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Amy’s knee is throbbing and it feels hot and swollen under her jeans as she finally hobbles up the stairs to their apartment, but she doesn’t mind. The endorphins are still washing over her from their big win. They did it. They got their white whale.
She struggles a little with the front door, trying to balance on one crutch and not drop her bag with the giant week-of-wedding binder. She’s slotting the key in place when she realizes the door is already unlocked, and she pushes on in with a grateful sigh.
The apartment smells delicious – like garlic and onion and fresh chopped cilantro, and she realizes Jake must be cooking. He doesn’t cook often but he has a surprisingly good head for it when he’s in the mood. Amy sets her work bag on the entry-way table and pulls out the wedding binder that Jake had left at the precinct, then limps into the living room to drop it on the coffee table. They can study it over dinner.
Jake’s back is to her while he works, and he’s listening to some pop song she doesn’t recognize. He’s dancing a little and humming along in that way that means he doesn’t quite know the words but can’t resist singing. There’s a pan sizzling beside him on the stove, and another pot steaming, and she thinks he’s probably making her mom’s Cuban black beans, which has become a favorite of them both since Jake stole the recipe out of Camila’s files a few months ago. Amy sets aside her crutch and leans her elbows on the counter and just watches him for a while.
This man will be her husband in a week. Never in her life has a thought been so equally thrilling and calming. Because for all that Jake still makes her blood rush and her heart race, he also fills her with such a gentle, peaceful warmth that it’s as though she will never be scared or unhappy again. Which is, of course, ridiculous. But the heart feels what it feels, Amy thinks with a small, tender smile.
Jake must sense her presence because he turns suddenly to look over his shoulder, and his grin lights up his face.
“You’re home!”
“I am,” she says.
He laughs and turns fully around so he can lean over the counter and kiss her. It’s quick, but Jake draws a hand up to her cheek and slides his thumb along her jaw, and something about the gesture gives her chills.
“I missed you,” he says, softly.
Amy opens her mouth to say she missed him too – though honestly, she didn’t really, she was a little preoccupied – but Jake glances to the side and his eyes widen in concern, and she frowns instead.
Jake says, “Why is there a crutch in our living room?”
“Oh that,” Amy says.
“Oh that?” Jake steps around the counter and looks her up and down. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened? Why didn’t you call?”
Amy laughs a little and holds up a hand. “I’m fine,” she says. “It’s just a dislocated knee.”
“What? That sounds horrible,” Jake says, and she notices that his face has gone pale. He’s never handled other people’s injuries very well.
“It’s not a big deal, I promise,” Amy says. She ducks down her head a little to catch his eye. “Rosa slipped it back in place and she says it’ll be totally fine in a few weeks.”
“The wedding is in a week!”
“And-” Amy says, pressing her hand to his chest now, “Rosa says I’ll be able to walk on it for the wedding and probably even dance as long as I wear a brace.”
“Oh, and suddenly Rosa knows everything about dislocated knees? Did you see a doctor?”
“Actually, Rosa did three years of medical school. Did you know that?” Amy says.
“Maybe,” Jake says. “I think she tells me things sometimes because she knows I’ll never remember. Look, you at least need to be sitting down and elevating your leg.”
Jake doesn’t wait for her to reply, just scoops her up into his arms. Amy squeals – Jake is not a picker-upper and she’s not sure she quite trusts his technique – and throws her arms around his neck to hold on tight. But he’s got a secure hold, and he’s mindful of her knee, cradling the bad leg with a firm but careful grip. He carries her to the sofa and lowers her gently, and then slips a throw pillow under her knee.
“Don’t move,” he says, lifting a finger and then darting back to the kitchen. From her spot she sees him quickly stir something on the stove, then rummage through the freezer. He returns to her wrapping a bag of frozen peas in a towel, which he sets on top of her leg. It’s cool but not too cold through the denim, and Amy sighs in relief.
“Better?” Jake says.
