piece, slipping through his fingers, until today, a man who made Barba’s stomach sicken walked out of the courtroom a free man.

It was his fault. He got cocky. The victims subjected themselves to retraumatization just to testify on the hope of getting some kind of justice, and it was all for nothing. He let them down. He let the SVU team down. The look on Benson’s face when the foreman delivered the not guilty verdict made Barba want to crawl inside himself.

So he did what he always did on bad days, and went to his favorite bar alone to sit quietly and numb his sorrows over a glass of Macallan.

Except it wasn’t fucking quiet. This was supposed to be a subdued, sophisticated establishment that didn’t draw a big crowd. This was his bar! But for some godawful reason, the new manager had decided—unbeknownst to Barba—to try hosting karaoke night.

Karaoke!

He scowled at the colored stage lights. Glowered at the rambunctious crowds of young people. Seethed at the bad 80’s music and off-key bellowing. He dropped heavily into his usual seat at the bar and exchanged withering looks with the bartender, who slid him his usual drink without needing to be asked. What the hell was happening to his life? Barba began to wonder whether he had anything under control at all, downing the dram in one shot.

As he gasped on the fiery liquid burning down his throat, he gained determination. They were not going to take his bar from him. Not a chance. If these tourists and college kids wanted to have their revelry, they would have to do it with a grumpy old killjoy glowering at them. He ordered another round.

***

An hour and a steep tab later, and Barba was gripping the microphone with sweaty fingers, belting out One Song Glory at the top of his lungs.

He rationalized it as “better bend than break,” but the truth was, he had dreamed of becoming an actor before going to law school to please his mother. His inner theater geek was always waiting to slip out whenever he let his guard down, but since that was never, it was side he rarely indulged. Tonight, his head was spinning, and it didn’t seem like a bad idea.

“One song to redeem this empty life. Time flies—and then no need to endure anymore!”

The wooden bar stool creaked as his weight sank back down on it, and he ordered another drink to question about his life choices. “Will I ever be remembered for anything besides my failures?” he asked the glass. He’d come this far from the poor barrio where he grew up, but every step was a fight. He couldn’t just be good, he had to be better than the privileged WASPs he was competing against. He had to be the best. Every little mistake, every lost trial, could be the end of all he had worked for.

Barba was so busy nursing his latest drink, he almost didn’t notice someone else drunkenly belting a track from RENT. Except, as his head swung up to listen, it wasn’t drunken belting at all. A woman with a low-cut blouse and tight jeans that hugged her curves was singing so seductively, staring right at him. She winked and sweetly begged him to take her out tonight.

No—he was imagining it. He was just drunk, lonely, and pathetic. She was working the crowd, making everyone feel like she was singing just to them. Maybe she was a Broadway performer to have that skill, or at least a master at flirtation. Either way, she was way out of his league. There was no chance she had singled him out.

***

So what if you didn’t know anybody, and it was dangerous to go alone? You were in Manhattan on a Friday night—you were going to go out and have a good time, dammit!

The promise of karaoke drew you into a small but packed bar, and you were a few drinks in when you heard a voice like an angel and a rock-star had a baby singing a song from your favorite musical ever. The voice belonged to a singer wearing old-man suspenders, a pink tie, and a light coating of stubble from not having shaved since morning. He was fashionable, you guessed. Dapper. But it was that expressive voice that mesmerized you. As he sang, your gut was wrenched with the emotional pain woven through each note.

You were smitten. You tried to go talk to him, but the moment the song was over he vanished into the tightly-packed crowd. It was silly. It was far too bold to approach a stranger in the big city, but the warm tipsy feeling in your gut gave you confidence to hatch a plan.

Step one: Locate him from the stage.

Step two: Impress him.

Step three: Bond over mutual love for RENT.

Step four, if you managed to get that far, was a bunch of squiggly question marks and “kiss his face?” hastily scrawled in pencil. It was a long shot, you knew that. You were way too shy, and he was far too handsome not to have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or a husband. Frankly, even if he were single, he was way out of your league. But still, the nebulous step four could simply be “Have a fun night with your new karaoke buddy,” and that possibility alone made you feel like glitter was exploding inside of you.

When it was your turn to sing, you found him from your elevated vantage—he was sitting far from the stage, at the end of the bar—and tried to catch his eye. You’d been using Out Tonight as your karaoke icebreaker for years, so you’d gotten good at playing up the sexiness, tossing your hair and biting your lip. Your clumsy ass had even picked up a few dance moves to spice it up, and you gave them your booty-shaking all when you saw him look up at you.

