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It’s a bright morning in January when they approach her with the assignment.
She’s been a cop for nearly ten years by then, and a detective for four, but this is somehow her very first undercover assignment. So she’s already internally bouncing off the walls when Captain Holt asks her to join him in his office with the two FBI agents she’d seen come in an hour earlier.
“We’re looking for someone to go undercover and infiltrate the McClane’s,” the one closer to her explained steadily. “Specifically, someone who can dismantle the whole mob.”
“And you think I’m the right person.” The temptation to turn the phrase into a question is astronomical, but Amy manages to keep her voice even.
The two agents glance at Holt, who nods. “Your captain has told us great things about you.” The second agent says. “We think you’re the right fit. But keep in mind, this is going to be a long-term mission - don’t accept if you think you’ll be home for Easter.”
Amy almost scoffs. “I’m ready to do whatever’s necessary.” She says, excitement and determination swirling together into an intoxicating cocktail in the pit of her stomach. “Where do I start? When do I start?”
The first agent holds up her hand, amusement in her eyes. “We haven’t quite gotten through all the information just yet, and we want you to be able to make a fully informed decision.” She says. Amy nods and shifts in her seat, trying to remind herself to breathe. “Because the McClane’s have ties to a massive web of criminal activity, we need you to get in at the top. Find the kingpin and his main accomplices, and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“Okay. Okay, I can do that. One question: I’ve never even heard the guy’s name. Like, I know he exists, in theory, but -”
The second agent produces a photograph from his briefcase and hands it to Amy without a word. She takes it and squints at the grainy image; she can just barely make out the curling brown hair and long, prominent nose. “His name is Jacob Peralta.” The agent says. “Our agents caught a glimpse of him leaving what ended up being a massive shipment of stolen artwork out of the harbor. We actually only just learned his name - one of the unsubs in your holding cell ID’ed him.”
“Wait - Johnson ID’ed him?” Amy repeats. “How does he - I arrested him this morning for petty theft, how does he know who this guy is?”
“He’s a dangerous man, Detective.” The first agent says grimly. “The McClane’s have ties to all sorts of criminal activities. This is why we need you to get in at the top and dismantle the whole thing.”
Amy nods, clutching the photograph tightly. “I can do this.” She says. “I won’t let you guys down.”
For being a kingpin of an international crime ring, Jake Peralta certainly doesn’t like hiding much.
Amy’s only been undercover for two weeks, and already she’s spotted him out in public six times. It’s amazing, really - he doesn’t particularly seem like a guy with fifteen assassins at his disposal when he’s browsing magazines at that tiny bodega - and Amy’s not really sure what to do with the information. The closet in her undercover apartment is stocked full of sleek dresses and figure-hugging skirts and blouses, but so far she’s seen Jake wear the same three hoodies over the same five flannel shirts every day for two weeks. She was expecting a James Bond, not - well, not a Jake Peralta.
It’s in the middle of her second week that she finally takes the plunge. She’d forgone the dresses and skirts and towering heels for sweatpants (the kind that make her butt look really good - if she has to look like a slob to catch him off-guard, she’s gonna look like a sexy slob) and a Harry Potter t-shirt one of her brothers had given her as a Christmas gift just a month and a half ago. Her ratty converse scuff along the bodega floor as she approaches the newsstand slowly, calculating gaze never once leaving Peralta’s back.
The old woman who owns the place is next to him, her grin broad and laugh loud as Peralta says something to her. Amy turns her face away, feigning interest in Good Housekeeping, trying to ignore how solidly her heart is thumping against her ribs.
“When are you going to get a girlfriend, mi amor ?” The woman asks once her laughter has subsided.
Amy can see the faint pink color rising up the back of Peralta’s neck. “Well that depends,” he says after a moment, “when are you free for dinner?”
The woman dissolves again, and Amy can’t help but smile a little. If she didn’t know this guy, she’d almost say he’s charming. “ Mijo ,” the woman sighs, “you are too sweet to end up alone.”
“I don’t know about that,” Peralta says, and for the first time Amy can sense a bit of darkness in his tone. “Besides, I’m way too busy with the - the startup to worry about a girlfriend right now.”
Amy slides Good Housekeeping back into place and edges a little closer, carefully keeping her eyes glued to the magazines before her even though the titles are now blurred. “Always with this startup. Your whole life is gonna pass you by without you realizing it if you don’t start looking around every once in awhile, mijo ! You can’t stay here and flirt with me forever, you know.”
