Chapter Text
While Larry goes about his boring life – eating and sleeping and working and melting a little in the Florida sun – Jake daydreams about going home.
Like, all the time.
At first, his homecoming is preceded by a high speed car chase (into oncoming traffic obviously) but this is Florida so pretty soon he realises that driving in flip-flops is the actual worst. After that he opts for a good old-fashioned shoot-out instead, complete with him in the NYPD windbreaker he’s starting to miss so damn much, his badge back round his neck where it belongs. Whatever the scenario, the epically dramatic stand-off always ends the same way – with Figgis caught and cuffed, conveniently lying face-down on the ground because Jake still hasn’t decided what kind of face to give the sonofabitch yet.
“It’s all I think about,” he tells Holt one night around a month after their arrival in Florida, when he’s had too much to drink and not enough to eat and he misses home so much it’s an actual physical ache under his ribs. “Literally the only thing.”
“All you think about is what Jimmy Figgis looks like?”
“No,” Jake says, idly waving a hand, “I mean yeah, I do think about that. Like, right now I’m working with a mixture of Jason Statham and Chris Noth but it definitely isn’t perfect–”
“I’m unfamiliar with those gentlemen.”
“Well whatever he looks like, you gotta admit you imagine catching him. C’mon, Captain–”
“Greg,” Holt reminds him sternly, even though they’re entirely alone and his new home has been swept for bugs three times already. “My name is–”
“Right, Greg, whatever. I mean, I do know that we won’t actually be the ones to bring in that hideous Statham-Noth hybrid, but you cannot tell me you don’t think about it.”
“I … do think about it.” Holt runs his thumb over the bare skin where his wedding ring should be, huffing a quiet sigh. “I think about it all the time, Larry. All the damn time.”
“Exactly,” Jake agrees quietly, taking a long draw from his beer. “Me too.”
Spoiler alert: he’s lying.
Catching Figgis does feature in his fantasies, along with the familiar snap of cuffs and the perfect recitation of his Miranda rights (Jake really misses being a cop, okay?) but it’s hardly all he thinks about. Most of his daydreams are something else entirely – sweeter, purer, and yes, better than even the most dramatic imaginary takedown in the history of law enforcement.
Most of his daydreams are Amy.
They are timbre of her voice after a long shift. The softness of her skin in the morning. The way her ponytail swings over her shoulder when she runs full tilt after a perp. All he thinks about is seeing her again. That’s all. Just seeing her again.
In a dramatically awesome way, obviously.
Like, usually he imagines running to her in slow motion across an airport runway, his sneakers bouncing up off the hard tarmac, no damn flip flops in sight. A kickass score – some booming Giacchino piece – is always playing as he runs, hitting the crescendo right when they finally collide. And when she’s in his arms at last, trembling and laughing, he picks her up, kisses her, and swings her around in one big haphazard circle. Someone usually applauds. Sometimes he cries. It’s always, always, perfect.
He wants it so badly – wants her so badly.
“I miss her,” Jake says after a moment, just as Holt stands and takes his empty beer from his numb hands. “Amy.” His voice catches on her name because he hasn’t said it out loud in weeks and that is all kinds of wrong. “All the time. That’s what I meant – that’s really all I think about–”
Holt stops on the threshold of his kitchen, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly.
“I just ... I wonder what she’s doing, y’know?” Jake blinks hard against the sudden burn behind his eyes. “I hate not knowing. Even stupid stuff, like what she ate for breakfast. I just–”
“I know,” Holt says quietly, from the doorway. “I also ... miss Kevin.” His voice wavers minutely, but for him that’s practically a breakdown. “Immensely.”
“I mean, I’m dealing,” Jake says quickly, because shit just got very real and he is definitely not ready to burst into tears in front of the Captain. Crying is strictly a solo activity, for when he’s home and it’s late and his bed’s too big, and he remembers that Amy’s not going to be there in the morning. “It’s not really all I think about. I mean – it’s – it’s probably like eighty percent thinking about Amy, twenty percent wondering what Figgis looks like slash imagining his eventual arrest.”