You were glad you’d worn the jeans that made your butt look fantastic, and your sexiest, strappiest sandals (which were actually Tevas with a two-inch wedge heel, purchased from an outdoor gear store). He was watching you with fascination as you pouted the lyric, “don’t forsake me,” at him.

It sent a shiver down your spine to think he might really be looking at you that way.

The moment you got off the stage, you were bombarded by guys offering to buy you a drink, asking for your number. It was discouraging that Sexy Suspenders was not among them. Apparently your sexy routine worked, but entirely missed its intended target. Then again, a man like that probably let women come to him.

Ducking and weaving past your suitors like they were physical obstacles and not people, you reached Suspenders. The bar stool next to him was open, held by a briefcase and folded suit jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his hair was a little mussed. He appeared to be deep in conversation with his empty glass. You took a step forward to approach him, but an anxious constriction in your chest froze you in place.

Who do you think you are?! A gorgeous, sharp-dressed city guy will never even give you the time of day! Your mother’s nagging voice chimed in to warn you not to talk to strange men in bars when you’re out alone, in New York City, no less. You grimaced at your awesome double-dose of anxiety. He would either laugh in your face, or you were about to get murdered. Hooray!

But there was a loneliness in his demeanor that encouraged you he wouldn’t laugh, and up close, you noticed he was so short you could probably pick him up like a little baby chipmunk if things got out of hand. Ignoring how thick his forearms were, of course. But if he crushed you with those, you would die happy.

***

The next singer on stage had started screeching a rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’ with ten drunk buddies, and Barba was squeezing his eyes closed to try to drown them out, so he was caught completely unaware when a tap on his shoulder startled him.

“Is this seat taken?”

His vision blurred. He had to rub his eyes and look twice to be sure he was seeing who he thought he was seeing. “Mimi!” he blurted. “From the—nice, um—no. No one’s sitting here.”

He moved his belongings to the top of the bar, and you sat on the vacated stool, quite pleased with yourself. The bartender immediately handed you a pink icy cocktail with a slice of lime, and pointed his thumb to someone at the other end of the bar who paid for it. Barba followed his gesture to a very cute guy in his twenties and felt a twinge of double-edged jealousy that the most beautiful woman he had ever seen was most likely about to get up and leave him, and that the drink hadn’t been for him, because frankly, he couldn’t blame you. You did get up, but only to crane your neck to find your benefactor. When you did, you gave the world’s dorkiest thumbs up, while conspicuously putting your hand on Barba’s shoulder.

Barba’s lips spread into a smug bastard what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it smirk as he stared down his attractive rival. His head cocked to the side pleasantly. The other man’s flirtatious gaze fell into an annoyed tick. You sighed with relief as he moved away.

Turning back to Barba, you realized your hand was still on his shoulder and quickly removed it. You inhaled and said, “I heard you singing you were amazing do you want to do a duet together? Can we? I love RENT! I’ve always wanted to do Light My Candle—can we do it together?” in one breath.

Your flurried gush of words nearly knocked him off his stool—he put his hands up defensively and sat wide-eyed, nodding slowly as you went full babbling-nerd on him. You may not have been as suave as he initially thought, and oddly enough, he was okay with that. It was disarming, and your enthusiasm was infectious.

Because his instinct to distance himself from anyone he might risk forming a real emotional connection with wasn’t working at the moment, he grabbed you by the shoulders, locked his piercing eyes with yours, and emphatically answered, “Yes. We must!”

***

Having a karaoke partner is essential for Broadway musical numbers, as most of them are duets—two or more characters interacting with each other as the plot of the show advances. Light My Candle was one of your favorite songs, and snagging the mysterious suspendered singer meant you could finally perform it outside your shower.

It was a bouncy back-and-forth duet that was fun to sing, but you forgot how aggressively flirtatious it was until you had to ask him—you hadn’t even asked his name yet—if you had the best ass below 14th street, and about wax dripping between your… um, fingers. But the way he looked at you made seducing him so natural. You just had no idea if it was part of the performance, or if it was real.

When the song was over, you bounced on your toes, clinging to his arm for balance as you tripped on the stairs down from the stage, squealing, “That was so much fun!” He put his hand around your waist to steady you. It felt like it was made to be there.

His face was flushed red and his eyes sparkled with exhilaration, and he quickly agreed to another duet, though he muttered, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his brow, “Thank god no one from the precinct is here.”

Performing together with a partner always makes you feel a connection—even if it’s just drunken karaoke. When you sang one part of a harmony and he picked up the other part, your voices became two halves of a whole. And with musicals, it’s as much about acting as it is singing. He threw so much emotional intensity into the lyrics, which gave you something to respond to, throwing it back at him in fluid conversation as your voice soared above his and dove beneath it again.