Amy leans back into the sofa cushions and nods. “Much.”
Jake kisses the top of her head, and then he turns behind him to flip open the wedding binder on the coffee table. He unclasps the rings and pulls out a sheaf of papers that he hands over to her. Amy scans through the pages: It’s the wedding prep chores he was working on all day.
“Something to do while I finish dinner,” he says. “I know how you like to double-check my work.”
“Jake, I don’t need to second-guess every decision you make. This is our wedding, not mine.”
“Sure, babe,” Jake says with a grin. He pulls her favorite red pen out of his shirt pocket and passes it to her. “Just remember we have a tight budget and ‘desert whimsy’ is not a terrible napkin for the price.”
Amy rolls her eyes, but she uncaps the pen with her teeth as he returns to the kitchen. She runs a finger down the main list of tasks and is shocked to see every box marked – all 143 of them. Then she flips through the pages to follow up on his decisions and- they’re solid. She makes a note to swap mini lamb shanks for the tiny tuna tacos, and she’s not convinced that the crimping on the “desert whimsy” napkins isn’t disgusting. But he’s right about rainbow sprinkles and dahlias and avalon font for their place cards, and pretty much everything else.
When Jake returns with two steaming bowls of black beans over rice, Amy tucks the papers back inside the wedding binder, and she lets Jake help her move her leg to the coffee table instead so they can sit side by side.
“I can’t believe you did it,” Amy says, as Jake hands her a bowl. “You did an entire week’s worth of wedding prep in a day.”
“I had help,” Jake says. “Sarge taught me how to use my groom gut, and Hitchcock and Scully put together the favors.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” Amy says, but she’s cheerful about it. She takes a big bite of beans and moans – they taste like all of the best parts of her childhood. “Did you say groom gut?”
Jake’s face lights up, and he tells her about putting aside his stress and his fear and getting the job done, and then about passing his first big husband test and doing anything to make her happy and how he’s going to take her name and also, he broke two windows in Terry’s car but insurance should cover it.
He’s breathless and Amy’s confused when he finally stops talking, and Amy just grabs hold of the front of his shirt and pulls him to her for a long kiss.
“I’m going to marry you, Jake Peralta,” she says when they break. “I love you.”
He smiles and says, “I love you so much,” and kisses her again.
+++
After dinner she tells him about catching Sergio Mindar, and he’s sufficiently impressed by her dive off the second floor balcony, and also her naming of the Sleuth Sisters.
“I wish I could be a Sleuth Sister,” he says, but there’s no actual bitterness.
“Sorry, babe,” she says. “Just for us girls.”
It’s true, of course. And she’s so glad for this bond with Rosa, which now that she thinks about it has been a slow burn, not totally unlike her love for Jake. She’s so lucky to have these people – these partners – in her life.
Maybe she and Jake need a clever name too. Jake would like it, for sure. He and Charles have been the Night Boys, the Police Pals, the Atlantic City Dudes Club – she doesn’t even know all the names. He and Gina were the Dope Denim Crew once upon a time. Amy assumes he’s got some name for his partnership with Rosa, and probably Terry too. Jake and Holt are, of course, just father and son (which makes her feel both very fond of both of them, and very jealous).
For a long time she and Jake were Santiago and Peralta, and she thinks it’s true, he probably wouldn’t mind taking each other’s names. Charles has been trying to push Peraltiago on them ever since they got engaged, though it’s unclear if that’s just a nickname or if he wants them to make it legal.
Amy looks up at Jake, from where she’s tucked herself into his side. He’s twirling a strand of her hair between his fingers and leafing through the wedding binder that he’s pulled into his lap. His hair is a little wild from cooking over a hot stove, and she can tell from the way he’s blinking, slow and heavy, that he’s tired.
They’ve been partners and best friends and lovers, and in a few days they’ll be husband and wife. They don’t need a clever name, she thinks. She likes this best. Just Jake and Amy.