“Here.” Holt returns with a bottle of water in hand, tossing it to Jake. His expression hasn’t changed but somehow he still manages to look like he knows Jake’s lying. (Which he so is, by the way. The split is much closer to ninety-five percent Amy, five percent everything else.) “I think you’ve had enough for one night. Why don’t you go home, get some rest?”
“Yes, sir.” It slips out by mistake and Jake winces, expecting a stern reminder that Greg is not Larry’s Commanding Officer and does not require such a mode of address.
But Holt just nods and says, quietly, “Dismissed.”
--
After a couple more months in Florida, Jake is no closer to deciding on a suitable face for Jimmy Figgis. He’s definitely closer to losing it though, that’s for sure.
Since May he’s solved exactly three cases, namely: who was putting their garbage in Mrs Lieberman’s trash (the Andersons three doors down), whether Angie Taggart was really having an affair (actually no, that dude who turns up every afternoon really is just teaching her piano) and most recently, why his own lawn is dead and brown and gross (turns out you gotta water lawns, who knew?)
He hasn’t signed an arrest report in forever. Sometimes he writes out his real signature, just to make sure he still can, then burns the paper in his yard afterward. The stinging behind his eyes is just from the smoke, that’s all.
So yeah, he’s not doing too good.
In no particular order, he misses:
- Detective Amy Santiago, The First of Her Name, Queen of the Nine-Nine
- His own bed
- Amy’s bed
- All the sex he’s not having in his own bed right now (see also: Amy’s bed)
- The Nine-Nine and every single person in it. Even the perps in lockup, at this point
- His Mom
- His Dad’s ongoing attempts to reconnect. Maybe.
- Brooklyn (even the boiled garbage smell of the city in summertime)
- The Small Council - his epic, mostly Game of Thrones-related group chat with some of Amy’s brothers
- Pizza (which deserves it’s own placing on the list above all other takeout)
- Decent take out in general
- DETECTIVE
- AMY
- SANTIAGO
So … everything, basically.
It’s the not knowing that’s still, categorically, the worst thing ever. He spends whole nights awake, just wondering how Amy’s day went. If she remembered to eat dinner. If she smoked any of the emergency cigarettes hidden in the tampon box in her purse. If she’s lying awake right now, just like he is, staring at the empty side of the bed. Some nights, when he’s really scared or really tired or both, he lets himself imagine that she’s not. That maybe she’s realised she doesn’t miss him, doesn’t need him. He wouldn’t blame her. (She’s Orangina.)
On the plus side, literally the only thing on the plus side, his slo-mo airport reunion fantasy is off the charts awesome at this point. There are a hundred little variations – like him running with a limp, full Laura Dern in Jurassic Park style, because, cool, right? – but no matter what, the ending never changes. He always runs to her, always picks her up and always, always, spins her round until he’s not scared anymore because she’s laughing into his ear and he remembers that she loves him. So much.
Usually he imagines it all going down in the dead heat of summer, because that is right now and right now is exactly when he wants to go home. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly pessimistic, the sunshine turns cooler and there’s a crunch of fall leaves under his feet as he runs to her. He’s pretty sure airports don’t have fallen leaves lying around their runways but whatever, it’s his fantasy, okay? Airports also don’t have movie scores playing on loud speaker but he makes the rules and he says they do.
There’s only one time where he imagines rain, splashing huge puddles as he rushes towards her. Her dress is plastered to her skin and her hair’s in her eyes and he’s definitely fallen asleep in front of the TV because he’s saying, “I wrote you three hundred and sixty five letters!” He jolts awake on his couch then, the coldest he’s been since he set foot in Florida because three hundred and sixty five is a fucking year and he can’t even think about being away from her that long.
--
As it happens, he doesn’t even see fall in Florida because The Call (capital T, capital C because – so damn important) comes in on the first day of September.
Their Witness Protection handler, Agent Smith, meets them in an empty Travel Agent’s office and quietly tells them the plan. He also tells them please, no Matrix jokes, which is going to be tough.
But anyway, the plan – basically, it’s not all over yet. But it could be. Soon.
And they can help.
Jake’s leg bounces incessantly under the table as their handler outlines the proposal – starting with Jake and Holt’s location being leaked to a suspected mole in Major Crimes. If the squad is right, and Jake’s heart jumps into his throat at the realisation that this is the Nine-Nine’s play, not the FBI’s, then the news will reach Figgis and when he sends someone to pick them up, they’ll know the rest of their intel is good. It’s a domino rally, a series of if-thens that start with the guy their location will go to and ends with – actual daydream come true – Figgis in handcuffs.