You hadn’t had this much fun in a long time, and you had a feeling he hadn’t, either.

Not that you had any way of knowing, really. You guessed it by the ease in which he embodied Roger’s stubborn refusal to open his heart, by the mournful way he lifted his drinks to his lips like he was toasting at a funeral. His expensive leather briefcase and formal attire, too, suggested a well-paid but dreadfully boring line of work, like a financial manager.

Your guess was dead-on, in truth. Barba was vigilant against dating anyone he met professionally. Even if there had been a secretary or paralegal or two he’d had chemistry with, for the sake of his career, he could not afford to conduct himself in a manner that could raise even the hint of a scandal or ethical conflict in the workplace. And anyone he met outside of the workplace… well, he didn’t. His entire life revolved around his job.

The bartender had just brought a fresh round of drinks, and your head rested on your fist, elbow on the bar. Barba was staring deeply into your soul with those pretty green eyes, trying to figure out how he managed to get you and how he could keep you.

“We should do Another Day next,” you grinned.

“Who do you think you are, barging in on me and my guitar!” He sang in a gritty rock voice, poking at your chest accusingly while holding an air microphone with the other. You forgot to be surreptitious and blatantly checked for a wedding ring.

After Roger’s verse, you sang back Mimi’s part, seductively leaning in closer to him. “There’s only us. There’s only this...” As you leaned closer, his eyelids drooped, and his eyes darkened. “Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.” The smoky smooth molasses of Scotch was strong on his breath. He studied your face hazily, his eyes drawn down to the movement of your lips. There was no mistaking his attraction for a performance now. You sang softer and softer until your forehead was resting against his, your lips almost touching. Then you just breathed.

“No day but today,” he mulled the lyric and the impulsive circumstances that had led him to being with you in that moment. “I should follow that advice more often.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” you murmured. “Here I am in the city, having fun,” your voice slowed to a crawl as your eyes flicked up and down his face, “...with a perfect, handsome stranger...”

His tongue ran over his lower lip again as his eyes dropped to your mouth and clouded over with some sultry thought.

You’re not sure which one of you moved first, but in the next moment his lips were melting into yours, desperate and passionate. That tempting tongue of his ran along your lower lip now, sliding easily inside as your mouth parted to invite him within, swirling in heated wet circles around yours. It was heavy with the taste of Scotch and the faint bitterness of coffee, as if that were all he’d eaten that day. You curled your fingers into his hair and deepened the kiss, moaning into his mouth, and his broad arms closed around your back and pulled you off your bar stool onto his lap.

His skin was burning hot, and waves of heat coursed up through your body like you were both on fire. Your pulse thundered in your ears until it drowned out the off-key music, and each pounding heartbeat sent a corresponding throb to your cunt. Your eyes closed. All that existed was the messy clashing of your teeth and tongues, the woody-sweet scent of his cologne filling your lungs, the heat of his strong hands on your back, and the bulge of his cock twitching beneath you.

When you finally had to come up for air, and hopped back onto your own bar stool, suddenly self-conscious of how pornographic that nearly was, all he had to say was, “I’ve never done that before.”

You blinked. “You’ve never… kissed someone?”

“Not someone I just met in a bar!” his eyebrows shot up and he sounded so utterly scandalized, your euphoric high from kissing him came crashing down. He saw you as some kind of cheap tramp for kissing him. Pretentious asshole. Suddenly you felt like shit.

You turned your attention to the second round of that fruity cocktail that random guy paid for. It turned out to be a pretty tasty drink, so you ordered another. Maybe you should have given that guy a chance.

“So, are you here by yourself?” Barba asked your profile, not bothering to hide the patronizing concern in his tone.

“Yeah,” you said without looking up.

“Jesus. I thought so. That’s really dangerous, you know.”

“Ugh,” you groaned and pivoted away from him further, leaving him confused. So first he implied you’re a slut, and now he was pulling the whole, the city is full of predators, but I’m a Nice Guy—let me walk you home routine. This is what you get for picking a guy based on how good he sings.

“I did not mean to imply that. I only meant that I’m usually more... careful.” Oh. You must have said all of that out loud. Oops. “But you’re right to be suspicious of my intentions. There are… all kinds”— he breathed the word out in a jaded huff—“of tactics predators will use. Manipulations, brute force, drugs, fake personas… And all they have to do is claim consent and half the time the jury believes it even if the physical evidence is horrifying.” He was getting visibly angry thinking about it, his drink dangerously close to spilling as he clenched his fist around it.