Peralta takes a step back, laughing, and Amy finally sees her opportunity. “I guess I can’t,” he admits, and Amy edges closer. “I’ll start looking around more, I promise.”
“You’d better.” The woman warns. Amy’s so close to him now that she can’t even see the woman anymore around Peralta’s back. “Now go on, either buy something or leave room for paying customers, I think -”
Peralta steps backwards again at that precise moment - right over Amy’s right foot. He stumbles backwards, eyes impossibly wide, and very nearly ends up flat on his back if not for catching himself on the lowest newsstand shelf. “Oh my God!” Amy says, reaching for his arm on instinct. “I’m so sorry, I was trying to get to -”
Peralta straightens, and Amy’s breath catches - he’s ridiculously handsome. The surveillance image and the brief glances she's caught since going undercover did him absolutely no favors whatsoever. He swallows thickly, frantic eyes roving her face, and Amy forces herself to breathe again. “No, no, I’m so sorry, I just totally ran over your foot - are you okay?”
Amy glances down at her foot. There’s a new scuff mark on her shoe, a long black line that runs from the laces all the way down to the side of the shoe. “I’m fine,” she says, her voice coming out a bit more strained than she intended. “I’m sorry, again, I was trying to reach a magazine without interrupting you guys -”
“No need to apologize, I was just being totally oblivious as usual. Are you sure you’re okay?”
His gaze is earnest, genuinely concerned, and Amy feels heat rising up her neck in spite of everything. “Y-yeah,” she stammers.
He doesn’t look convinced, even as his gaze flickers from her face to something over her shoulder. She realizes a beat too late that he’s glancing at the woman he’d been talking to before; he’s already looking back at Amy before she can glance back, too. “I feel terrible,” he says, voice a bit more even than before. “Can I make this up to you?”
“You can - you can buy me a magazine,” Amy tries weakly.
He grins, dimples flashing, and nods. “Yeah, I could. Or I could buy you dinner instead?”
Her answering smile is genuinely blinding. “Okay,” she says, nodding, hoping she doesn’t look like she’s about to start squealing (she is). “I could be persuaded to go to dinner.”
He’s still grinning when he pulls his phone out of his back pocket and hands it to her, the dialpad already pulled up on the screen. She types in the number of her burner phone and enters her undercover name - Amy Flores - and hands it back to him, hoping she looks at least half as sultry as she’s trying to. “Amy.” Peralta murmurs when she hands his phone back to him. He extends his hand to her, and she takes it. “I’m Jake.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Jake.”
Jake Peralta turns out to be an extremely private person. Outside of the woman who runs the bodega and a few waiters at Fleur de Lune (which is where he took her on their first, second, and fourth dates), she gets the distinct feeling that no one knows Jake’s been seeing her. It’s kind of nice, actually - she was mentally prepared for the guy to want to show her off to all his cronies like a slab of meat or something.
But it’s two months into this assignment, a month into their relationship, and so far all it’s really been is quiet dinners at nice, upscale restaurants, and movie nights at her apartment. If any of it was real, Amy would be totally enchanted by him.
Since it isn’t, she’s actually feeling rather impatient. Apparently all aspects of his life are private - she hasn’t once caught him slipping up over the reality of his business. He just calls it a “startup” company that deals with integrating business technologies, and then starts nuzzling at her neck, which, okay, she’ll admit is not the worst sensation in the world.
It’s only because her last relationship was a complete and total garbage pile on fire of a disaster. Also because she hasn’t really had anything even closely resembling a relationship since that one ended over a year earlier. It’s fine, because making out with Jake Peralta means nothing to her. And she likes to imagine that with every makeout session, she’s gaining just a little bit more of his trust.
That’s why she’s allowing it to happen now, where they’re laying on the couch while The Office plays muted in the background. He’s half on top of her, one hand tangled in her hair while the other skims along the dip of her waist, and when Amy tugs gently at his disheveled hair she imagines plucking the names of all his associates out one by one.
Jake hears it first. He stills above her, his head turned sharply upwards, toward her front door. Amy’s chest his heaving beneath his, her hands gripping the material of his hoodie tightly, trying to identify what changed. That’s right about when she hears it, too: someone is picking the lock on her front door.
In a flash, Jake is on his feet. He yanks Amy up and pushes her to stand behind him, his left arm cast backwards protectively, his right hand fishing for something in his pocket. He manages to produce what looks to be a small caliber silver pistol out just as the lock disengages.
