Archive of Our Own

Outside, the sun is waning and Brooklyn takes on a muted, hazy view. Through the sheer curtains of the windows in the guest room, Kevin watches from the armchair as the sky darkens and the street lamps flicker on. There's a steady beat of traffic outside—people going about their lives with not a clue to the turmoil within this particular house. Their lives are untouched by rape, abuse, and the frailty of the human mind. Kevin is jealous of them—although not for himself. 

In the distance, the sun's glare is bright and blinding as it descends below the horizon, its rays reaching out in a last attempt to touch what it can. Even through the curtains, Kevin finds he has to look away; if he stares too long, the glare becomes blinding, sending spots across his vision and altering the perception of what he thinks he sees.

It's become a rather common theme for him since they rescued Jake from that bench.

The small bedroom is warm–maybe too warm–but each time Kevin has reached for the thermostat, blue lips have crossed the front of his mind, freezing his hand in place. He feels, rather than sees, the shivers that wracked the form they guided from bench to car, clothing drenched, dwarfed in Raymond's peacoat. Ice can form like the blinding sun reaches—outwards and slow, until before you know it, you are engulfed. 

Kevin never wants to see blue lips again.

Downstairs, the toilet flushes, and Kevin can hear the faucet in the half-bath turn on as Raymond washes his hands. A full 30 seconds—the optimal hand washing time to ensure cleanliness. 

It's a strange thing to notice, but the act of Raymond's predictability is comforting. In less than 24 hours, Kevin's world has drastically changed, yet his husband has remained the same. He is Kevin's home after a long and hard day—familiar and soothing, a strong tethering to cling to. Through all of this tumultuous change and rocky terrain they must navigate through, it's comforting to know something is still familiar, even while everything else is carved away into a new normal.

As Jake shifts in his sleep–the novel still grasped in his fingers–Kevin shifts his gaze from the window back to the bed, his heart aching for the young man who careened into his heart and filled up every empty space like a lamp being lit in a darkened room. It's damn near impossible to believe that at one point he was annoyed by this same person. Perspective and trauma have forced clarity into Kevin's mind, ripping the lens that he once viewed Jake through right off of his face. He sees Jake for who he really is now—just as Raymond has been trying to get him to do since the night of his birthday party. It's as refreshing as it is scary, and Kevin feels as if he's driving down a narrow road into the sun's glare, blind to where he's going but unable to stop. 

He must keep going; everything depends on it.

A whimper from the bed brings Kevin's attention back to his surroundings, and he's on his feet and next to Jake a moment later. The mattress dips under him as he sits, hand reaching out to smooth back Jake's hair. “You're safe, Jacob.” He doesn't dare try to remove the novel, too afraid to awaken Jake fully, but there's still a soft fluttering of brown irises–just for a second–until Jake settles down with a sigh, his breath evening out. 

Our Jake. 

He had said it without thinking, but the moniker had come so naturally–felt so right–that Kevin couldn't bring himself to even attempt to take it back—they were beyond saving face anyway. The veil had been lifted on Kevin's bias, and everything his husband had been trying to show him is finally clear. The only thing Kevin wants at this point is to love Jake and keep him safe—he wants to protect him and heal him. Maybe it's a little terrifying, but so was diving head-first into his relationship with Raymond. The type of love is different, but the intensity is the same. 

Though not often, when Kevin falls, it's fast and the purpose is sharp, focused, and set. With Raymond, he knew he had met his soulmate within an hour of knowing his name. With Jake, as soon as he allowed himself to see beyond Jake's defense mechanisms, he was brought–with an abrupt clarity–to the realization that this is the child he was meant to have. There had been something missing from their otherwise perfect life, and he had been right in front of Kevin and Raymond for two years. 

The right things come to you at the right times. Even when they don't make blatant sense in the way that someone like Kevin would want them to. As soon as he steps back and takes in the whole picture, it all comes together. Like studying Picasso’s most famous works, you can't look at one segment and hope to find out what the artist was trying to say—you have to view the piece in its completion. Only then can any answers be had. 

A few years ago, one of his friends fostered and then formally adopted a 17-year-old teenager. Questions arose at how he and his wife could love someone who was nearly grown as their own child—enough to invite the young man into their lives, especially since he'd be aging out of the system in less than a year. Kevin's friend–Dr. Kenneth Martin–had told them that age had nothing to do with it. The boy had simply clicked with his family like a missing piece of framework on a house. The structure may have been standing just fine without, but with him, they were stronger and complete. At the time, Kevin didn't fully understand; he does now. 

Jake may be in his early 30’s, he may be grown and no longer in need of parents in the traditional sense, but to Kevin and Raymond, they can see where Jake needs them, and where they need Jake. He's only sorry that he couldn't see it sooner—the pain Jake is going through now could have been avoided. 

Leaning over Jake, Kevin steals a moment to gently cup his cheek, his thumb soft and slow as it rubs under one closed eye. Jake's face smooths out and he sinks further into the pillow with a delicate sigh, and Kevin feels his heart flip at the sweetness of the sight. 

“Kevin.”

Turning to see Raymond in the doorway, Kevin colors a little at being caught so openly mushing on Jake. Taking his hand from Jake's face, he folds it within his other and clears his throat. “I was concerned he was having a bad dream.”

