Chapter Text
He had only been back in the nine-nine for four days. At first there were only small differences about Jake that most did not realize; like the way he had kept his left earring in after Freddie successfully fled to Barbados and how he hummed piano man when a room became quiet. On more than one occasion, he would even order Italian food and slowly nibble it with a solemn expression. One time Gina had tried to pick on his Italian cuisine fixation (in her own twisted way of cheering him up) but Jake only gave a small smile tainted by nostalgia.
Jake had only been back for four days when he was told to do an interrogation. The suspect clearly knows something pertaining to the arson strikes and nobody else in the office could make him fess-up. Jake jumped on the opportunity to take on the challenge, perhaps with too much vigor. It was like he was trying to take on as much work as he could to make up for lost time. Terry sat in alone for the first half hour of Jake's questioning, then Amy joined in to witness the latter half.
“Just confess already!” Jake exasperatedly yelled, his hands flying wildly around as he paced the walls of the interrogation room. The other detective and the Sargent sat behind the one way glass with the similar feeling of being at their wits end.
“Or what? You don't got no evidence, pig.” The middle aged delinquent sneered. It was not an uncommon slur heard in and around the precinct, so Terry and Amy paid it no mind. Jake however, spun on his heels like the perp just said he had killed the detective's dog.
“The fuck did you just call me?” Jake's eyes squinted in malice and the corners of his upper lip pulling into a sneer. His associates were shocked by the outburst, having only remembered the Jake from before his time away- the bubbly man who cursed only for comic relief. Santiago stood, prepared to go into the gray room and play good cop; that was untill she was caught further in the pit of confusion by Jake's next show of agitation.
“Does Jake have a-” The screech of the Sargents metal chair halted her question.
Terry darted in urgency to stop one of his best detectives from making a grave mistake.
The blade caught the light just right as its sharp side pressed gently, yet insistently, into the flesh of the perps neck, forcing droplets of blood to surface. Jake held it from the other side of the metallic table with a fire to his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing, and that fact made Terry all the more worried. “Tell me where your hiding the arsonist right now you asshat.” The interrogator spat the words with toxicity; it was so inhumane and unlike anything Amy had ever seen from her partner.
“He- he’s stashed out in a powerstation seven blocks east!” The sweating suspect tried to lean away from the blade, the terror in his eyes thick enough to convince anyone with an ounce of sympathy to lighten up. Jake, however, did nothing of the sort. When the retreat was too successful, the ex-mobster reached out with his non-dominant hand to grab the other man's hair. “I- I can take someone there and call him outside! Just don't-”
“Peralta!” Terry's echoing shout had snapped Jake out of his trance. One could almost physically see the bloodlust drain from Jake's eyes, little by little, and with much willpower. “What are you doing man?!”
Jake straightened himself and took three large strides backwards. With a light thud, he could feel the cold smoothness of the mirror against his back. Maybe, he thought, maybe if he sank back far enough Jeffords would not see him; not see his mistakes. “ I was just-... well Freddie, Derek, and I would always-"
The weapon was taken out of Jakes hand by his superior officer. "What you used to do with those guys doesn't matter! You can't pull a switchblade on an innocent man just to get him talking!”
"Innocent?" Jake huffed under his breath, affrontedly. “Actaully, you can. I just did. It worked, didn't it?" There was a bite in him- an animalistic set of teeth that wanted to bare down on opposition. He was scared to acknowledge it's presence, nevertheless its power over him. "I won't do it again; I know this isn't the setting for that but… this punk can take us to the arsonist now. Just don't tell Captain Holt and this case can be closed by tomorrow.” God, Jake wanted to stop talking; wanted to admit he was wrong and leave it at that… buuut on the other hand he needed to preserve his pride. The tumbling of the word seemed inevitable; the pull to negotiate his way out of any fuckup seemed natural after two years of mastering the art.
Terry gave him another solid look of disappointment. “You're off this case, and until you can prove you're not psychotic, I don't want to see you in interrogation. Stick to desk work, Paralta.”