Chapter Text
He dives in headfirst, as always.
Jake Peralta thrives on impulse, translating the thready jolt of his heartbeat into a need, solid and secure before him. The only emotions worth considering are instincts. Forget overthinking, everything else be damned. Jake’s sure of what he wants, and even more so of how to achieve it. He’ll follow this newly-found lucky streak, he promises himself. He can trace its edge like a one-lane road until it trails away beneath him.
That’s what he used to think, at least.
A few months ago, Jake met someone who’s finally thrown him off his game. Life hasn’t exactly been the same since she left a lipstick stain, berry-pink, on his cheek. Jake still remembers the tender look on Amy’s face as she wiped the mark away with her thumb.
“Better now?” Amy’d asked, her voice a touch innocent as she drew her hand away to straighten the clasp of her pearl necklace.
Jake could only nod.
That’s what happens when you let someone else become the best part of your day, Jake learned. You have to surrender some of that control. You lose your impulse, in fact.
This is one situation where Jake definitely, definitely can’t dive in headfirst.
Jake’s life changes on a miserable Thursday.
There are ten case files laid out over his desk, all dull enough to put him to sleep. Just this morning, he’d received a new assignment, which had turned out to be another B&E. Jake’s only been at the Nine-Nine for about a year, yet he’s used to a better caseload than this. Just last month, he was secondary on a serial arson case that ended with not one, but two separate arrests. (Not to brag, of course. Just stating the facts.)
Over Jake’s shoulder, his sergeant rolls his eyes. Terry Jeffords knows his brightest detective is capable of doing more than doodling airplanes on the latest CI report they’ve received. It concerns an underground poker tournament, which is allegedly connected to a smuggling operation. With any luck, this report could blow the Iannucci conspiracy wide open.
Terry clears his throat. Jake jerks his head backward, one hand smudging the wing of a pencil-sketch Boeing on the page.
“Peralta, the captain wants to see you at the end of the day.”
Jake gives a thumbs-up with a gritted smile on the side. He definitely doesn’t spend the next four hours and thirty-six minutes waiting for work to finish, and in no way does he cast casual glances back to the captain’s office. (See, that’d be anxious behavior, which he’s trying to self-manage with deep breaths and calm thinking. It’s his newest assignment from his therapist.)
The rest of the day carries on, time heavy and cumbersome as the clock ticks. A few of the officers glare at Jake during their shared lunch break, clearly oblivious to the foot-tapping racket he’s causing. After issuing a couple DUIs and passing eight misfiled traffic tickets onto the patrol officers 一 it’s been a long, sleep-deprived week for the precinct 一 five o’clock finally draws near.
Jake sees the captain at once, one-on-one. They toss around the key phrases of small talk until Holt tires of it. He begins to speak of card games gone wrong, of blood staining warehouse floors and walls a dingy brown. After a thorough description of each, Holt ties up the last two points neatly.
“The NYPD is preparing to send a detective into the Iannucci family’s operation. It’ll be a cautious undertaking.”
The captain gives a pause of reflection, then carries on. Whether it’s for Peralta’s sake or his own is undecided. Holt coughs, his chosen transition from point to point when none else presents itself.
“If you accept, you’ll need to embed yourself within the family as a regular gambler with an interest in bookkeeping.”
Jake takes a pause, then sits up straighter. “Why me?”
Holt chuckles faintly. It seems he won’t allow a smile to appear on his blank slate of a face. “A CI we’ve been working with suggested it. They’d been reading cases for a while, and recognized your badge number appearing again and again on some of your solves. You’ve been personally selected for your bravado and your record. Plus, you fit the role of a gambling addict quite well. Both my words and theirs.”
Jake pinches his mouth into a grimace. “Thanks?”
“This won’t come easily, detective. It may cost you months with the Iannuccis, or even years if need be.” The captain draws out the last few words of his sentence, as if unbelieving that Jake understands the length of a year.
Jake gulps. The risks of Holt’s proposal are clear.
“But it’ll be worth it?”
Jake’s rickety chair is uneven on the tile, and it wobbles between two distances as he waits for a reply.
After a pause, Holt clears his throat again. “We anticipate so. No guarantees, unfortunately.”
“Understood, sir.”
So, without another lost moment, caught in the moments before and after a blink, Jake Peralta agrees to follow up on CI #10’s report. Beginning next week, he’ll be investigating the Iannucci family with intent to uncover more about their smuggling ring.
Amy Santiago isn’t an Iannucci, but she might as well be. They’re like family to her. At the age of twelve, she’d chosen her last name out of a picture book, and it’d stuck. So she trundles on, a daughter claimed by joy and not by blood. She’s long since given up on the untouchable dream of parents. There are better uses for her time.
Amy usually spends her evenings with a glass of red wine as she pores over her precious Excel spreadsheets. If it’s a rough night, the glass will be more than half full. This is life as it should be, Amy declares: hard work and checkboxes neatly crossed in her journal. Who needs a mom and dad when you have the whole world at your fingertips, eight adoptive siblings right there by your side?
Gina Iannucci is the closest thing Amy’s ever had to a best friend. They’re sisters, never mind the arguments about who owns the green Burberry sweater and who’ll end up paying for gas this time. Gina’s always been jealous of the sugar-dusting freckles on Amy’s cheeks, and Amy secretly wishes she had Gina’s gift for cooking. It’s a give and take relationship, they’ve both known for years.
Amy and Gina spend nights in their shared bedroom talking about love and loss and sky’s-the-limit dreams. Sometimes, they stay up talking until morning. It bothers their brother David, of course, but he gets annoyed by everything. Gina says that’s what you get when you’re so tightly wound you won’t even drink coffee. Amy always giggles at that particular critique.
When Amy spills her glass of Merlot at three in the morning, Gina’s right there with balled-up paper towels and a kind word. That’s what sisters are for, she insists. Supportive ‘till the end.
That last quip, unfortunately, doesn’t do anything to soothe the worry rising in Amy’s stomach as she clicks away from Excel and onto her latest habit at 3:10 AM. With a peek, she confirms Gina’s dead asleep before carrying on.
Amy doesn’t shut her laptop screen until the sun comes up. It hurts to blink, even, which surely can’t be a good sign, and panic surges in Amy’s heart as she hears Gina begin to wake. She slams the computer closed, not wanting anyone to know what's on the screen.
What kind of daughter can justify this?
An adopted one, clearly.