Raymond steps into the room, a smile tugging at his lips. “You do not need to make an excuse with me, Kevin. I understand.” His head tilts and he gestures toward the stairwell. “Detective Diaz is here. She would like to visit with him.”

“Should we awaken him?” Kevin asks, uncertain as he looks back at Jake. The dark circles under his eyes are jarring, as is the gauntness of his cheeks. Even while resting, he looks weary; Kevin is loath to interrupt any sleep he may get. 

Shaking his head, Raymond tells him, “Diaz was made aware that he may be asleep—she is content to just sit with him. I believe the proximity is needed to allay her anxiety.”

“Where is she?”

“Downstairs in the living room.”

With a heavy reluctance, Kevin pushes himself to his feet, body cautious to not disturb the mattress too much. With each step toward the door, his skin feels heavier, the dredges of his exhaustion and his worry like Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol—except instead of the choices of just himself, they are representative of the choices of men in general, and the carnage they leave behind. 

Downstairs, Diaz stands at the window, arms wrapped around her body. Her jacket is off, draped over the arm of the sofa, and she stares, eyes blank, into the street. She does not turn when they enter; indeed the only clue that she's aware of them at all is a minute twitch of her fingers. 

Kevin does not know what to say. He's at a loss at the best of times when it comes to Raymond's squad, but Diaz confounds him more than any of the others. Jeffords is so affable and friendly that he's drawn Kevin right in, and Jake had been an annoyance, but he's grown into someone Kevin has an inherent need to protect. Gina, he likes, but then again she isn't a cop—she has a leg up on the rest of them against Kevin's obvious bias. 

But Diaz? There's something about her that transcends way past aloof. She's tough, but she's also angry. It's a dangerous combination. He's not sure where she stands within this entire situation, or how she feels about Jake—Kevin knows they're friends, but how close? Will she be angry? Sad? 

Will she inadvertently hurt Jake, or help him? 

“You know,” she says, not turning from the window, “when I first met him, I thought he was the biggest idiot in the world.”

Halfway to one of the armchairs, Kevin freezes, ready to defend his new charge. “Excuse me?”

Twisting her upper body, Diaz turns just enough to look at him, arms still crossed. “‘Thought’, past tense. He was so giddy and hyper and never fucking shut up. Literally so annoying.” Popping her weight onto one hip, she pauses, bouncing for a moment before pivoting and dropping onto the sofa. “No one else liked me because I absolutely bite,” she grins, flashing her teeth. “But Jake was never phased. So when we had to do anything with partners, guess who they always teamed me up with?”

“Is that how you became friends?” Raymond asks, curious. 

Tilting her head, the feral grin turns soft, and it's a sweet look on her. It changes her face from something mean into something kind, and Kevin can quite suddenly see why Raymond and Jake adore her. “We became friends because he's not an idiot. We continuously came out on top because of his quick thinking. It made me look at him differently, and then the dummy wiggled his way in, and I haven't been able to get rid of him since.” Another pause, this one tempered with that soft smile again. “Not that I want to get rid of him. He's a really good guy, and he saw me for who I was when everyone else only saw the anger. That's– That's a big deal.”

Next to him, Raymond swallows and nods, and Kevin gets the distinct feeling that they've just learned something private about Detective Diaz that no one else has ever been privy to. It's important; it's deep. It's something he'll have to take to the grave if he values his life at all. 

But it makes him see her in a new light. 

He really was wrong about all of them, wasn't he?

Being so far removed from the Nine-Nine, Kevin stays silent, not feeling right in any commentary, no matter what his intentions are. Raymond, leaning forward and clasping his hands together, has no such blockades. “We are all more than what we present to the world. It takes special people to see past that.”

She nods. “The Nine-Nine has given me that—all of you.” Gesturing with her hand, Diaz indicates the entirety of the squad even if they are not present. “I never had that before.”

“Other than Kevin,” Raymond begins, taking Kevin's hand across the small table between the armchairs, “neither have I.”

There's a ‘blink and you'll miss it’ wetness in her eyes, and she nods again, looking away from her captain and Kevin. “And then this shit happens.”

“We will get him through it,” his husband's stare, dark and determined, gazes at her with steady confidence. “Neither Kevin–nor I–will allow Jake to succumb to his trauma. That is a promise.”

Sniffing, she blinks, leaning back in her seat, still unable to meet their eyes when her own are threatening to spill. “I keep having to remind myself that this is actually real. My friend was raped by his father. By the man who should have loved him, who should have–” Fist clenching, she bites down on a garbled curse, refusing to lose her temper. It's commendable to see, although Kevin worries about the ramifications of holding back her very justifiable rage. “It's not fucking fair—Jake is too good; he's too sweet. He's–” Grunting, she rubs her forehead, correcting her statement. “No one deserves this. It's just that Jake is… Jake is…”

“I understand,” Raymond tells her. “I believe all of the families of those who are victimized in such a way feel the same, but the righteousness in which you feel is how Kevin and I feel. Jake is special, and he did not deserve this.” 

“No, he really fucking didn't.” Huffing, her expression bitter, she bites out, “And I can't even find a way to fucking say how I feel about it without sounding like I'm ready to kill someone. Which, okay, yeah? I kinda am. I want Roger dead, but–” Trailing off, she throws her arms up in frustration and lets them fall back to her lap with a loud slap.

