Work Text:
"Hey, Sarge."
When Terry Jeffords had warily opened his front door at eleven o'clock at night after hearing a tentative knock from where he had been watching baseball on his couch with his feet up, the last person he had expected to have been the one to disturb his evening was Jake Peralta.
Sharon had taken the girls to visit her mother, but Terry was too caught up in the week's work to go with them (just as well; his mother-in-law wasn't his biggest cheerleader). But it was Saturday, his day off, and he was alternating between catching up on paperwork and watching tapes of old baseball games, with yogurt breaks every so often — he had stocked up on his favorites without his girls around to steal them out from under him. His night had been all planned out to be relaxing and laid-back, even despite the piles of paperwork on the coffee table, and several pens for when the first would inevitably run dry.
He had not factored in the possibility of Jake Peralta showing up at his door. And he especially had not factored in the possibility of Jake Peralta showing up at his door, shivering cold in the chill of September, looking smaller and more vulnerable than the man had ever seen him, with purpling bruises blooming up and along his right cheekbone — bruises that Terry had seen only once or twice before.
But while he had always previously assumed that such injuries were results of a poorly-aimed blind reach for a towel or a smack against a doorframe, he knew now exactly where Jake had gotten them from, because of an unfortunate conversation he had had a while back with a very, very drunk and very, very Terry's-muscles-infatuated Gina Linetti.
("When we were younger," Terry remembered her having slurred out, swirling around her fruity drink that had far too much absinthe in it with the tip of her clawlike, neon pink nail, "he'd come over to mine, middle of the night, shit wrecked, bruised and banged up and bleeding, too, sometimes, and ugh, it was like, damn, Roger, again?, and also, fuck you, man, right? Like, he was five, and then six and then seven, and then bam, no more Roger, which was nice, but he was still so tweaky, so still, fuck you, man, right?"
"Right," Terry had said, very slowly, and he hadn't even known who she had been talking about, then, she had just been rambling on, but it had become increasingly obvious with each mention of Jake's dad from his own mouth — especially after Captain Holt had taken over the Nine-Nine, and the detective's desperation for a father figure like him had become far more apparent — who exactly Roger Peralta was.
Maybe, Terry thought now, this was his chance to become someone Jake trusted like he trusted Holt — or maybe, him showing up at his door now was already giving him that trust.)
"Jake —?" What happened to your face, what are you doing out there in the cold, where's your dad so I can beat the daylights out of him —
Terry forced down his initial reactions, taking a breath and doing his best to gather his thoughts. He had his daughters; he knew what it was like when he reacted too fast. It made things go south. He had to keep himself calm.
"Come in, man," he said, after a couple of moments, focusing on what was most immediately important first; "it's too damn cold outside. Here, just —," Terry grabbed his own jacket from the hook beside the door as Jake stepped inside and tentatively closed the door behind him. He wrapped the jacket around the younger detective's shoulders, feeling him shivering under his hands, hearing his teeth chattering slightly; his stomach twisted with pity.
"It's a good thing Terry gets cold easily," he added in an attempt at lightening the mood even a little. "The house runs hot."
Jake just nodded, though, not even a hint of his usual childish, constant joking on his blank face. He looked more than a little dazed, staring down at the jacket around his shoulders.
"I don't mean to intrude, Sarge," he said in a low mumble — quieter than Terry thought he had ever heard him speak, in a way that almost made him feel uncomfortable with the unfamiliarity of it. "I just — I need a place to crash. Until — until tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow?" Terry pressed without thinking, gaze intense as he stared down at Jake, who looked reluctant. At last, the detective sighed.
"My dad leaves tomorrow," he mumble-whispered, glancing away as though in shame. "You — you know how it is, right?" Jake's humorous tone was weak and wobbly, even as he threw a fake smile in Terry's direction. "Dads. Ha. Right?"