You stared at him. “Um.”

“Oh,” he cleared his throat, “I’m an A.D.A. for Manhattan. Prosecutor. I’m a lawyer,” he clarified when the acronym earned no look of recognition in your eyes. “Lately I’ve been working with the Special Victims Unit, so when I see someone drinking alone late at night, talking to complete strangers,” he gestured at himself. “You have no idea how many sexual assault cases start with this exact scenario.”

“Big-shot lawyer, huh? Sure, now pull the other one.”

“What?” His head cocked at you in utter bewilderment.

“Pull the other… leg. You’re pulling my leg?”

“I know what it means, I’ve just never heard it said by anyone under sixty. Are you secretly an old man?”

Your cheeks burned. “You’re an old man,” you retorted childishly.

His lips folded in on themselves as he tried to keep a straight face. “I don’t know. What can you tell me about the Model T?”

You took a grumpy swig of the fruity strawberry cocktail.

“What was World War II like?”

“So are you really a lawyer, or do you just use that line to pick up chicks?”

“I am, I am!” he laughed. “I can prove it. Let’s see...” he pulled out his phone, brought up a search result for his name, and scrolled through headlines. “DA’s Office Helps NYPD Persecute Immigrant Families,” “Justice at Last for Serial Rapist Victims,” and others rolled across the screen. He narrowed his eyes as his index finger hovered over each one. “Oh, sounds like I’m an idiot in this one,” his mouth twitched into a sardonic smirk, “and I’m a real asshole here… Oh, look, here’s one where I’m the big hero.” He held out his phone so you could see the photo of him in another flashy suit and bold tie, speaking to crowd of reporters in front of the courtroom steps. He looked so sexy in his full three piece suit, and much more severe, his face hard and intelligent. The caption below it praised his victory putting away a notorious rapist, and identified him A.D.A. Rafael Barba.

“Wow. That is you. Who knew I was doing karaoke with such an important guy?” You slung your arm around his shoulders, which were irresponsibly broad and solid. God, being with him felt so right. Casual touches were so comfortable even though you’d just met, and the way he responded, melting under you, sent a wave of heat through your lower back.

He kept flipping through headlines, his brow quirking a little at one, eyes narrowing at the next. Then he saw one that made him stop scrolling. He put the phone down on the bar and scrubbed his hand over his face and hair, blinking back tears suddenly forming. You caught the glowing screen before it automatically locked. The headline was from today. “Local Teacher Found Not Guilty—.”

His head dropped into his arms on the bar. “It was my fault. If I had done something different, been more prepared...” A sad groan emitted from the Barba puddle.

“I’m sure you did everything you could,” you soothed, and rubbed his back sympathetically. “So one guy got acquitted. It happens every day.”

“I know,” he growled. This fact was the opposite of comforting.

“You’re sure he was guilty?”

“He did it. To at least a dozen kids over the last two decades, but no one wanted to testify, or the statute of limitations was up, and then our key witness… There must have been something I could have done, something I didn’t think of. I let him get away with it.” His shoulders heaved as he sobbed into his arms. “I fucked up.”

You kept rubbing circles over his back, whispering soothing words to him. You leaned down and peppered his head with soft kisses. He shifted off the top of the bar and began crying into your chest, his arms wrapping around you like a baby lemur. You held him tight, suddenly understanding that this was the memory he came here to drown. This was why all night you had caught him looking wistful every time the conversation lulled. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. “It’s alright. Shh.”

His arms tightened around your waist, then relaxed, tension melting from his body. “This is nice,” he sighed into your shirt, enjoying being snugly pressed against you, surrounded by warmth. “Thank you… this is nice.” He never let anyone comfort him like this. Never let his need for comfort show under his stoic exterior. If his judgment were functioning properly, it would have struck him as a red flag how easily he sought comfort from a stranger that he wouldn’t have accepted from his closest friends, but it felt good to let it out.

Eventually, he remembered his dignity and sat up, drying his eyes on his sleeve and glancing regretfully at the wet splotch he’d made in your shirt.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. He picked up his latest glass of scotch, and swirled its half-empty amber contents before setting it down again. It was possible he had drunk enough.

“It’s OK. You had a bad day.”

His lips tightened at the corners in agreement. “Usually Liv is the only one who tries to cheer me up. So, thanks for…” He closed his eyes and tilted his head. “You’re very nice.”

Your chest fluttered. He was terribly cute, and far too vulnerable for you to be having these lascivious feelings about him.