Sitting up straight, Kevin wrings his hands, fighting the urge to speak and losing. “Finding him on that bench last night was terrifying. Yet it pales in comparison to what happened afterward. Finding out– I mean… Blue lips, bruises, and Jake saying ‘Yes’ when Raymond asked if his father–” Sighing, Kevin drops his hands. “There are no words, Detective Diaz, and I study words for a living. And yet, both Raymond and I understand fully what it is you are trying to convey.”

Standing, she jerks her head toward the stairs. Her demeanor is screaming that she's tough and unaffected, but her eyes are telling a different story altogether. “I'm gonna go see him now. I just– I need to see him.”

“Thank you for today,” Raymond tells her, standing as well. “I know it was hard for you. That Sergeant Jeffords and yourself went into Manhattan to report this—it means a lot. I have delegated myself and Kevin as Jake's–” He stops, at a loss for what they are to Jake—for what they're doing. ‘Our Jake’ hangs between them like a banner only they can see.

“We are going to aid in his healing, Detective Diaz,” Kevin fills in, needing to say at least this part out loud, even if they aren't ready to voice the rest of it. “We will be the ones guiding him back.”

“It should be you,” Diaz says, motioning to Raymond. “His– his father raped him, but you can bring him back from that, and that's– You're the one who'll make the biggest difference.” Shifting her eyes to Kevin, one corner of her lips lifts up. “You too, you know. You got the same ridiculous power. Anyway, enough of this shit, I'm getting itchy. I'm gonna go see Jake.” Turning on her heels, she stalks from the room, boots clomping. Yet on the stairs, her steps are surprisingly light. She's put on a show for them, an act to look as unaffected as possible, but her care is showing in the tender way she takes the steps—she will not awaken Jake with angry stomps, even if they are anything but.

So many layers to all of them, and Kevin, who had studied Critical Theory for years, has missed each and every one, save for what could be seen on the surface—some scholar he is.

Spatchcocking a chicken is strangely cathartic work. Kevin hacks away with a butcher's knife, wrist deep in poultry guts as Raymond sits at the counter, scrubbing potatoes. He's already got all of his herbs and butter measured out, and the oven is preheated to the correct temperature. Everything along the counter is in perfect order, ready to be rubbed on and under the skin, and then discarded into the sink. He's his own well-oiled machine in regards to cooking, having made this very meal more times than he can count. 

It is also part of the reason he chose it; a dinner he can cook without thinking is necessary when his mind is so occupied with other thoughts. That, and whole chickens were on sale at the supermarket; Kevin had carelessly forgotten to take out any meat from the freezer to thaw that morning. 

His brain is a mess.

“I went shopping for Jake,” he says, setting aside the knife when the chicken is split. “I picked up some clothing and some toiletries. They had lavender-scented items. I know he said he liked the smell last night, and I hope I didn't misstep in buying more–”

“He will be appreciative, Kevin,” Raymond tells him, placing the last of the potatoes back into the bowl and standing to clean up his workspace. “If lavender will aid in calming him, I think it was a rather intelligent choice.”

Dumping the different herbs on top of the softened butter, Kevin glances over at him. “Cubed, please,” he says of the potatoes. “They'll be going into the bottom of the roasting pan.” Raymond dips his head in acknowledgment. “We can bring everything in later; I left the bags in my car; the groceries were more important.”

“Of course.”

Using a fork to mash everything together, Kevin bites at his bottom lip, chewing on his thoughts before expressing them. “Raymond,” he says after the mixture is well blended, “Jake's eating is concerning to me. Although we have not seen enough to really determine a concrete pattern–”

“I know him well enough to see one, Kevin. He is not eating, and he has lost enough weight that it's becoming noticeable.” Sitting back down after tossing the paper towels he had used to soak up the water into the garbage, Raymond plucks one potato from the pile in the bowl and steadies it on the cutting board. “Something needs to be done.”

“He is aware of his issue, I believe. I spoke with him briefly about it this afternoon, although there is no new information to be had. I think smaller portions will do for now. We can gradually increase. He seemed open to the idea.”

“Yes,” Raymond looks up at him, genuinely impressed, “I think that will do.”

A few minutes pass in relative silence, both intent on their tasks. Kevin keeps one ear trained for any noises from upstairs in the guest room, concerned about Jake becoming distressed. Not counting Sergeant Jeffords' earlier visit, Diaz is the first of his friends to come with the sole intention of visiting him post-assault. It isn't that he thinks anyone will upset Jake on purpose, but rather they may overwhelm him or trigger his reactions in a negative way. As it is, Kevin is walking on his own eggshells now that he knows the full story. The anger he felt the night before upon learning that Jake was raped is still there, simmering like a pot of Sunday sauce left unattended. He knows that one wrong step could set him boiling over, and that would be detrimental to Jake—as would any intense showing of emotion from his friends. 

There are no concerning sounds, however, so Kevin finishes rubbing the chicken down with a deep slathering of butter and herbs that would make any Southern cook proud. Placing it onto a flat rack, he sets it aside and dumps the cut potatoes on the bottom of the roasting pan, which is already lined with nonstick aluminum foil. Raymond gets to work on prepping the green beans. They work in tandem, so used to anticipating each other's moves that everything–save for the green beans which will be cooked closer to mealtime–is finished before either knows it. Taking the bleach to clean the counters, Raymond leaves Kevin with nothing else to do but wait. 

He really hates waiting. 