Terry sighed; he couldn't help it. Anger and grief twisted at his chest. "Did he hit you? Is that what this is?" He asked through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth; Jake's silence was as good as a yes, and Terry breathed heavily through his nose, every muscle in his body tensing, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Jake —,"
"He was drunk, okay? I don't wanna talk about it." Jake's voice, normally chipper and upbeat, was desperate and pleading, edged with exhaustion. "I'm fine, alright? Used to it. I just — I need a couch to crash on, 'cause the night shift won't let me in anymore when I try to sneak into Holt's office, and my wallet and phone and keys and shit are back at my place with — with —," Jake's face twisted into a grimace. He looked away, down at his shoes.
"I don't have anything," he mumbled at last. Anyone, went unsaid. "And I . . . I didn't know where else to go."
Terry swallowed tightly, clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. He couldn't bear hearing the excuses Jake made for the awful man who the universe had cruelly made his father — Roger Peralta, the type of man who shouldn't ever, ever be one. But even still, he forced himself to keep his emotions in check; his anger wasn’t what Jake needed right now.
"'Course you can stay here, man," he responded, trying his damndest to keep his voice softened. He hesitated, and then, despite knowing better, barreled on: “Just — c’mon, Jake, won't you at least file a report against that son of a —?"
"No," Jake interrupted. His voice was thready, almost panicked, and his head jolted up to meet Terry's gaze, only for him to hiss as it presumably sent pain rocketing through his skull. "No," he repeated, more quietly, drawing his arms around himself in an awkward self-hug. "It's . . . fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.”
(Terry thought he was more trying to convince himself that that was true.)
"It's not fine," Terry responded fiercely, shaking his head with vehemence. "Dads are supposed to be the guys who have your back the most. They're supposed to be the ones who give you the couch to crash on, not who make it so that you can't even sleep on yours."
Jake wasn't looking at him anymore. "Hey, I — I got you, don't I?" He joked weakly, and something in Terry's chest twisted.
"Yeah, kid," he sighed out, rubbing a broad hand over his tired face. "You do." Terry paused for a moment, unable to stop himself from staring at the dark bruise painting Jake's face purple, and then he spoke again, a tentative question; something to break the ice.
"Want some yogurt?"
"I'd —," Jake seemed to stumble over his words, his breath catching in his throat. "I'd like that," he said finally, with a little nod; the movement made him wince a little, and his hand twitched at his side at the urge to bring it up and press against his face. He let out a shaky exhale, and Terry gave a grimace of sympathy, even as another twist of anger snaked through his stomach.
"And an ice pack?" He suggested softly.
Jake stared down at his shoes, studying the untied laces. "Yeah," he mumbled, with a jerky little nod. A moment’s hesitation, and then a tremblingly murmured, "Please."
Terry just nodded. He pointed Jake in the direction of the living room, towards the sounds of sports announcers, and ambled off to the kitchen — he pulled an ice pack from the freezer and a yogurt from the fridge, and then leaned heavily against the silverware drawer, pulling himself together. He took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his hands, jaw locked so hard it ached.
He would not let his anger show in front of Jake, because he didn't want him thinking that he would hurt him.
After a few minutes, he was able to pull himself together, and he made his way slowly back to the living room, where he found Jake sitting on the edge of the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, silent. Terry wordlessly handed him the yogurt and spoon, hoping it would be something that could keep the younger man from spiraling out as long as he had something to focus his attention on, and then wrapped the ice pack in his hands carefully in a dry cloth he had grabbed from the closet. He then pressed it as gently and carefully as he possibly could against the darkening bruise on Jake's cheek; the detective hissed slightly, cringing away, and Terry winced, but kept his grip steady.
“Sorry, man.”
“Nah, it’s — it’s all cool, Ter-Bear,” Jake mumbled. His legs were bouncing rapidly against the ground, his hands tapping restlessly against his knees. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.”
Terry swallowed back a sad sigh. “It’s alright for it not to be, Jake,” he responded, aiming for gentle but coming across as flat as he did his best to keep back his anger, and his pity; he didn’t think either would be appreciated right now. “And this? It really isn’t.”