The front door swings open and reveals an older man standing in her hallway. Amy shifts a little to the left, leaning into Jake’s arm in an effort to get a better look at the guy. “Well, shit,” the guy curses softly. He steps inside, running his hand through his thinning hair, the picture of sheepish guilt. “I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”
Jake readjusts his stance slightly, his grip tightening around his gun. “What the hell are you doing here?” He asks sharply.
The guy glances at Amy over Jake’s shoulder. “I wanted to get to know the boss’ new girlfriend,” he says with a rather innocent shrug. Jake seems to recoil a bit at the use of ‘boss,’ but otherwise, remains quite still. “You wouldn’t tell anyone anything about her, so I took matters into my own hands.”
“Out. Now. ” Jake growls, and Amy has to bite back a gasp. It’s the first time she’s heard any amount of danger in his voice; suddenly, it’s not so hard to imagine him commanding an army of hardened criminals. “If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.”
The guy throws up his hands defensively, smug smirk never once disappearing. “Alright, I got the hint,” he says, moving backwards toward the doorway again. “Next time just put a tie on the door if you don’t wanna be interrupted.”
Jake snarls as he takes two quick steps forward, and the guy scrambles a little before getting back through the doorway and slamming it shut behind him. “You need new locks.” Jake mutters darkly. Amy opens her mouth to respond, but all that escapes her is one choked gasp. In an instant, Jake’s in her space again, his gun tossed to the couch so that he can gently run both hands up and down her upper arms. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry, Amy, God , I - he’s one of my, my startup partners, and - he spent some time in prison -”
“ Jake ,” she interrupts pointedly, voice more choked than she was anticipating. “Stop lying to me. You owe me the truth.”
He seems frozen, hands squeezing to the point of being painful around her arms, clearly trying to come up with some way to explain what just happened that doesn’t involve the truth. He turns away suddenly, his sigh made all the louder by the silence. “Okay. Okay. The truth.” He falls backwards on her couch, grabbing the gun and leaning forward so that his elbows are planted on his knees. “I’m just - please promise me you won’t kick me out until you’ve heard everything I have to say.”
Amy crosses her arms over her chest and adopts her best skeptical look. “We’ll see. Start talking.”
He leans forward and gingerly sets the gun on her coffee table, pointing it toward the door. “I don’t actually have a startup.” He says, gaze fixated on the gun. “Have you - have you ever heard of the McClane mob family?”
“Yeah.” Amy says with a shrug.
“I’m - the kingpin. Of the McClane’s. But it’s not as bad as you think, I swear, I - no, wait, Ames, please -”
She pauses halfway toward her dining room table. “I’m just - I need to sit down.” She says, pleased at the way her words seem to quiver. The anguish in his gaze diminishes slightly and he nods, swallowing thickly. “Keep talking.”
“I - okay, it’s a long story. My dad was originally one of the bosses. I got exposed to a lot of it when I was real young. My dad was gone a lot, but once I got a little older, he started taking me with him on all his business trips. It was such a stupid thing to do,” he says, shaking his head a little. “But he sort of accidentally introduced me to all the old crime lords. The last generation of the McClane’s, y’know. So - so anyways, when I was, like, fifteen, my dad - he got in a shootout with the cops. They pronounced him dead on the scene.”
“That’s awful,” Amy says softly.
Jake glances up at her briefly. “Yeah.” He says. “I miss him every day. He was a stupid son of a bitch, but he was my dad.” He stops, jaw clenched, and shakes his head. “Anyways, my ma tried to pull me out, then. She told me that if I kept going with the McClane’s, I’d end up just like my old man. And it worked for a few weeks. I didn’t see any of them after dad’s funeral. I was in school regularly, I was on track to graduate on time, and then - Johnny McClane, my dad’s main business partner, came and had lunch with me. He told me that he’d talked to his brothers, and they wanted me to step into my dad’s role. They sorta took me under their wing.”
Something uncomfortable is swelling in the pit of her stomach. Something - something like pity.
“I didn’t wanna disappoint ma, okay, don’t get me wrong. That was my main argument, that’s why I resisted them for so long after dad died - but then I came home one night to find my ma at the kitchen table, bills spread out, crying her eyes out because we couldn’t afford it all. Dad was funneling money from all his deals into her account, but I never realized it until he wasn’t there to do it anymore. I couldn’t stand the thought of her suffering, Amy. I wanted to help her, more than anything in the world, so...so I called Johnny and I told him I was in.
