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.”
“I remember,” Peter says in a cold tone. His face holds nothing but thinly veiled anger. “He left you a note, didn’t even say goodbye.”
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.”
The last time Mike had been this hysterical was after he nearly died at the Munson house and immediately retired from the force. “Breathe,” Peter reminds, reaching for his phone, “I’ll protect you. We’ll find him.”
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)
(Send a title + character/pairing and I’ll write the summary of the fic I’d write)
“No, it’s fine. I can wait until you’re done talking to them.” And Stardds please
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?”
Mike finds himself joining them despite his anxiety, on Peter’s other side so he can do his best to reassure him as well. He glances at Sonny and receives a smile, one that makes him feel like this is where he’s meant to be, and for the first time in a while he’s able to put his fears out of his mind.
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.
He goes back to humming once his lungs are no longer forced shut in a vice grip of anxiety because it feels good, and because he can. The song isn’t one he ever remembers hearing. Maybe it’s not one that exists at all. But none of that matters when the birds outside the window whistle whimsically along and Sonny’s voice echoes in his ears, he’s singing again.
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.
When Sonny gets closer, he realizes the show is one of those cooking competitions with amped up contrast and saturation that makes his eyes hurt if he looks at it too long. At least the obnoxious music is turned down almost all the way, closed captioning scrolling along the bottom of the screen to make up for the lost dialogue. He doesn’t have to say anything for Mike to scoot away from Peter slightly so Sonny can sit in the middle. Peter quietly asks if he’s okay, to which Sonny just nods. He’s okay as long as the three of them are together.
Oh no! Being sick sucks. But I hope your saturgay can still be good. Whatever you do, don't imagine Peter coming home after a long day in court, which he lost, to Mike and Sonny. He falls on the sofa and puts his head in Mike's lap while Sonny's in the kitchen making dinner. Peter's dozing off to Mike scratching at his scalp, soothing his headache. Sonny comes a little later and sits on the opposite end to massage his legs and feet. Peter making happy hums bc he has two great bfs who love him 🍑
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.
Carisi nods and they split up with a wordless plan to meet up wherever there’s trouble. It’s worked plenty of times before, enough that Mike doesn’t worry about going off on his own with his gun at the ready. The farther into the house he gets, the stronger the smells get until it’s near overwhelming. He wrinkles his nose in distaste when it gets to the point that he can’t differentiate anything from anything. He gets an uneasy feeling in his gut and starts to reach for his radio to warn Sonny that there’s something not right when he sees the door at the end of the hallway fly open.
Before he has the chance to do anything, his gun is on the floor and there are large hands holding him against the plaster of the stained wall. The stench of Alpha fills his nose and his thoughts. More hands find purchase on him as he tries to break free. He opens his mouth to scream and suddenly he’s on the ratty carpet unable to move no matter how much he struggles. A stubbly face pushes into his neck, marking him, trying to scent him but not willing to spend the time. All the wind rushes out of his lungs when someone uses his vest protected chest as the right place to bear their full weight while their head rests heavy against the inside of his thigh. The hand over his mouth from who he thinks is yet another Alpha smells like tobacco and hay.
He keeps fighting to get free until he hears backup coming to the rescue. One by one, the Alphas are hauled off of him until he’s left lying on the floor with the buttons of his shirt ripped open. Someone hauls him to his feet, someone he doesn’t recognize until he smells Carisi’s warm cinnamon-like scent. He’s held up against Carisi’s chest, which is probably a good thing because he doesn’t know if he has the energy left to support himself as the adrenaline high crashes. He whimpers slightly as he’s lifted up to be cradled in safe arms. Mike’s pretty sure that the person currently marking him is Carisi, judging by the continued familiar scent and the cadence of the low growl rumbling against the crook of his neck.
“Carisi, Dodds-”
Mike barely has time to recognize the lieutenant’s voice before all he can hear is the rising sound of Carisi’s growl. It gets louder and seemingly deeper as Benson comes closer until she relents and presumably backs off. While Mike always knew Carisi’s a protective and intense Alpha, he’s never been on the receiving end. Once upon a time, he had heard Carisi call the squad “pack,” something that didn’t surprise him given his traditional Italian upbringing. That mixing with his strong instincts has to be the reason he’s trying to mark and protect Mike like a baby or a mate while mumbling how he’s pack, he’s family.
They get all the way back to the precinct before Carisi sets Mike down at his desk. He hovers nearby however, growling at any Alpha who comes too close while Mike struggles to focus on the paperwork in front of him. Since he’s in no shape to do anything else, he’s stuck with busy work for the squad he can’t make himself concentrate on. All the information he’s taking in is the leftover scent of all the Alphas who touched him, not completely concealed by Carisi’s efforts, and the sensory bombardment that is the bullpen after such a large bust. More than anything, he wants to go home and crawl into bed with his mate. Their bed, their clothes, their space.
“Sergeant, you take the subway home?” Carisi asks, feigning casual interest like he hasn’t been practically vibrating in his seat the entire afternoon. Mike nods, not yet trusting his voice to support any words he can come up with. “I’ll drive you today, make sure you get home safe to y- to Stone.”
“Bit much over there, Carisi,” Rollins interjects from where she’s waiting for the printer to produce her paperwork.
He growls again. The sound has become surprisingly common today. “I take care of my pack,” he mutters. An unspoken insult tinges the air with its bitter scent, but luckily for everyone, Rollins doesn’t fight him on it today. Tomorrow would be better, if she has to combat him at all.
After that exchange, there are no further incidents until the lieutenant sends them home and Carisi drives Mike home over a silent ride. There’s emotion he’s too tired to identify in Carisi’s scent, just barely thick enough to give him the beginnings of a headache. Another problem to add to his shitty day. Once they finally arrive, Carisi walks him up to the apartment. He mentions that it’s because it’s almost seven in the evening and the winter sun has already darkened the sky, and he wants to make sure Mike is safe, but it’s more than that.
Mike unlocks the door with shaky hands in time to see Peter walk out of the hallway with an uneasy expression. The lieutenant probably filled him in. His brows furrow when he realizes Carisi is there in the doorway. He reaches out for Mike and pulls him in close. The scent of his mate, the familiar embrace, calm him down before Peter leans back and tilts his head to the side.
“You smell like Carisi.”
“I’m ‘pack,’” Mike replies. “I think. He said so.”
Carisi clears his throat. “You are pack. Both of you. I’ll- I’ll leave you to it, ‘Manda and Jesse- it doesn’t matter. Be safe. And Counsellor...” Sonny trails off, and when he speaks again there’s an undercurrent of threat to his voice. “Take care of him.”