“I've received a text from Detective Boyle,” Raymond tells him sometime later after Kevin's basted the chicken. “He is requesting to come for dinner so he can visit with Jake. Apparently,” –here, he frowns, unamused– “they have drawn straws to see who gets to see him first and so on, and Boyle has won the ability to see Jacob before the others. Not counting Diaz, of course.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Kevin wipes his hand on a dishrag. He knew this would happen, that they'd be invaded by Raymond's squad. His husband had told him as much earlier that day, hadn't he? As much as it pains him, this is good for Jake, as long as they do not upset him. “Very well. Tell him to be prompt, or we will start without him.”

Raymond's thumb moves across his phone, texting back. His head is down as he brushes past Kevin, his other hand trailing across Kevin's back in a gesture of love and comfort. “I am going to check in on Jake and Diaz; it's been a few hours now and I just–” Kevin sends him a loaded and knowing look and Raymond grins, sheepish. “Do you blame me?”

“I do not,” Kevin admits. “Let Our Jake know that dinner will be done in about a half hour.” 

The love with which Raymond gazes at him before he turns the corner is so all-encompassing that Kevin feels a flush rise up his cheeks. Turning back to the stove, he forces his attention on the green beans he's preparing. 

A few minutes later, there are two sets of feet on the steps and Kevin leans out of the doorway, curious. Diaz follows Raymond down the hallway, rubbing her eyes and smearing her mascara. Her wavy hair is flattened on one side of her head. 

“We fell asleep,” she grumbles, stifling a yawn. “Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize,” Kevin tells her, a bit surprised at that. Although with how exhausted he feels, and the weariness he can see in his husband, is it really all that shocking that this is affecting the others who love Jake as well? They've certainly loved him longer, and Diaz’s confessions in the living room point toward a very real and deep friendship between the two. “I imagine,” he says, speaking slowly, so as not to come off the wrong way, “that being able to be near him enabled you to finally relax.”

Bobbing her head in sleepy ups and downs, she pulls a hair tie from her pocket and ties her hair back. “Good to know he's still got some fight in him, though. He's a wreck, but it's still there. Thanks for letting me see him. I needed to know that.”

With a preening upward tilt of his chin, Kevin's chest puffs out a little in his pride at Jake. “Yes. Yes, I've seen it too.”

“I'm not happy I can't work the case,” she says, her eyes flickering to Raymond, “but I get it, and knowing that Jake's still in there despite all this helps.”

“Will you be all right driving home?” Raymond asks. “I will drive you if you need.”

She waves away the offer. “Appreciated, but no. I'm good. Let Jake know I'm only a phone call away, okay? He can call or text at any time. I don't care—it could be 4 in the damn morning, I'll answer.”

“I will pass along the message.”

“Goodnight, Kevin,” she says, turning to leave. “Night, Cap.” There's a pause, then a chuckle. “Ha! Nightcap.” 

“Alcohol or head-wear?” Raymond asks with a glint of humor in his eyes. 

As she treks down the hallway to the front door, she calls out, “Alcohol, ya doi!”

“Of course,” Raymond mumbles under his breath, but there's a spark of life in his eyes, and Kevin is glad to see it. As important as healing Jake is, they cannot lose themselves either.

Boyle arrives just as Kevin is removing the chicken from the oven. Setting the roasting rack onto the stove, Kevin slips off his oven mitts, listening to the muted words coming from the foyer. 

“Kevin,” Raymond beckons him, “I am going to wake Jake up for dinner. Will you please keep Detective Boyle company?” 

With a final check on the green beans, Kevin leaves the kitchen to join them, nodding his greeting to Detective Boyle. The shorter man is nearly vibrating with pent-up energy and Kevin casts a dismayed glance in Raymond's direction. 

“Hello, Dr. Cozner! It smells wonderful in here! Is that roasted chicken? With,” –he sniffs the air– “garlic and rosemary butter? Delightful!” Another hefty sniff and he smiles, wide and pleased. “And lemon! You sure know your aromatics!”

Raymond pats his arm on the way past, taking two steps at a time to reach the second floor faster. If anything, Kevin appreciates his haste. He's aware that his perceptions have already been rocked concerning Raymond's squad, but even his husband had mentioned that Boyle’s nervous energy can sometimes be a bit much. 

Crossing his arms and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Kevin dips his head to Boyle. “I have prepared a simple roasted chicken, yes. Both you and Jake will set the table while Raymond and I finish up in the kitchen.”

“Absolutely. Always pull your own weight, I say!” Boyle's hands are twisted together in a constant show of anxiety, and Kevin relents enough to allow him some grace. This cannot be easy on any of them. 

“Jake is doing all right, considering,” Kevin tells him. “He is not who he was, and for right now, that is okay, but you do not need to worry so much. He will be happy to see you.”

The twisting fingers tighten, each digit turning red with the exertion. “I don't want to make anything worse,” Boyle admits in a tiny voice. “I don't want to hurt him.”

“He is not spun glass. Be mindful of what you say and do not touch him without him knowing. Otherwise, I believe you will do just fine.”

“Sure, sure,” he mutters, eyes darting left and right. “I'm so excited to see him!” he bursts out, although Kevin can tell he's still trying to contain himself. “I just don't want to go Full Boyle on him.”

Self-awareness is not something Kevin expected from this hyperactive little man, and Kevin blinks down at him, a little confused regardless. “I am not sure I understand what you mean.” 