“But if he decides to just send someone to kill us right here in Florida?” Holt asks, when they’ve gone over the idea.
“Then you die,” Agent Smith says, so deadpan at this point that it’s going to be close to impossible for Jake to abide by the no Matrix references rule.
“But everything we know about Figgis says he’d want to kill us himself,” Jake says, waving off the idea. “This is so beyond personal for him now.”
“That is true,” Holt agrees, “but if any of the other leads aren’t good–”
“Then Figgis gets away,” Smith says, staring at them impassively. “And, again, you probably die before we get to you.”
“But the squad think it’s the right play?” Jake asks because honestly, that’s all he needs.
“Yes,” Smith says, scanning for something in his notebook. “I believe the phrase I was given was … ‘a thousand pull-ups’.”
Jake gasps, turning to Holt. “They’re so much worse than push-ups! Captain, Rosa must be beyond sure about this–”
“Be that as it may, there are multiple risks at play here,” Smith interrupts, “and we should discuss them all in detail.”
After a ten minute rundown of all the ways this could go wrong (Jake kind of doesn’t hear anything after death but apparently there’s enough to fill ten minutes), he gets the hint – WITSEC really, really don’t like the idea.
The thing is – Jake really, really, doesn’t give a shit.
“Let’s do it.”
“The proposal does go against the entire ethos of their organisation,” Holt says thoughtfully, nodding at Smith. “Leaking the location of a subject in protective–”
“But they don’t know the squad like we do!” Jake says, turning right round in his chair to stare at Holt. “Captain, c’mon! You know they wouldn’t suggest this – Amy definitely wouldn’t let them suggest this – if they didn’t think we’d be–”
“You misunderstand me,” Holt interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’m completely onboard with the idea.”
“Think about – wait, you’re onboard?!”
“Of course. I was merely acknowledging Agent Smith’s difficulty.”
“We’re – we’re actually doing this?”
“I want to go home, Jake.”
And that’s that, really.
“You heard the Captain,” Jake says, turning back to Agent Smith. “We’re taking the red pill.”
--
“Ow.” Jake jolts into consciousness with a groan, and a curse, and a splitting headache. “This is really happening, huh?”
“Peralta.” Holt’s voice comes to him from nearby, low and worried. “Are you–”
“I’m fine,” Jake says, hauling himself upright and feeling the restraining pinch of zip ties at his hands and ankles. He blinks furiously against scratchy cotton of his blindfold, trying to sort his muddled memories into sense. “They got us, then.”
Waiting to be kidnapped had been, predictably, super weird. For three days he walked around on tenterhooks, definitely peeing less than usual because being abducted from the bathroom would categorically be the worst thing ever. Every night he told himself was definitely, positively, his last night. In Florida! Not like on Earth, or anything. He’s got total faith in the squad.
Then at long last, this afternoon there’d been a tinkling of broken glass and two extremely enormous guys in his living room – neck tattoos, wifebeaters on, the whole deal. Jake had to clamp his lips shut to stop from smiling because, finally. Still, he fought back a little since cops on the run from mass murderers generally do not love being kidnapped by scary hired goons, until a well placed blow to the side of his head put paid to his half-hearted resistance. And gifted him with this headache, apparently.
“Hey, are we moving or am I just super woozy right now?”
“We’re moving,” Holt replies in an undertone. “They loaded us right into a small truck directly from our houses. You’ve only been out approximately two minutes.”
“How many–”
“Just the two who picked us up, both up front in the driver’s cab.”
“Are you–”
“Blindfolded, too? Of course.”
“Then how d’you know there’s just two of them?”
“I counted only two distinct sets of footfalls.”
“Seriously? That is so cool.”
“Focus, Peralta.”
“Right, sorry. Okay. So … so far, so good.”
“So far, so good.”
Jake pushes out a breath. “Weird day, huh, Greg?”
“Extremely, Larry.”