“I ended up dropping out of high school a year later, and I’ve been with them ever since. Eventually Johnny and his brothers got themselves killed - idiots - and in Johnny’s will, they named me as their replacement.” He drops his head for a moment, shoulders slumped, and Amy resists a very powerful urge to throw her arms around his neck until he smiles again. “But the most important thing to know is that I don’t run the McClane’s the way they used to. It’s not all crime for crime’s sake anymore.”
“What do you mean?” She asks softly.
“Well, I - I saw how hard ma had it. Roger - dad - was a complete and total dumbass when it came to ma, but he cared a lot about her. The other guys’ wives weren’t so lucky. A lot of them ended up in shelters even before their husbands died - they were all abusive dickbags, which is why I didn’t shed a tear over any of them biting it. When I took over, I made it my number one goal to compensate the wives. It’s nothing huge, mind you - but it’s enough to make sure their lives stay comfortable from then on. I’ve completely changed the way the McClane mob works, too. The guys don’t just steal for the sake of stealing, or building up a fortune anymore. It’s all charitable. I’ve got a guy who steals Pontiacs and -”
“The Pontiac Bandit?” Amy interrupts before she can stop herself.
Jake’s brow furrows. “Yeah - you’ve heard of him?”
“On - on the news, once.” And from that one time Rosa arrested him and he crooned to her from the holding cell for three hours , she adds in her mind. “Sorry - continue.”
“Um, yeah. You know him, I guess. He steals Pontiacs and alters the VIN numbers and then donates them to Cars Helping Veterans. And then there’s this kid who can hack any computer system who goes in and changes all the information available online for women who are trying to escape abusive relationships. We’re doing good things,” he says, his plea clear in his face, “we’re just - doing them the illegal way.”
Amy nods slowly, trying to digest it all. “Who was the guy who just broke in here?” She asks after a moment or two of silence.
A shadow passes over Jake’s face. “He calls himself the Vulture,” he mutters, “and he’s the last surviving boss from the last generation. He’s a snake, really, and if I had my way I would have kicked him out a long time ago - he’s the only one who hasn’t gotten on board with the whole charitable stealing thing yet - but because he’s been around way longer than I have, I don’t really have any control over him.”
“Well he wouldn’t - he wouldn’t hurt me, would he? I mean, I’m your - your -”
“My girlfriend.” Jake finishes, a brief smile flashing across his face. “You’re my girlfriend. If, uh - if you want to be.”
“I do,” Amy says quickly. His smile lasts a little longer this time. “But he wouldn’t hurt me, right?”
“I...don’t know,” he says, running his hand through his hair again. “None of the others will, but...look, it’s just that he’s kind of unpredictable. He’s got no reason to hurt you right now, but I’d feel a lot better about you continuing to live here if you let me change the locks and add, like, fifty more deadbolts to the door.”
Amy pulls a face. “Do I have other options?”
Jake pulls his phone out of his pocket, and when the screen illuminates his face, his grin is thrown into sharp relief. “I’ve got a landlord friend who lets me stash things temporarily in a few of his units,” he says as he brings the phone up to his ear. “And I’m the only one who knows where they are, so I can guarantee that you’ll never have an unwanted visitor again.” He smiles at her for a moment, before apparently the person on the other end of the line picks up. “Charles, my man! It’s been too long! How’ve you been?” He nods as he listens to Charles, chuckles just a bit, and then stands up and starts toward her dining room. “Listen, Charles, I need a favor.”
His voice becomes muffled and Amy sinks backwards in her seat, huffing a little when her shoulders make contact with the back of the chair. She was prepared for the convolutedness, really, but she hadn’t quite expected to...to understand him. He’s been wildly led astray, that much is obvious, but suddenly in her mind it’s become a sacrifice on his part to run this organization. It’s his burden, his curse, and it’s so easy to see now why he kept it all hidden from her for so long. She pulls her phone out of her back pocket and toys with it, trying to figure out how she’s going to fit all of it into an email to Agent Larson.
“Okay,” Jake’s voice breaks through her reverie, “you’re all set up. I’ve got guys meeting us here first thing in the morning to pack your place up and get you all moved over - hey,” he’d finally looked up from his phone to spot her stricken expression. He stoops before her quickly, abandoning his phone on the floor to grip her knees. “Are you okay?”