“My enthusiasm sometimes gets the best of me,” he says, eyes finally connecting with Kevin's. “I can't help it! Jake is my best friend and he's just the coolest, most awesome person alive, but then this awful thing happened to him, and I don't want to set him back or hurt him, or, God, make him hate me!”

Someone needs to work on this man's self-esteem. “He will not hate you. Love him as needed, just keep it at a lower decibel.”

“The captain said as much when I came in,” he says with an embarrassed shrug. “Told me to keep my normal enthusiasm levels at a 4 at most.”

“Only a 4?” Kevin responds dryly, the corner of his mouth upturning. Boyle grins at him, a friendly welcoming smile that has Kevin relaxing just a little; this man means no harm, even if he's a bit like an over-excited puppy. “We are at as much of a loss as you with this, Detective Boyle,” he admits. “There isn't a manual with a step-by-step guide on how to handle this situation. While there is plenty of reading material, they all say the same thing: Each case is different. Each person needs something different. We can only love and stay by their side as they heal, and adjust with them.”

Noise from up the stairs and down the hall alerts Kevin of the approach of Raymond and Jake. It effectively shuts down the conversation, which may be for the better. Kevin does not know Boyle well enough to open up to him in regards to his own emotions about this, and as such will not be able to truly help him. It wouldn't be fair to offer advice or words of comfort if he cannot be open with the person he's speaking with and trying to aid. By protecting his own inner turmoil, he has the potential to hurt him, and while the Kevin of last week may not have cared as much, Boyle is important to Jake. He will be imperative to his healing.

Jake appears at the top of the landing, curls askew and looking as tired and withdrawn as he had before he fell asleep again. Raymond is behind him, one hand on the railing and the other out in case Jake loses his balance—he's too exhausted to notice where his feet are going, and he shifts down the steps like a sleepy toddler. As much as it pains Kevin to think, there may not be enough rest to recharge someone whose life has been wrecked like this; the only course that can be taken is one of healing. Jake will have to weather this exhaustion until he breaks through to the other side—as painful and wearisome as it will be. 

The moment his eyes land on Boyle, there's a small spark of life that flares up. It's minuscule; hardly perceptible unless you've taken note of how hollow he's looked. Yet there it is, flickering however dimly, and Kevin lets out a tightly held breath. Like a seedling buried under rubbish, it's a struggle to find, but the hope of growth is alive. 

Boyle glances at Kevin, and then up at Raymond. Energy shifting into a buzzing, anxious excitement, he asks, “Permission to hug Jakey?”

“That is entirely up to Jake.” Kevin huffs, crossing his arms. They are not the keepers of Jake's consent, and Boyle will need to learn that. He should be asking Jake, and not anyone else. Although Kevin does somewhat understand the hesitation—Jake does not look like himself. Indeed he is not the Jake they knew prior to this. Yet Kevin holds to what he said: Jake is not spun glass. He will not break if you ask to hug him.

But—

He is, at this moment, fragile in other ways. He's vulnerable. Broken open by a despicable act he should never have had to endure. Jake may not be spun glass, but he is still a delicate vase—beautiful and ornate, carrying the waters of trauma in a body that is cracked and slowly leaking. He can be mended. He can be healed. But the marks from this will remain for the rest of his life. 

The Jake they knew is gone forever, and Kevin will never know him because of his own stubborn stupidity. He can only work to know this Jake, and pray it will be enough.

“Of course you can hug me, Charles,” Jake tells him as he reaches the downstairs landing, the smile on his face beautifully sad. It's clear to anyone that he's trying to show that he's at least somewhat all right, but it's obvious that he isn't. His arms are wrapped around his body, his shoulders hunched, and those beautiful brown eyes are glassy and frightened. No smile can hide that. No mask can cover the heavy turmoil churning within this young man like beaten eggs in a blender.

Boyle bursts into action, throwing his arms open and rushing forward, but Raymond's reflexes are honed and fast. He steps around to the side of Jake–just missing one of Cheddar's paws–and holds an arm out, stopping Boyle's loving but too excited lunge. “Gently, Detective Boyle. Jake's bruising is extensive.” How he's able to sound stern but still kind is a power Kevin has yet to master. Boyle freezes, the smile slipping off of his features and dripping to their feet in a regretful puddle. 

Jake mumbles, “I'm fine.” His gaze drops, as do his arms, contradictory movements as he tries to cover that he's okay while still falling apart. Kevin wants to wrap him up and never let him go. He wants to hold him and banish the rest of the world from ever hurting Jake again—all things that still shock him, despite the admission earlier that day. It's all so fresh and new, but the circumstances are so horrible. He feels like Poe’s pendulum—not the victim, but the object itself. Swinging back and forth, and worried that the one who will bear the brunt of his own insecurity will be the very person he means to protect. 

Boyle, thankfully, is able to reel in his excitement enough to wrap Jake in a hug that will not jostle his injuries. The tenseness leaves Kevin as Jake melts in his arms, his face burying into Boyle's shoulders. This is exactly what Jake needs, and perhaps the tactile approach, while not one Kevin is used to, may be the best way to help him. 

Kevin has always been one to hold himself back. It's time now to allow himself to do what feels right, instead of letting logic overtake everything. Sometimes, giving in does not mean giving up—it means gaining. Neither he nor Raymond have anything to lose in this; a life without Jake at all is worse than loving him and losing him, isn't it? Jake is strong. There is still some fight left in him. 