--
They drive for a half hour or so, it’s kind of hard to tell in the total darkness. Jake spends the entire time focused on breathing because apparently it’s no longer an autonomic function, it takes actual effort now. So much fucking effort. Somewhere in New York, the squad – his friends, his best friend, the woman he loves more than anything in the world – are all right in the middle of a dangerous raid (hopefully of a cool shadowy abandoned warehouse). Anything could be happening. Anyone could be hurt.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Jake knows he should probably be at least a little scared about, y’know, dying in the back of this truck before the FBI gets to him. But there’s no room in his brain for that – he’s too consumed with thoughts of the squad, and of Amy.
God, Amy. He can’t lose her now. They’re so close to that epic slow motion reunion. And he really, really needs to tell her about Holt’s distinct footfall thing, she’ll be so freaking impressed.
He’s starting to wish that Figgis’ guys had gagged him so he could just let himself scream like he wants to when the truck stops abruptly and he realises he does have a little space in his brain to be scared of dying after all. A whole lot of space.
“Shit,” he says quietly, really hoping he’s not about to die because he’s given a lot of thought to his last words over the years and that would be a terrible choice. “Shit, shit, shit.”
He sucks in a couple of panicked breaths, listening to the sounds of a scuffle, then a few muffled shouts that die out suddenly. After a couple of minutes of terrifying silence, the door busts open and someone jumps inside, rough hands tugging away the blindfold from his eyes. Jake blinks furiously, his rescuer slash potential murderer nothing but a dark silhouette against the sunlight now streaming in through the open doors. Then his eyes adjust and he sees it – the gleam of a badge and the tall yellow letters on the guy’s vest. FBI.
“Oh thank God,” he mutters, sagging against Holt, who is breathing hard and fast beside him.
“Hey, fellas,” the agent says, flashing them a wide smile of perfect white teeth as he flips open a penknife to break their restraints. God, he’s cool. “You must be Holt and Peralta. I’m Special Agent Garcia.”
Soon they’re stumbling out of the truck onto a dusty side road and Jake spots their kidnappers being loaded into one of the unmarked SUVs arranged around them. He can’t help himself, he tips one of them a smug wink. It’s possible the guy just thinks he’s squinting in the dazzling sunlight. Whatever.
“Enjoy prison,” he calls brightly, before turning to Garcia. “So? D’you guys know what went down–”
“Figgis is in custody,” Garcia explains, grinning again. “Along with the rest of his operation.”
“And the squad?” Holt asks. “That is, my precinct – the Nine-Nine? They were one of the teams involved in–”
“All I know is Figgis is down, and there were no fatalities,” Garcia says, clapping Holt on the shoulder. “That’s all the detail I got right now.”
“No fatalities.” Jake sits down on the back of the open truck because his legs have apparently just lost the ability to support his weight. “That’s...”
“Good, Jake,” Holt fills in, sitting down beside him. “That’s good.”
“It’s not enough,” Jake says, unable to stop the hint of panic from creeping into his voice. “We need to get home. I need to know–”
“Agent,” Holt calls, beckoning their rescuer back over. “We really need to get back to New York.”
“‘Figured you might say that,” Garcia says, offering Jake a hand and pulling him back to his feet.
Jake rubs his wrists where the zip ties cut into the skin.“We’ve got no ID, so I don’t know how–”
“Buddy, we’re the FBI,” Garcia interrupts, waving a hand. “We got you covered.”
Jake gapes at him, excitement somehow squeezing in through all the blind panic. “You have your own plane?!”
“Nope,” Garcia says with a laugh, drawing an envelope out of a pocket in his vest. “But I do have two tickets to New York with your names on them – your real names.”
“When–”
“Flight leaves in an hour.” He nods to two agents in business suits that are not at all weather appropriate for this state. “These agents will escort you, they’re flying back to the New York Field Office.”
The agents step forward at once, in perfect sync.
“God, you guys are so cool.”
Holt shakes Garcia’s hand, flashing a rare smile. “What my colleague means to say is thank you.”
“Yes,” Jake says, when it’s his turn to shake Garcia’s hand. “Absolutely. Thank you so much. What’s your first name, by the way? Because I am legit gonna name my firstborn after you.”
“Actually it’s Larry.”
“Yep, nevermind.”
