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Jake’s dozing on his bunk when the guard comes by and bangs at their cell door with his baton. He bolts upright, banging his head on Caleb’s bunk. But that’s nothing compared to the eye-watering spike of pain that shoots up his right side, where his ribs are still badly bruised.
“Peralta,” the guard says, as he unlocks the door, “you’ve got a visitor.”
Jake gets up gingerly, hand grabbing at his side, and slips on his shoes. He’d talked to Amy the night before and she’d apologized repeatedly for having to miss another visiting day. He understands – it’s a three-hour flight from Brooklyn, or almost a full day of driving, and he’d much rather she and the others spend their time working on getting him and Rosa out of prison than coming all the way here to keep him company for an hour.
Still, his connections to the outside world are keeping him sane. His daily phone calls with Amy help remind him that he has a life outside these horrible prison walls, but he misses beyond words the physical contact too – seeing, and touching, the people he loves.
“Are you sure?” Jake says to the guard, who’s swung the cell door open and is waving him out into the corridor.
The guard just glares at him and slaps his baton into his palm. It makes a loud thwack that startles Jake badly. The guards haven’t done anything to him since he got Wilson fired, but the threats in their gestures are impossible to miss.
“You want a visit or not?” the guard says.
He does. So badly. Jake steps outside his cell and follows the guard down the hall to the visiting room.
+++
Jake hasn’t been keeping track of the days all that closely, but he knows it’s been almost three months since he was locked up, based on the number of times he’s seen Amy or Charles. The weeks between their visits is how he perceives the passage of time. If it’s another visiting day, that means it’s been three weeks since he last saw Charles – three weeks since anyone hugged him or patted his arm, or looked at him with only warmth and kindness. Everything in prison is a threat. Every single look and touch and word has the potential for hurt. Jake tries not think about how that’s affecting his mind and body, but he knows it can’t be healthy to always be so scared.
He has no idea who to expect in the visiting room, but as soon as he sees Holt, he thinks: Of course. He can tell the grin on his face is brittle and more than a little manic as he strides across the room but he doesn’t care. He blinks back tears as he draws Holt into a hug, resting his chin on Holt’s shoulder. Holt doesn’t hesitate to wrap arms around him and hold him close, and the pressure makes his ribs throb in protest but Jake just clings to him even tighter. Holt smells so clean .
“No more touching!” one of the guards calls out, and Jake reluctantly lets go and backs up.
They take adjacent seats at a round table, and Jake feels suddenly nervous, hyperaware of how he must look – of the too-big prison uniform, of his unkempt beard and shaggy hair. He hasn’t looked in a mirror in a few days, but he imagines that the bruises on his face must be mottled ugly orange and purple by now, and the bags under his eyes would be impossible to miss. He hasn’t slept more than two or three hours at night since he was moved to gen pop.
He can feel Holt’s gaze on him as he looks down at the table. Jake clasps his hands in front of him, fingers twisting and squeezing together because he so badly wants to reach out and just- hold Holt’s hand or grab onto his forearm or something equally embarrassing.
“How are you?” Holt’s voice is low, not quite a whisper but meant only for Jake.
Jake shrugs and glances up at him. His throat feels tight, and he swallows hard before answering. “I’m all right. Things are, well they’re tense, but I’m okay.”
He doesn’t want to go into details, can’t really. Jake’s known Holt a long time now, he may know him better than anyone in the NYPD. He can tell by the slow blinks, by the particular creases between his brows, that Holt is worried. And Jake’s at once grateful and troubled by that concern.
Part of him is immensely comforted, because everything about Holt feels safe and gentle and kind, and so fucking decent. But it’s been almost three months and another part of Jake feels untouchable, unworthy – like he’s already said and done too many things that are questionable, that make him wonder who he really is. Jake’s joined a gang. He’s picked fights with a guard (which was appallingly easy to do, and more a reflection on the guard than Jake, but still). He’s made trades with a known drug dealer. He calls his girlfriend every night on a contraband phone. He tried to join ISIS and was rejected . His best friend is a cannibal, for fuck’s sake.
“Jake?” Holt says, and Jake shakes himself from the spiral.
“Have you seen Rosa?” Jake says, before Holt can ask him anything. “Is she okay?”
“Yes, she’s doing as well as can be expected,” Holt says. He tells Jake about the list of chores she gave to Holt and Terry, how she was messing with them all along because she just wanted to feel normal.
“I can’t believe you fell for the cable bit,” Jake says. “It took me three months to cancel my cable when I moved in with Amy.”
Just saying her name makes his eyes sting with tears again, and Jake stares back at his hands, willing himself back under control. God, he misses her so much. It’s a physical pain in his chest and his stomach. He doesn’t know what to do with it, how to live with it.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Holt says. He reaches across the table and lays one palm flat over Jake’s clasped hands. “Any chores? Does your car need an oil change? Does your gym membership need to be put on hold?”
Jake laughs, and it’s kind of watery sounding but it feels good. “I appreciate that you assume I have a gym membership, sir. But no.” Jake clears his throat, and focuses on Holt’s hand on his own. “I, uh, there’s one thing.”
“Anything,” Holt says.
“Can you just- can you look out for Amy?” Jake looks up at him, and he knows he’s a breath away from crying but this is important, so he pushes on. “This is hard for her, and I know she’s under so much stress, and she’s working too much and not getting enough sleep. I- I’m worried.”
It’s on Jake’s mind to say more: that he loves her so much and that she doesn’t deserve this, that he’ll understand if it’s too much for her, that it’s okay if she doesn’t ever visit again. But he knows that his head’s not in a good place, that his darkest thoughts aren’t necessarily real. So he swallows the rest, lets those words sit in his aching chest and belly.
“Of course,” Holt says. He squeezes Jake’s hand and lets go. “Amy is doing okay, Jake. She only cares about getting you home safely. You and Rosa.”
Jake nods and lets something that feels like relief blossom across his shoulders. He trusts Holt so implicitly that just this – just, “Amy is okay” – feels like some huge weight has been lifted. He lets his head drop a little, lets himself smile.
“Jake,” Holt says – and even that feels so safe, hearing his own name. “Jake,” he says again, and Jake shakes himself, realizes he was drifting a little.
“Yeah?”
Holt’s eyes are roving over his face, taking in the bruises and the scratches and the sleep deprivation and the stress. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can talk to the warden, see about getting you put back into protective custody.”
Jake’s shaking his head even as he thinks over the offer. He’s certain the warden wouldn’t listen, probably wouldn’t even take the call. He’d rather Holt focus on getting him out than on making things more comfortable inside.
“It’s under control, sir,” he says.
He doesn’t say, Please just get me home. But when Holt leans toward him and cups a hand over the back of Jake’s neck, his palm warm and strong, Jake looks up into his face and he sees a promise. Holt doesn’t say, Keep yourself safe. He doesn’t say, We’re coming for you. But Jake hears it anyway.