Pain just means you're alive. 

“Detective Boyle,” Raymond says after Kevin has moved the food onto their serving platters, “can you help us bring out the dishes, please? Jake, you can go wash up for dinner.”

“Good idea, Captain,” Boyle holds his hands up and wiggles his fingers, looking ridiculous. “My hands are always clean. They're the tools to my trade.” Kevin's eyebrows crinkle in confusion, and it's a good thing his back is to Boyle because that would be impolite. 

“Okay,” he hears Jake say, his voice uncertain. Raymond is lacking a bit of subtlety if Kevin is to be honest. But the ruse worked, and Jake leaves for the half-bath in the hallway. Still, he has to be suspicious. Jake is no idiot!

With a platter of chicken balanced in his hands and intent on calling his husband out, Kevin turns as Boyle enters the kitchen. “Raymond, that was not–”

Raymond waves away the criticism. “I know. It was not my best.”

Pursing his lips in a silent reproach, Kevin hands the platter to Boyle. “Center of the table, please.”

Boyle manages to ignore the conversation between them, although, by the look on his face, it's obvious he knows what is going on. Regardless, Kevin appreciates his cordiality. Boyle hurries back through the door and into the dining room. “This smells incredible!” he praises in an attempt to cut through the tension.

Smiling despite everything going on, Kevin shakes his head, surprised again at how astute Raymond's detectives are. “Thank you, Detective Boyle.” He really should have listened to Raymond about them—but as they say, ‘Hindsight is always 20/20.’. 

Raymond has yet to make a move in informing Boyle about their strategy concerning Jake's nutrition. There isn't much time—the ruse will be for nothing if he doesn't get it together. 

Picking up the green beans, Kevin levels him with a stern and loaded glare. “He's your detective, Raymond–”

“Yes, yes,” Raymond mutters, his own hands filled with their Arte Italica serving dish of potatoes. “Detective Boyle, there is not much time to explain this,” he says in a hushed and hurried voice as he follows Boyle through to the dining room. Kevin is right behind him, eyes intent on the platter he's carrying, but ears open to the explanation, just in case. 

“Jake is not eating much at the moment,” Raymond continues, “and to help, we are managing his portions with attainable amounts that will be gradually increased. Please do not comment on it.” As if to demonstrate, he spoons only a few potatoes onto Jake's plate. Kevin follows suit with a small serving of green beans and chicken. “We do not want to overwhelm him. This is a little more than he had for lunch.”

Boyle nods. “Of course. Right. Totally makes sense.” He looks so sad taking his seat, his face a map of everything he's feeling. “I, uh– I also just want to thank you, Captain, for, you know, calling him Jake. And not Jacob. Or Peralta. I think… I think that's going to help. It's, uh… It's humanizing. I think he needs that.”

Raymond looks surprised, his eyes wide for a fraction of a second before he smiles. “It is what Jake prefers, and it makes him comfortable. That is our current aim.”

“I think it'll mean a lot to him.” Boyle is earnest if anything, and Kevin sends him a genuine smile. A moment later, Jake re-enters the dining room, hands dutifully washed, and Boyle gestures to the spread, masterfully changing the conversation. “This looks scrumptious!” 

Jake eyes them with a suspicious tilt to his head but does not comment. It's a relief; they only wish to help, and having anyone bring attention to what is going on has the capability of hurting Jake and making him resent the approach. If this is to work, it needs to be treated as a typical situation—no staring, no pointing it out, and no verbally bringing attention to something that might embarrass Jake.

After that, it's dinner as usual. Somewhat. There's a strange comment about the mouth feel of the potatoes that has Kevin and Jake connecting eyes from across the table, and though it's only for a fleeting second, it does feel like they're sharing an inside joke. It's paternal, and it creates a warm gushy feeling in Kevin's chest. 

Jake is eating slowly, but he is eating. Though not ideal, Kevin says nothing. There is nutrition entering his body and that is something. They have time to work on it—it's a journey that may take a while, but it's an important one that they cannot afford to screw up. Gentle guidance, with a little bit of pushing. They can toe the line, but not step over it. 

What's most concerning is Jake's quietness, but considering all he's been through, it's understandable. He's paying attention to the conversation around him, even if he's not partaking as Kevin had hoped he would. Boyle does try to bring him into it, and to his civility, he accepts when Jake only replies in short answers, allowing him his silence. 

It's sweet to see the care this excitable man is giving his friend. It's but another show of how wrong Kevin has been about them all. 

Things are going well, considering, but toward the end of the meal, when they've each eaten their fill and then some, Jake pushes away his plate. He's not gone back for any second servings, and there are still a few green beans and pieces of chicken left on his plate. The sight is upsetting but not surprising, not really. Jake has, at the very least, waited until the rest of them were finished before signaling that he, too, was done. But for this to work, Jake needs to increase his intake, if only by a little bit.

Raymond, in a soft and calming tone, attempts to cajole Jake, sliding his plate back. “It's only a few more bites, Jacob. Please do it for me?” Which is a bit underhanded, but if it gets Jake to eat more, that would be toeing the line indeed.

It is apparent almost right away that it will not work. Jake's face scrunches into one of defeat and worry, and Kevin swallows, his throat feeling thick and tight. They had been able to get him to eat the bacon that afternoon; it is worth trying, isn't it? 