She nods, not trusting her voice.
“Amy.”
“It’s just - it’s a lot,” she finally whispers. A pained look flashes in his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, I - I understand. It’s just…” she inhales deeply, trying to steady herself. “My boyfriend is a mob boss.”
He chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But your boyfriend also isn’t gonna let anything happen to you. Okay? I promise.”
He’s looking up at her so earnestly, with such genuine conviction, that all she can do is whisper “okay. Jake?”
“Mhm?”
“Will you - will you stay here tonight? Please?”
He rocks forward and kisses her softly. “Of course,” he whispers against her lips.
“So he’s using the McClane’s to Robin Hood New York City?” Rosa asks incredulously.
Amy nods over the rim of her coffee mug, absently flicking her hair over her shoulder just to have the gentle breeze knock it back. “It’s insane,” she says as she lowers the mug down to their wire cafe table. “He’s probably got, like, a hundred guys working for him, but almost everything they take is donated to charity. Remember the Pontiac Bandit?”
Rosa’s expression darkens. “He’d be in prison right now if it weren’t for his damn attorney. I hate Sophia Perez. Seriously, how the hell does she get every single one of her criminal clients out of jail time?”
Amy tries not to sigh impatiently - Rosa’s raged about Sophia at least a dozen times since the whole incident. “Well, anyways, he works for Jake now. He alters the VIN numbers on all the cars he steals and donates them to a veteran’s charity. He’s got some kind of world-class hacker who goes in and changes all listed personal information for women who are trying to escape abusive homes.”
“Wow,” Rosa grunts. She readjusts her sunglasses, and Amy reaches up to toy with her thick scarf. They’re not supposed to be meeting, it’s highly against protocol, but Amy couldn’t help it - she’s never needed advice from her partner more. “What’re you gonna tell Larson?”
Amy sighs, the vision of her FBI handler’s face flashing behind her eyelids. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I was so sure that this would be easy, that it would all be black and white, but - I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy. He really thinks he’s doing the right thing.”
“I mean, arguably, he is doing the right thing. He’s just doing it the wrong way.” Amy hums in agreement. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m...I'm fine. He’s actually really sweet,” she murmurs. “Like, a huge softy.” She recalls the solid warmth of his arm thrown back behind her, the protective stance he’d adapted, the tightness of the sinews of muscle in his back straining to cover her. “I’m not worried about him hurting me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Rosa nods. “That’s good. That’s a relief. You never know with guys like that.”
“Will you do me a favor, though? There’s a guy - Jake didn’t tell me his real name, just his street name. They call him the Vulture.” Rosa nods. “He - he broke into my apartment last week while Jake was over. He didn’t know Jake was there.”
“But he knew you were?” Rosa asks slowly.
Amy shrugs. “Dunno. He never even spoke to me. Jake said he’s the last boss from the previous generation, and the only one who hasn’t gotten on-board with the whole charity thing. Will you just - will you look into him? And let me know what you find?”
“Sure. He broke into your apartment?”
“Jake moved me out literally the next day. He’s got this landlord working for him - it’s all used as temporary housing for battered women with kids while they find a permanent home for them. I swear, Rosa, this guy is straight-up Robin Hood.”
“Sounds kinda badass.”
Amy ignores the vehement agreement rising up her throat. “Yeah, well, I’m supposed to meet him for a picnic lunch in fifteen minutes in Central Park.”
“Picnic?”
“ Yeah .”
Rosa blows a raspberry. “Good luck. Don’t eat any ants.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Larson is thrilled to learn that Jake has started letting Amy tag along on late-night deals. Nevermind the fact that he insists she stay in the car the whole time - trust is trust , Larson says, and this is a major step forward in trusting you completely.
Amy has to admit, there’s a certain level of excitement that comes along with it all. Jake seems to genuinely enjoy having her there waiting for him in the back of the town car after each deal, so hopped up on adrenaline that all he can do is kiss her sloppily and pop bottles of champagne. He dresses a bit differently on those expeditions, foregoing the jeans-flannel-hoodie combination she’s so used to for nice, tailored suits. For as attractive as she finds him to be on a day-to-day basis, he’s drop-dead gorgeous in Armani.
She dresses up a bit too for these things, telling herself that she needs to be prepared if and when he finally invites her inside. She’s worn every skirt at her disposal, donned every pair of tights folded neatly in her underwear drawer, but aside from appreciative once-overs from Jake, it’s all been for nothing.
