Barba is still prickling all over with anger, disgust, and the most wretched sense of possession he can't shake when Carisi bursts into his office, apparently lacking the common sense needed to realize he should be far away from here.
"What the hell...
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It's a temptation for any intelligent person, and especially for perfectionists such as the ancients and ourselves, to try to murder the primitive, emotive, appetitive self. But that is a mistake.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Liv had mentioned the possibility of a detective transferring in while Amaro is demoted. They had been sitting close, almost flush, in the corner of Rafael's favorite bar, and he could tell something other than being away from Noah was nagging at her. She said something about the request and hoping for someone who would come prepared for the unique trials this unit presents, brows knit as she studied what he was eating, and that was it.
Rafael didn't think much of it. He knew he'd be working with the new arrival, of course, but he had (and has) plenty of other things on his mind. There's not much point in worrying over things like this, anyway. At least that's what he had told himself when it first came up and he considered the possibility of getting another officer with anger issues, or an untreated gambling addiction for that matter.
What he can't control is infuriating enough without driving himself up the wall about it, and he needs his energy to fret over Liv and Amaro right now, and this bitch of a case he's been working alongside their most recent; Buchanan is going to be the death of him, of that he's sure.
In all honesty, Rafael hadn't been listening as closely as he should have been, lulled by Liv's voice and the wine he was sipping as she explained it all, talking more to herself than to him. Nonetheless, he would have remembered this. Liv hadn't said a word about what the detective is, likely because she doesn't know. Despite her determination and remarkable ability to adapt and thrive, Liv is only human, after all. Sometimes he forgets.
His own prejudices and assumptions mislead him further, when he finds himself in Liv's office, with her gaze unfocused as she sorts through the case with him. A witness to Porter's murder, and just when Olivia is finally settling in; Barba can only imagine the stress she's suffering through.
"Trafficking girls," she sighs, jaw tight as she clenches her teeth and eyes far away as she considers nightmares Rafael has never known. He hopes she's still going to her therapist.
Trafficking girls. He leaves the precinct shortly after, breathing through his mouth to avoid the burning-bright, sweet scent of them, but it only allows him to taste it instead; it's inescapable. Their kind are trafficked often, even when their true identities are unknown, as humans can sometimes recognize their use despite the weakness of mortal senses. Rafael doesn't think much of it. There's nothing he can do for them, but what he's doing already.
He blames them, with their bird-bones and wet, wild eyes, for that sweetness in the air tickling his throat. It's not the first-time scents such as these have flooded the precinct, and he's sure it won't be the last. Prostitutes, perps, the abused, and the abusers: Barba works with them all too often, as does this unit – probably many units, though the members may never know.