No one else speaks, and the request hovers in the air, heavy like a dense rain cloud. Boyle, his face blurting out his sadness in a way his voice could never, looks at Jake with pleading eyes. Kevin holds his breath, glancing between Jake and Raymond, waiting like a child without an umbrella, unsure of what to do or how to help.

Unable to maintain eye contact, Jake picks up his fork, spearing a singular green bean and bringing it to his mouth. There's a small spark of celebratory elation charging to life in Kevin as, a moment later, he eats the smallest of the pieces of chicken on his plate as well. Kevin can see the struggle it takes to swallow even that, but he's done it. There isn't much left—but his eyes lift, begging Raymond to let it be. The spark is snuffed out.

It's unfortunate in these circumstances, but Kevin knows his husband. He has to try—he won't push further than asking once more, but he has to try. He wouldn't be Raymond Holt if he didn't. 

It will be their downfall.

“One more, please,” Raymond asks, tone soft and cautious, conveying his care and love for the detective that he thinks of as a son. It's the most gentle Kevin has ever seen him, and he's been witness to the softest sides of his husband. A child–no matter what age–can bring out the sweetness in anyone worthy of the moniker of father. 

Jake stares at him, misery building on his features like an artist paints a landscape. Tears gather in his eyes, welling up faster than Kevin thought possible. He takes a shuddering and despairing breath, gasping inward like he's losing the ability to take in oxygen. There's a pause–quick and frantic–and Jake bites down on his lower lip, choking back a sound that cuts through the room, injuring them all.

With a jolt, Kevin sets his fork down and only just manages to not spring from his chair. The tension grows in between them all like overgrown bushes, blocking the light and strangling them. Still, no one says anything, waiting Jake out, letting him parse through his own thoughts. If he says ‘no’, they will accept. But he needs to say it. 

The tears slip free, dripping down to Jake's chin and falling, his breath quickening in panic. It becomes glaringly evident that Jake will be unable to voice anything—his emotions are too strong. They've pushed too far. As he had said to Boyle earlier, they don't know what they're doing, and they've made a mistake. A huge one. Dinner may not have been perfect, but it was pleasant enough. Jake had been happy to see his friend and he had eaten something, but Raymond couldn't let it go. 

Kevin is just as culpable—he allowed it to happen. He could have said something, he could have curbed his husband's need to push–

They didn't think. Each meal is a variable, a differing situation that is unlike the rest. Kevin knows that now. Jake was raped; he's not going to have a smooth transition of moods for a while, and to think that pushing him will work each time is foolish. His quietness should have given it away, but they had failed to read the signs. 

They've failed Jake, and that cannot happen again.

Raymond recovers from his shock at Jake's crying before Kevin does, leaning into his space and cupping Jake's face. His hands touch lightly, thumbs making contact last and rubbing a gentle arch under those brown eyes, wiping his tears away. “Jake…Jake, it's okay. You don't have to eat anymore. You already exceeded our expectations. I should not have pushed you.” The pain Kevin hears in his husband's baritone is like a slice to his gut; the words like fingers ripping his insides out through the wound and scattering them across the floor. Raymond knows, just as much as Kevin does, that they have messed up. This could have been avoided.

“I'm sorry,” Jake gasps, mouth opening and closing as he fights for his breath. “I'm sorry!”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Raymond tries to soothe him. One hand leaves Jake's face to grip the bottom of his chair and drag it closer, eyes searching and finding Kevin's as he brings Jake's head to his shoulder. He looks destroyed over his slip-up, remorse twisting his handsome features into a mosaic of regret.

Jake's fingers, needing something to hold onto, grip at Raymond's shirt, the fabric balling in his fist as he tightens his grasp, hand shaking. The tears are multiplying, his body beginning to tremble with the gut-wrenching sobbing that is reaching a crescendo so debilitating, so devastating, it physically hurts to bear witness to. Kevin doesn't know what to do—his heart is shattering at the sight. 

Whatever this is, it is deeper than they thought, and that means everything will have to be reassessed. There is more to this aversion to food than just the rape, more to all of this that they have yet to learn. Jake spoke of how much his father hated the way he was—he was too hyper, too talkative, too inquisitive… Kevin had already made the assumption that Jake was abused as a child as well; could the food aversion be part of that? Something not new, something Jake has struggled with for years. Something that causes him pain and anguish, and here they are pushing him to eat when he can't. 

The gasping breaths are becoming ragged and mistimed, and Raymond wraps both arms around Jake, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. “His breathing is too quick,” he warns, looking back and forth between Kevin and Boyle. The arm around Jake tightens, Raymond almost lifting Jake from his own chair. Fear ripples through the room like a strobe light, dizzying and disorienting. 

Jake's cries become louder. Desperate. He begins to gag on the lack of air, coughing and pressing his face harder into Raymond's shoulder.

“I think… Jakey? Jake?” Boyle stands and makes his way around the table, but Jake doesn't seem to notice him at all. Face pale, Boyle exclaims, “I think he's having a panic attack!”

It hits Kevin like a baseball bat to the face—pushing Jake to eat may have upset him, but this reaction isn't over the meal. It triggered it, definitely, but Jake isn't panicking over chicken. No. This is about the rape. This is about the brutal victimization he's endured—something none of them can ever even begin to understand. 