--
There’s a small section in the right hand corner of his boarding pass that says, quite plainly: PERALTA, JACOB. Jake cannot stop looking at it.
For the three hours and thirty seven interminable minutes of their flight, he stares at his name, gripping his armrest until his fingers ache and repeating the phrase no fatalities over and over in his head. By the time the Captain signals that they’re landing, it’s merged into some sort of strange Hodor-style jumble of nonsense, and Jake is freaking the hell out. It’s actually almost over. At last, at last, at last.
“Home,” Holt says simply, peering out of the tiny airplane window at the glowing lights below, getting larger every second.
“Yeah,” Jake says quietly, as they finally touch down. “Home.” The plane shudders, brakes screeching, and Jake finds he’s still trembling long after they come to a stop at the gate.
A skybridge goes out to their plane, totally shattering the basic premise of running to Amy across the runway tarmac. After all these months of imagining their reunion, Jake is only vaguely surprised to find he doesn’t actually care how it happens. He just wants her – safe and well and here, right now.
The second the Fasten Seatbelt light blinks off, he is out of his seat, Holt not far behind. Their FBI escorts move almost as quickly, escorting them off the plane ahead of everyone else. Jake doesn’t even spare a second to feel like the VIP that every other passenger seems to assume he is. Actually, it’s possible they think he’s getting taken away by Air Marshals. Whatever. They don’t matter.
The only person that matters is waiting in Arrivals right now. She has to be waiting in Arrivals right now. Jake pushes aside the alternatives that plagued him through the flight and focuses on that. Amy is here, and she is waiting for him, and in about two minutes time he’s going to see her again.
They hurry through the airport, flanked by their FBI escorts, and Jake just about stops himself from all out running when he finally sees the exit door. He tugs nervously at his rumpled t-shirt, wishing it wasn’t quite so sweaty and gross, but then the doors are sliding open and just like that, he doesn’t give a crap what he’s wearing, or that his hair’s a mess, or that he’s got fucking flip flops on. Well, he cares a little bit about the flip flops but – no time!
Jake steps into a mass of airport Sedan drivers and waiting families, scanning the crowd eagerly for a flash of shiny dark hair, a familiar smile. When he sees Charles, he stops so suddenly that Holt almost walks right into him.
He starts to smile, to raise his hand in a wave, and that’s when it hits him.
Charles is not smiling.
Because Amy is not here.
And it’s so cruel, it’s so unbelievably cruel because this isn’t his fantasy, it’s his worst nightmare and yet it’s happening in slow motion just the same. Jake knows he’s running towards Charles – knows he’s sprinting – but it doesn’t feel like it. The air feels solid around him, holding him back, and the only soundtrack is his heartbeat, thudding in his chest and roaring in his ears.
“Where is she?” He stutters to a stop in front of Charles, looking wildly around like maybe this is all some kind of bit, and Amy’s going to jump out any second. “Charles–”
“She’s gonna be okay,” Charles says quickly and Jake wants to scream that of course she’s gonna be okay, how could she be anything else, she can’t, she’s not – no fatalities.
“What–” He grabs the front of Boyle’s windbreaker, curling the plastic under his fists. “She’s–”
“She’s in the hospital,” Charles says, closing his hands over Jake’s and tugging them free from his jacket. “Hey, hey! Listen to me. She’s in the hospital and she’s gonna be okay.”
It doesn’t even register. “She’s – she’s hurt?”
“It’s just – she’s got bruised ribs, and she needed a couple of stitches, and her shoulder is–”
Just. It’s just all that. Jake snatches his hands free from Charles. “What the hell happened?”
“Boyle?” Holt says sharply as he catches up to them. “Where’s Santiago? We expected–”
“She’s in the hospital,” Jake repeats, turning to Holt like he’s somehow going to be able to fix this. “Oh God, she’s–”
“Boyle, tell us exactly what happened,” Holt says, raising a hand to hold off the approach of the FBI Agents from the plane. “Start at the beginning.”
“Figgis’ guys got spooked. We’re not – we don’t know why, exactly,” Boyle explains, eyes settling on Holt. Jake kind of wishes Charles would look at him and kind of wishes he wouldn’t, all at the same time. “It was nobody’s call – we all agreed we had to go in early – all the teams weren’t in position yet, but–”
“But you had no choice,” Holt supplies. “Go on.”