Jake went quiet for a long few moments, save for little noises of pain whenever Terry shifted the ice pack. “I know,” he said eventually, quiet and almost shameful. “I — I know. But — it is what it is, y’know?”
“No,” Terry said, unable to keep the sharp edge from his voice, even if he did manage to dull it somewhat; gauze hiding a knife. “I don’t know. Why don’t you explain it to me? ‘Cause this, to me? Looks just as messed up as someone kicking a puppy.”
Jake tensed impossibly further, this time not from the pain in his face. “Just — it’s — I don’t —,” He broke off his scrambled excuse for an explanation, and jerked his face away, looking down at the ground as if he wished it would open and swallow him up.
“I don’t know,” he whispered at last, and he sounded so unlike the hyperactive, happy-go-lucky Jake that Terry knew, that he wanted to hunt Roger Peralta down himself and wring the life out of him with his bare hands.
No one should make Jake sound so small. Least of all his own goddamn father.
“That’s okay, Jake,” Terry managed at last; he kept his voice gentle, speaking as if Jake were one of his daughters, and he was assuring them that they weren’t in trouble for making a mistake or having an accident. “Jake,” he repeated, when the younger man didn’t look up; “you’re okay. I’m sorry for pushing you, alright?”
“No,” Jake mumbled, “I’m sorry, I — m’ sorry that I don’t — that I don’t get it. I just — I can’t — I can’t —,” His voice was thready, thin and weak. He still sounded so small, and Terry hated it. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I just can’t.”
(Can’t stop him, went unsaid. Can’t stand up to him. Can’t tell him no. Can’t do anything.)
“Let me see your face, kid,” Terry said softly. Jake obeyed slowly, raising his cheek back upward even as he kept his red-rimmed gaze averted, staring at the ground, at the ugly carpet that Sharon loved so much. Terry pressed the ice pack back against the bruise (which was rapidly progressing towards a swelling blue), and slowly increased the pressure, sure to be gentle but firm. He also lowered himself down to an awkward crouch, if only so that he wasn’t looming over the younger man, and wasn't making him feel trapped.
“You don’t have to explain, Jake,” he murmured as he worked, gruff but kind. “All you need to do is know that I’m here for you, man. Always will be. And I’m proud of you for coming to me. I’m glad you did.”
“Yeah, well,” Jake muttered, and his voice still sounded thick with tears, but Terry thought they were the good ones, this time around. “Who else’ll have the expensive kind of yogurt?”
“Damn straight,” Terry agreed with fervency. “Terry loves yogurt.”
“Yeah he does,” Jake grinned, and the snort of laughter he let out made Terry’s shoulders slump with relief, because he sounded like Jake.
They fell into an only semi-awkward silence after that, until Terry went to put the melted ice pack back in the freezer, but only after making Jake promise that he would use it again if the swelling in his cheek got worse — to which the younger detective had confidently said that he knew what he was doing, something that Terry was trying very hard to not think about.
(He hadn’t thought that Jake Peralta would’ve known about the twenty-minute ice pack rule, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he did.)
“I got a lot of paperwork I need to get done, and I was gonna put on some old ball games, if you want to stay and sleep out here,” Terry told him when he returned from the kitchen, wielding a blanket (that had been draped over one of the dining room chairs, because his girls refused to eat breakfast without dragging down a blanket with them), “otherwise, you can take the guest room. Up to you.”
Jake hesitated, fidgeting with his hands. “Can I stay out here?” He asked quietly. “With you?”
“Of course, kid.” Terry placed a gentle hand on Jake’s shoulder, squeezing softly, reassuringly. “Get some sleep though, yeah?”
Jake nodded in agreement, and as Terry sat down and began sorting through his paperwork once more, the younger detective folded in on himself on the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest and closing his eyes, positioning his face so that the bruised side was facing upward. He let out a small sigh, and eventually, his breathing tapered away into gentle, snuffling snores.
He was safe — and for once, he knew that for certain, because Terry would protect him.
Just like a father was supposed to.