Chapter Text
Jake lets the drapes fall back over the window of the swanky motel and steps away.
Three days ago, Benjamin Bloomfield and his newly wed Mia checked in the forty-bucks-a-night motel for their honeymoon. They met at work back in Miami where he’s an accountant and she’s in HR. It was love at first sight. Benny-boy wanted to take Mia somewhere exciting to commemorate the start of their rest of their lives, and what’s more exciting than New York City?
In reality, they got a few anonymous tips to set up a sting for a woman who lures men into rooms for some kinky bondage sex, only to rob them and bolt. There are a small handful of uniforms undercover throughout the motel while their bait (Boyle) is in the bar across the road from here. He can hear Boyle talking about fermentation through the earpieces he and Amy are wearing.
Jake jumps onto the queen-sized bed and spreads himself wide with his legs stretched out and hands clasped behind his head. “We should order some food. Get one of the uniforms dressed as a maid to get deliver it to us.”
Amy’s on chair on the other side of the room on her laptop. If it were anyone but Amy, he would think there was porn on there from the way she’s concentrating so hard on the screen.
When she doesn’t answer, Jake abandons his post against the headboard and crawls to the end of the bed to poke her on the knee. “What’cha lookin’ at?”
“Nothing!” She looks up at him from the screen before discomfort floods her expression and she quickly returns her gaze to the laptop.
He lifts a brow in response. She’s been acting a little strange all day. At first he thought it was because the case made her feel uncomfortable (he might’ve made a joke about that), but then when he came back from the men’s room before they had to leave for the sting, he caught her smiling and laughing with Savant. As soon as she saw him, though, the smile dropped from face as her laughter died on her lips, down-turning the corners. She didn’t speak the whole ride here.
Jake shifts so his sock-covered feet (left is Bugs Bunny and right is blue and red stripes) are on the dark carpet, effectively bring himself closer to her. He gently nudges her knee with his own. “Hey,” he says softly. “Are you okay? Did I do something?”
Surprise shifts her features up and her mouth opens silently. A crease slowly pushes into her left brow and then her gaze shifts down to where their knees are touching. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“C’mon, you’ve been acting weird around me all day.”
“You didn’t…” She clears her throat and blinks, like, a lot. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Okay, then was it what I said earlier? Because I was joking, you know that.” His eyes are drawn to her mouth when she sucks in her bottom lip and chews on it as she shakes her head. He tries to think back to this morning and what shade of lipstick it was when he remembers that she didn’t have on any lipstick. And her hair looked a little unruly before she combed it back into a tight bun at her desk. Jake seriously worries that he did something last night, until he remembers that he wasn’t there for her to be weird around him today. “Ames.”
She shuts her laptop and places it beside the chair she’s sitting on. “Promise not to laugh,” she says heatedly, warm-turned-fiery eyes trained on him.
Dude, he’s kinda turned on right now.
“Promise,” she repeats, pointing at him like his mother used to when he was in trouble.
Her finger drawers closer to his face and he almost yelps. “Promise!”
The burst of energy dies and she slumps. “I had a… sereum-an-ooh.”
“What,” he deadpans.
She huffs and mumbles gibberish again.
“Speak up, I can’t—”
“I had a sex dream about you!” Her eyes widen and she slaps her hands over her mouth.
Jake rears his head back and he feels his mouth dropping open even as it stretches into a smile. Okay, now he’s really turned on right now. And he can’t help it, a bubble of a laugh pops from his throat and then he erupts into a stream of laughter.
He can see through teary eyes that her embarrassment is melting as her face heats up with indignation, but he can’t stop. He’s starting to feel a six-pack growing and it hurts like hell.
It’s so, so worth it.
It takes him forever and a year to get his laughing under control, and by the time he’s spilling sporadic chuckles, his cheeks are burning from smiling so wide and for so long and his stomach’s cramping. “Oh wow,” he sighs breathlessly. He looks over and her hands are fists in her lap and her mouth scrunches up, pushing at her nose and creating a little crease between her eyes.
She looks part-way between pouty and mad and it makes him want to pinch her cheek or tell her how cute she looks or something crazy like that.