“There were more guys than we anticipated and the plans we had for the building were old – the layout was all wrong. We got ‘em all in the end but – but Amy and Rosa got cornered–”
“Rosa?” Jake’s genuinely not sure how he’s still standing. “Is she–”
“Totally fine! She’s totally fine, Jake. Few stitches, that’s all.”
“Shit.”
“She’s fine, really. She picked a chunk of glass right out of her arm herself. It was so gross.”
“And Amy–”
“She was covering Rosa and then – I don’t know exactly – Figgis tried to run, they fought and he knocked her down some stairs–”
“That sonofabitch–”
“She got up, Jake. She got right back up – caught up to Figgis – she was the one who got the cuffs on him.”
“She was?”
“Yeah,” Charles says, with a small smile. “She sure was.”
Jake opens his mouth to say something glib, something like, “That’s my girl!” but what comes out is a choked cry, caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
“Hey.” Charles grabs Jake’s forearm. “She’s okay, Jake.”
“Pretty sure I’m not,” Jake says, voice breaking. “Let’s go, I need–”
“Woah, hold on there.” The older of the dark-suited FBI Agents (who Jake has most definitely nicknamed K) steps forward, hands raised. “We need to debrief you and your Captain before we can release–”
Jake scoffs, already looking for the exit. “Yeah, that is not happening right now.”
“You can’t just leave,” the second agent (J, obviously) says, moving to block Jake’s path. “You’ve been in WITSEC since May–”
“Exactly! I haven’t seen my girlfriend in two months and forty three days–”
“Wouldn’t that actually be three months and–”
“Oh my god, so not the point!” Jake raises his fist to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles for a second. “The point is that the love of my life is in the hospital right now–”
“Wow, Jake–”
“Not now, Charles.”
“Sorry.”
“So if you think I’m gonna sit down and talk about my crappy Florida life with you for three hours while my real life is actually happening–”
“I understand that you’re anxious to see–”
“Agent, if I may,” Holt says, stepping in smoothly, “anxious is not the right word here.” He raises his hand to his chest. “I am anxious to see my husband. My husband who is not currently, to my knowledge, injured and in a hospital. Detective Peralta is not anxious, he is–”
“Straight up losing his shit,” Jake supplies. The hyperventilation he’s got going on is super inconvenient in that he kind of can’t breathe but totally helpful in proving his point.
“I was going to say incredibly distressed but yes, that is also an accurate assessment,” Holt says, nodding. “I am more than willing to attend my debriefing now, although I’d appreciate it if you would contact my husband so he can meet me there.”
“He’s already on his way to the FBI,” Boyle puts in, raising his hand like he’s in class. “We figured you’d be taken straight there. I just came here for Jake–”
“Because I have to go to the hospital,” Jake puts in, looking pleadingly towards the agents. “Right now.”
“If you’re willing to allow him to go now, I’m certain that Detective Peralta will be happy to attend a debrief tomorrow–”
“Cross my heart,” Jake says, actually doing the action. “No takebacks. C’mon, K, please.”
“Who’s K?”
“Oh – uh – not important.” He flashes the older agent a hopeful smile. “What is important is you letting me leave … because despite your frosty exterior you really do believe in love! Right?”
“Tomorrow,” K says, smiling even as he raises a warning finger at Jake. “A full debrief.”
“Yes! Can’t wait,” Jake says, already eyeing the exits. “Sounds like so much fun paperwork.”
“For the record, I really do hope she’s okay,” K says, shaking Jake’s hand. “Your girlfriend.”
“Her name is Amy,” he says, because it seems important somehow. Her name is Amy Santiago and his name is Jake Peralta and that matters. So damn much.
“Amy.” K smiles. “Go see her, then.”
“Right.” Jake sucks in a breath. “Yeah.” He shakes J’s hand as well and then turns to Holt, feeling suddenly adrift. After all these months with only each other for company, it feels strange not to know when he’ll see him again. “Captain–”
“Go,” Holt says simply. “Santiago’s waiting for you.” He smiles suddenly, just a quick flash of teeth. “And you know how she feels about punctuality.”
This time, Jake does manage to say, “That’s my girl!”
--