#stardds

Sonny lets himself back into the apartment sheepishly, as if no time has passed since he last sat on the ratty grey couch he and Mike bought together second hand because it was all they could afford. Small miracles, he thinks, that the locks haven’t changed in the past eleven months. Normally, Mike likes to change them every three; it satisfies deep-rooted paranoia of being watched and judged. But no, his old house key still turns the lock smooth like butter, and Mike is staring at him like he’s seen a ghost when Sonny sets down his duffel bag on the floor.

“I can’t fucking believe you, Carisi,” he says first.

“I know.”

“You left without talking to me,” he says next.

“I know.”

“I woke up and you were gone,” he whispers with his face inches from Sonny’s.

“I know.”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I know.”

And then they’re kissing, and Mike feels so much broader than when Sonny disappeared. He’s filled out some, maybe finally stopped or slowed his obsession with keeping the “perfect” body. His cheeks are a little pink, too. And the bags under his eyes aren’t as dark as Sonny remembers. Peeking out of the collar of his shirt is a tattoo, the likes of which he had never had the confidence to get before.

“Babe?”

Sonny pulls back, hands still on Mike’s waist, to see ADA Stone in the hallway- their hallway- with a towel around his waist and Mike’s good luck ring twisted onto one of his fingers. A brief glance of recognition flashes through his eyes when he looks Sonny over. Rough edges, scruffy hair, a shadow along his jaw, and a smattering of freckles on his nose where the sun has burned them deep and long.

Mike clears his throat and steps away. “Peter, this is Sonny. He uh, he decided he needed to travel the world almost a year ago. Figure himself out.”

When Peter comes home, something is wrong.

For starters, the front door is unlocked, which it never is because if no one’s home they lock it, and if someone is home they throw the deadbolt for safety reasons. He quietly lets himself in and sees the mess that’s been made of the apartment. Furniture overturned, pictures broken. There’s a bloody handprint smeared on the wall. Heart in his throat, he grabs a broken leg of the coffee table for a weapon and creeps towards the bedroom because the bathroom door is open and clearly empty.

He takes a deep breath before pushing open the bedroom door and scanning the room quickly for intruders. All he finds is Mike on the floor, bleeding and bruised and struggling to breathe. In an instant Peter drops his weapon to go to Mike, lifting his upper body from the ground gently and holding him.

“Mikey, what happened? Where’s Sonny?”

“They took him,” Mike sobs. “They took him, I- I tried to stop them- I couldn’t- I thought they were going to kill me.”

He thought he’d never see them again. Hazy memories of the break-in have peppered Sonny’s thoughts since the day it happened, half-repressed and only fully real in the scarred over wounds he sustained himself. Now he can see them, waiting for him just out of reach, encouraging him to let go and move on so he can be with them again. (death AU)

Mike knows that he’s just as much a part of the relationship as his two partners despite his three year disappearance undercover for joint terrorism, but he still finds it hard to interject when they look so natural and happy together. Peter leaning against Sonny’s chest, their arm around his shoulders while they reassure him in the aftermath of another rough day in court. Mike’s heart always breaks when Peter tries his best but still can’t do enough to get the defendant convicted.

“You did everything you could,” Sonny says softly, voice barely audible above the cooking show on the TV, “but sometimes juries are unpredictable.”

He wants to offer comfort as well, but it feels too much like invading on a private moment between the two of them. Peter must notice his awkward hovering and calls Mike’s name in a small voice, gesturing for him to come sit down as well.

“No, it’s fine, I can- I can wait until you’re done talking to them,” he says.

“Come sit? Please?”

The last year has been rough on Mike, to say the least. Shipped from borough to borough, precinct to precinct, never staying anywhere long enough to make real friends because his father always had the next opportunity lined up for him and said no one would ever see him as anything except as the chief’s son, a means to an end. Stalked, harassed, followed home and given forced company because he wasn’t doing what he was told and he had a plan to follow. Traumatized from being shot twice and nearly dying in the hospital. It’s left him with no energy, all anxiety.

He’s been doing better recently, or at least he’d like to think so.

Following a bad night which left him sobbing on the kitchen floor because he accidentally dropped a plate (and didn’t even break it), Peter and Sonny urged him to give in and get the help he was always told he’d be weak if he needed. Dodds men don’t go to counseling. Dodds men don’t take medication. Dodds men don’t resign from the NYPD because they can’t breathe around guns anymore. But with support and time, he’s learned to let himself get better because he deserves to recover. The first thing he and his therapist worked on was that he’s allowed to recover and that it’s not something he’ll ever have to earn the right to. He’s the only one in charge of that. Having that kind of control has been good for him, if a bit overwhelming at times.

Still, he’s glad he’s been doing so much to get better, he thinks to himself as he chops up vegetables to go in the pan. Cooking is one of the things he’s taken charge of, since Sonny and Peter both work exhausting hours. It gives him something to do, makes him feel like he’s contributing to the house as opposed to freeloading. There’s something soothing about it as well. All the parts go together, and when it’s done, it tastes good and fills their stomachs to leave them all vaguely lethargic and happily content. A good meal is the ticket to a good life, Sonny had said once while showing Mike how to sear meat so long ago. He used to be the cook, and now his prodigy has taken over happily.

Two months on medication and suddenly things that used to be a drudgery are tolerable if not enjoyable. Humming to himself, Mike dumps everything into the pan and rustles it with the metal spatula that takes forever to clean but doesn’t bend uselessly the way the crappy plastic one does. Sometimes he handles the dishes himself, sometimes Peter and/or Sonny handle it for him so he can lay on the couch with a soft blanket thrown over him. For the first time in his life, he enjoys domesticity and can’t wait for his boyfriends to be home every night.

The quiet conversation that had been passing back and forth between Peter and Sonny in the living room gets quiet suddenly, and Mike finds himself wanting to hold his breath in response. The instinct to be seen and not heard, especially in silent situations like this, has been drilled into him and is a habit he has yet to spend much time trying to break. Only the sizzling of dinner cooking carries over his now nearly non-existent humming.

“He’s singing again,” Sonny chokes out in the living room.

Peter murmurs something Mike doesn’t quite catch in response, but the point has been made. He didn’t realize he ever stopped, but now, the fact that he’s not only humming, but that they’ve noticed and understand what it means, makes him feel like his chest is full of helium, expanding and drifting and bringing him higher and higher with the promise that things will get better, they’ll always get better. He can scarcely breathe around his joy.

When Sonny comes home from the late shift, Mike and Peter are already cuddled up on the couch with a blanket thrown over the two of them and some show playing on the television that only Mike is actually invested in. Peter’s more splitting his attention between something on his phone and playing with Mike’s unruly hair. He’s tired and it’s been a long day, and he wants nothing more than to squeeze between them and feel loved and cared for.

“Cuddling without me?” he says, already toeing off his shoes as he loosens his tie. “This is homophobic.”

“Jealousy isn’t cute on you,” Mike teases in response.

Summary: This is what sets the trio on the road to getting together and is a set-up to the verse

A/N: This was gonna be a drabble but now it’s a fic merry christmas

WC: 1k

Carisi has the copy of the warrant in his back pocket when he and Mike split up. They know that there are Omegas being kept in the house, both from the tips they received and the heavy pain and fear that Mike can smell permeating every wall. There are Alphas too, six or seven and aggressive. From this distance, he can’t tell exactly where they are, which means Carisi probably doesn’t even know they’re in the building.

“Several. Aggressive. I think two to four Omegas,” he whispers.