“You promised.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry.” He drops his head, because he knows if he sees her face he’ll just burst into another fit of laughter, and finds that his hands are clasping her left knee. “Well,” he mutters, “look at that.” When he lifts his head again, she’s staring at his hands. He can’t see much of her face, but his eyes zero in on the slight movement of her jaw from the side.
She inhales deeply and he feels her hot, wet breath against his hands as she exhales. A warm hand covers his and Jake swears his heart’s getting a little too excited there. “Jake, I—”
“I don’t have a condom,” Boyle suddenly yelps, AKA his signal.
Adrenaline injects into his system and Jake immediately dives across the bed to the radio, but bounces off before he can grab it.
He groans as a shooting pain jabs into his back as Amy stands above him, grabs the radio and yells into it, “Go, go!”
~&~
Jake clears his throat nervously, smoothes down his nice blue button down shirt (untucked because he doesn’t want to wrinkle it) under his blazer and lifts a hand to knock on Amy’s door.
After the almost-something there’s been this weird sexual tension between him and Amy that apparently drove Gina crazy. She locked them in one of the interrogation rooms because their “smiling face with heart-shaped eyes” made her sick, and she wouldn’t let them out until they’re “kissing face with closed eyes and man and woman holding hands”.
Nothing like that happened.
(But not for the lack of trying on his end. He made the mistake of bringing up her sex dream about him again and she would have punched him in the shoulder if it weren’t for his cat-like reflexes.)
For the first ten minutes they were busy yelling at Gina to let them out, but when it became clear she wasn’t going to—or got bored and left them—they started talking. About anything but the weird vibe between them for the past week.
Until he basically went to heck with it and gave it to her straight: “I like you and sometimes have sex dreams about you too—Ow! Amy, I want to take you out. For real, this time.”
When she hesitated for a moment he seriously thought he messed everything up. The knot in his stomach felt tighter than when he first told her how he felt outside the precinct the night he left, and this time it was like his heart was tangled in the mess.
Then she said the two greatest words in the history of words: “Alright, fine.”
Okay, so it wasn’t what she said or the way she said it; a little grudgingly, but he could see she was hiding a smile as she turned away from him.
Her front door opens and Amy smiles at him a little shyly. “Hey.”
“Whoa-ey!” He clears his throat and tries again several decibels lower, “Hi. You look nice.”
“Oh.” She bends forward a little to take in her outfit, her soft locks tumbling down her shoulders. She’s wearing a lace-y chocolate-coloured dress with a white belt wrapped snuggly around her waist, and red heels that match her purse and lipstick. “Thanks. Is this okay? I don’t know what we’re doing or if there’s going to be kids there.”
“I’ll have you know we’re going to a very nice restaurant. But, yes, there may be a kid or four. Badolato's doesn’t discriminate against age.” He holds out a hand under the pretense of helping her down the few steps to the footpath, closing his fingers around her smaller warm ones.
~&~
Throughout dinner the ten year old boy at the table over keeps flicking huge breadstick crumbs at them while his mother is preoccupied with the baby pushing mashed potatoes everywhere on her face but in her mouth. Amy laughs when the kid gets it onto Jake’s plate of spaghetti and he doesn’t tell her when one lands in her hair.
(She comes back from the bathroom at the end of the meal and throws it at him.)
Jake offers his arm after he pays for their dinner and they exit Badolato’s. The night’s not cool, but not warm either, and it’s in a nice part of Brooklyn where it’s not too crowded or noisy. He leads them to the direction of the park.
“You look really good,” he tells her because he can’t remember if he did already.
She smiles and drags her gaze down his frame. “You look good too. What are those, $50 jeans?”
Jake grins sloppily. “59.99. Totally worth it too ’cause they make my butt look super.”
She tugs on his arm and they stop walking. “Lemme see.”
He spins around, lifting the bottom of his blazer and twists his upper body to watch her check him out.
Laughing, she nods. “Nice.”