They've attempted to force Jake into doing something he does not want to. It's not rape, not even on the same caliber, but it is a loss of agency. By pushing him, Kevin and Raymond have taken away Jake's ability to choose, and Kevin leaps to his feet, guilt electrocuting him. It sends his plate and glass flying, but Kevin doesn't care about the expensive china—the hell with it all! He rushes around the table, grabbing Boyle’s arm and squeezes it, his voice tight and anxious. “This isn't about the food… Raymond!”

Jake's body recoils and he screams, his legs thrashing out. “I'm sorry, please stop, I'm sorry, I won't do it again! Stop… STOP!” One arm flails, just barely missing Raymond's face as Jake tries to shove away from him, and when Kevin steps forward to help, the hand that was curled around Raymond's shirt joins the other, fingers splayed out like he's trying to grab onto whatever he can to pull himself away. And his eyes–! They are open, but Kevin knows the moment he sees those brown irises that Jake does not see them.  

Kevin clasps his hands over his mouth, horrified and near tears himself. This isn't just a panic attack—it's a fucking flashback. Jake isn't in their dining room; he is back in his apartment, forced onto his bed, handcuffed, and at his bastard of a father's mercy. 

He's being raped again. 

Raymond catches a wild wrist and pulls Jake in, holding him tighter. He's trying so hard to soothe him, to bring Jake out of this, but he's going about it the wrong way! Jake can't be constricted, not right now, not when the memory he's trapped in has him immobilized by handcuffs and his father's angry, heavy, naked body. He's going to make it worse! But before Kevin can say anything, before he can tell Raymond to let him go, Jake wretches himself away, shoving backward and slipping off of his chair. He lands hard on the floor, but it doesn't help—the harsh, visceral sobbing and heaving continues, and Kevin feels nauseous with his inability to help him.

He just wants to help him!

“Jake,” Raymond tries, kicking the chair away and dropping to his knees beside him. “Jake! Listen to me! Listen to my voice, son. It's over. You're safe. I promise— Kevin, I need help!”

It's the terrified, desperate, despondent tone of his husband's plea that finally snaps Kevin out of his stupor. He steps around Raymond and drops to the floor, hands hesitant as he reaches out and takes Jake into his arms. Gently. Loosely. Guiding him until Jake is curled up and leaning sideways against Kevin's chest, his head resting on Kevin's shoulder and collarbone. 

“I'm going to protect you,” Kevin whispers, his voice hoarse and wobbling from holding back his own sobs. “I promise. You're safe now—”

Boyle drops to one knee, the maroon blanket from the living room clenched in his fists. He opens his mouth to explain, but Kevin just nods at him. No words are needed—he did the right thing. With careful hands, Boyle drapes the blanket over Jake's shaking body and tucks it around his shoulders. The movement is enough to catch his attention, and finally, his eyes begin to focus. He looks at Kevin, then Boyle, and then Raymond, eyes clearing with every passing second. He's still gasping, but there's a clarity to his expression that was not there a moment ago.

“I got you, Jake,” Kevin murmurs as he unconsciously begins to rock back and forth with Jake still in his arms. “I got you.” Closing his eyes, Kevin lets the fingers of one hand run through Jake's hair, the tips lightly massaging his scalp. He still smells faintly of lavender from his bath the night before, and Kevin dips his head and gives himself a moment to take in the comforting scent. His own heart is beating too fast in his chest, and he needs to calm down, or he'll be no use to Jake at all. 

And that's just unacceptable.

Jake's hand lifts, fingers curling around Kevin's sweater, and he tilts his face inward, taking a heaping and gasping breath–in and out–and then a long draw through his nose. It takes a few minutes, but his breathing returns to normal. He's so warm in Kevin's arms, body soft and pliant after the tenseness of his flashback. It's enough to allow Kevin to unclench his own muscles—but with that comes the opening of the dam and the tears he had been holding back spill over. 

He's still rocking Jake, but at this point he's not entirely sure if it's to comfort Jake or to comfort himself. Fingers still in Jake's curls, Kevin gives into the urge to press his lips against Jake's temple, kissing his hairline so softly that he's barely brushed against his flushed skin. “You're okay. I got you.”

Relaxing back against the wall, Kevin looks up at the faces of Raymond and Boyle who sit in front of him, both with their own tears on their cheeks. What they've seen, what they've just helped Jake through is one of the most horrific things anyone can witness. 

And it seems… It seems so helpless now that they know just how profoundly Jake has been wounded by this. The smiling, happy, goofy friend everyone knew is gone, and he may never return. It's difficult to see how this will pan out; Jake is so broken he barely resembles the man any of them know. Kevin was wrong—he may not be spun glass, but even a vase can shatter into a million pieces. How are they going to glue him back together? Where do they even start?

Even after they've reassembled him, Kevin knows that he'll never be the same. The cracks will always be there—the rough edges of glue, the missing fragments that were too minuscule to pick up and replace. Tiny bits of Jake that will be lost forever, stolen by the lascivious hands of the man who created him. How do you piece together someone who's been broken by a father? How do you steer a young man who had once been so vibrant and full of life back onto the road and out of the dense marshes of trauma? 

Like driving into the sun, Kevin can only hope he's headed in the right direction. The glare is so blinding, he's afraid he'll lose sight of their destination; he's afraid he'll lose sight of Jake. 

He may even lose sight of himself. 

-

“When wounds are healed by love,
The scars are beautiful.”
― David Bowles