They pass an ice cream stand and he gets two chocolate scoops with chocolate syrup and crushed Oreos on a waffle cone. Amy gets her boring one scoop of vanilla and sprinkles in a cup. They sit on a bench just outside the park that’s showing some kind of movie with Ryan Gosling. When she gets cold, he lets her borrow his blazer. Then when he gets cold, he snuggles into her side, head on her shoulder.
He’s never felt so safe.
~&~
Jake sits straighter in the booth and waves wildly to get Amy’s attention. She looks around iHop and a slight smile lights up her features when she spots him.
“Good morning,” she greets when she’s close enough, and he slips out to stand.
“Mornin’.” He leans forward to kiss her cheek before they slide in the booth on opposite sides. He picks up the menu and takes a sip of his mug of International House Roast ordered along with her coffee (with milk). “So I’m thinkin’ Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity Pancakes. Mostly because it’s fun to say. Rooty Toot—”
“Jake,” Amy interrupts. She makes a face that either means I think I just swallowed a bug or Well, what is it?
He goes for a more neutral response. “What?”
“You called me at the butt crack of dawn this morning to meet you here because it’s important.” She’s exaggerating; he called her at 7:45AM. Though it's a little past eight now, so if she rushed, she doesn’t look like she did. Her hair is neatly tieback in a ponytail and she's wearing a nice grey knit sweater. He spotted a pair of black yoga pants that make her legs look good and some uggs on her feet. The outfit makes her look soft and cosy.
“Yeah,” he says on a sharp breath. “Breakfast.” He crinkles his eyebrows and shakes his head, turning his hands palm up on the table. Duh.
“Are you kidding me? Sundays are sleep in days.” She reaches for her mug of coffee with grumpy face. Amy’s ‘Sleep In Sundays’ means she wakes up at eight instead of seven; only fifteen minutes before he called her this morning. He doesn’t know why she’s in such a tizzy.
“Aw, come on. Don’t you want to spend time with your lover?”
“Ew,” Amy cringes after swallowing her coffee and for a moment he thinks it’s because he got the coffee wrong, but then she says, “I told you not to call yourself that.”
“Right, right. Main squeeze?” At her shake of the head, Jake continues on, “Boy toy, inamorato, boo? Pick one and I’m yours.”
“How about sticking to the traditional labels, boyfriend?”
He rolls his eyes, but inside he’s feeling fuzzy bunnies scampering down his chest at the title. “Fine, if you want to be boring about it.” Raising his eyebrows, he adds hopefully, “Chunky monkey?”
“No. Wait, are you suggesting I call you that or you call me that?”
“It’s a mutual pet name, dearest.”
“Then no.”
The waitress appears to take their order, and Amy leans forward, cupping her mug in her hands in the middle of the table as she contemplates what to get on the side of her Garden Omelette.
He flicks her fingers. “Get the hash browns.”
She untangles her fingers from the mug and tries to flick him back, but he catches them before she can. “I don’t want the hash brows; order them yourself.”
“I’ll let you have some of my peaches.”
“Fine. But you can’t lick the whipped cream off of them first.” She turns to the waitress standing there with a patient smile. “I’ll get the Garden Omelette with a side of hash browns.” Amy rolls her eyes and gestures to Jake with her free hand. “Do you see what I have to deal with every day?” she asks, tone so light he could smear it over the whipped cream they’re having.
He squeezes her hand, pretending it’s in retaliation.
“I think you guys are cute,” the waitress responds before there's a shout from the kitchen and her attention shifts and she scurries off with an alarmed expression.
“Did you hear that, she thinks I’m cute.” Jake puffs out his chest.
She rolls her eyes—if she does that any more today they’re going to fall right out—and takes a sip from her mug. “This is nice,” she admits, glancing around the restaurant. It’s littered with people; the cacophony of chattering, silverware against plates and random bursts of sounds from kids fill their booth bubble. “Even though I had to get up early on Sleep In Sundays.”
Grinning, he jokes, “We should come here every Sunday.”
Amy tilts her head, like she’s actually contemplating it, and wiggles her fingers around until they’re intertwined with his. “Maybe we should.”
When he squeezes her hand this time, it’s because she’s being cute and he wants her closer.
~&~
Jake sneaks past the nurses’ station on the fifth floor, three minutes after hospital visiting hours are over. He quickly and quietly opens the door to Amy’s room just enough for him to slip through before shutting it with a slight click.
Earlier today, Amy was shot at while she was on door duty with Rosa. He was right in the middle of interrogating a clown when Boyle told him. He rushed to the hospital, guilt seeping out of his pores in the form of sweat over not being there with her. He was in charge of the case and made Rosa go with her because he hates door duty.
She had fallen chasing their suspect and fractured her arm and received a grade two concussion—whatever that means. He only had two minutes with her before a doctor came in, did some tests and cleared her for surgery. Then he spent four hours stewing in a puddle of stress, worry and guilt.
By the time she got out of surgery, everyone was there. Boyle never left his side, which was both sweet and annoying. He kept asking Jake if he wanted any of his “delicious warm bird’s nest soup”.
She was still unconscious from the anaesthesia, but the doctor’s confident that she’s doing well. They were only allowed in two at a time and Jake went in last by himself, but only got five short minutes with her to apologise and listen to her heart monitor beep back at him before the nurse came in and told them that visiting hours were over, which was so unfair.
They made him leave, and he distracted himself with showering off the day, eating leftover compound chicken noodle for dinner and even tried concentrating on the case. He lasted two hours before he drove back.
Jake tiptoes to the bed, the only source of light to guide his movement is the table lamp further in the room. It casts a warm glow on the ugly painting of a watering can above it and the light slowly fades out into the room, overwhelmed by the darkness.
Taking a seat on the chair beside her, he carefully reaches for her right hand, chewing his bottom lip as he eyes the cast her left arm’s encased in. The heart monitor beside him beeps steadily, mockingly—like a personalised and high-pitched fuck… you… fuck... you…
He sighs loudly, the sound driving him insane. “Amy, wake up,” he murmurs softly. He leans over and rests his elbows on the edge of the bed, bringing his other hand to clasp her hand as well. Lifting it up to his mouth, he presses a light kiss to the back of her palm.
The door clicks open behind him and Jake considers diving over the bed to the other side for a split second, but the chance of landing on Amy and hurting her stops him. He’s caught half standing, one hand held up in resignation, the other loosely wrapped around Amy’s. He looks over his shoulder at the nurse’s sympathetic and weary expression.
“Sir—”
Jake grips Amy’s limp hand tighter. “She’s my wife.”
“We’ve been dating for two months,” Amy tattles, voice scratchy (and a little sexy).
He whips his head around, relief flooding his system, and drags himself down to the edge of his seat, closer to her. “You’re awake,” he says on a breath and it comes out so reverently it's almost like a prayer of gratitude to the dudes up there he had pleaded with for five hours. “Say something else.”
She blinks heavily. “Your shirt is on inside out.”
He laughs in delight, but it’s short-lived when she pulls a face; her expression taken over with pain. She pulls her hand away from his to clasp the cast around her forearm. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters through a heavy weight on his chest.
“Shut up, Peralta,” she tells him softly. “This wasn’t your fault.”
The nurse steps up to Amy on her other side and starts doing her nurse-ly duties. “I was going to ask you if you would like a blanket for the night,” she drolls. “You’re allowed to stay, if that’s what Miss. Santiago would like.”
“Oh.” Well now I feel dumb. He looks over at Amy, who’s half-smiling.
“He can stay, I guess.” She tries for a nonchalant shrug with her good shoulder.
Jake sits back and watches Amy speak quietly with the nurse. When she finally leaves, after retrieving a blanket from the closet in the corner of the room, Amy slowly shifts over and pats the space beside her.
“I’m the small spoon.”
Jake starts to protest, but when she shifts her arm to rest on her stomach and winces, it dies in his throat. “Fine.”
(He wakes up the next morning to Amy digging a finger into his belly button and her soft brown eyes crinkled with a smile. She tells him that he should go home, but carefully snuggles further into him. He thinks that maybe he wants to wake up like this every morning.)