Trust is trust, she reminds herself.
It’s around the six month mark of being undercover - five months into her relationship with Jake - that it finally changes. He’d asked her earlier in the day if she wanted to come along to his deal tonight, and of course, she’d readily accepted. Her phone began ringing just as she pulled her favorite little black skirt off the hanger.
Jake’s name is rolling across the top of her screen. “Hey,” she answers, unable to wipe the smile from her face.
“Babe,” he says, and a little wave of heat washes through the pit of her stomach in response. “I know I already asked you if you wanted to come tonight, but something’s come up.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t bother hiding her disappointment.
“I’m so sorry, I just - I gotta go meet some potential new business partners, and I don’t really know them that well, so I don’t wanna risk it if something goes wrong.”
She frowns at her closet. “When are you gonna stop being so overprotective?”
He laughs. “Probably never.”
“ Jake ,” she whines, “I don’t wanna keep sitting in the car forever. It makes me feel like a little kid whose parent went into the grocery store without them.”
She hears him sigh. “I’m sorry, Ames. I just - I don’t want you to get hurt -”
“I’m not gonna get hurt.”
“You don’t know that - you don’t know how fast these things can go bad -”
“Just - just let me come tonight. Please. You never know, I could possibly even help you get the business. I’ve been told I’m not that bad to look at.”
He laughs again. “Well that’s the understatement of the century.” She bites back a laugh and holds her breath. “I don’t like this.”
“I know.”
“But you do have a point.”
She smiles. “I know.”
He heaves another sigh, and then - “Alright, okay, fine. But only on one condition. You have to do everything I say while we’re in there.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Ames. If I tell you to get in the car and drive away, you have to promise me that you will.”
She swallows hard. “I promise I will.”
“Good. Thank you. Be ready in an hour.”
“Aye-aye, captain.”
So, as it turns out, she may have bitten off a bit more than she can chew, here.
Easy money , the Vulture had told her. A shipment of priceless French jewels. Peralta doesn’t even know about it yet. Don’t you wanna impress him with your initiative?
Really, it should be alarming just how easy it was for the Vulture - or, Keith Pembroke, according to Rosa - to convince her that it was a good idea for her to join him in hijacking the shipment. She had a feeling, buried deep inside, that no good could come of it; still, the worst thing she imagined was a security camera catching a glimpse of her face as they drove the truck off.
Instead, she finds herself on the ground, her head being driven into the concrete by the foot pressing down on her ear, watching the Vulture speed off in the cab of the moving truck. She can feel the cold metal of a semi-automatic weapon pressed against her temple and she screws her eyes shut against it, against the wave of nausea rising up her spine in response to her pounding head. She can feel the blood pooling beneath her left temple, making the slide of her face against the pavement a sickeningly sticky one.
The man above her - the man they were supposed to hijack the van from - shouts something in French, and Amy does her best to force her rising panic down long enough to think clearly. There has to be some kind of move - a trick, a maneuver, something - that will help her get out from beneath this guy’s foot.
Nothing is coming to her.
The man yells again, his voice rising to a near hysterical pitch, and Amy can’t hold the panicked noise that escapes her throat upon hearing him cock the gun. “Please,” she gasps raggedly, “please -”
“Arrêtes!” A familiar voice bellows somewhere over her head. She freezes, palms planted flat against the ground as the sound of footsteps pounding against the pavement grows louder and closer. “Qu'est-ce que tu fais?”
“Cette femme a essayé de voler les bijoux!” The man above her spits. Amy tries to choke down a whimper, but the barrel of the gun presses harder, and she loses control for a moment.
“La libérer. Maintenant.” The foot and the gun disappear and Amy scrambles forward immediately, nearly barreling Jake over in her haste to get away. He gathers her up quickly and pulls her close, tilting his head down to rest against hers when she tucks her forehead into the crook of his neck. She’s gasping for breath, gripping his jacket tightly, shivering uncontrollably even as he runs his hands over her back soothingly. “You okay?” He whispers to her, and she nods against him. “Où sont les bijoux?” He demands of the man.
“Son partenaire les a pris.”
“Was there someone else here with you?” Jake asks her softly.
She nods again. “Vulture,” she mumbles.
Jake’s grip tightens around her immediately. “Of course,” he mutters. He lifts his hand up to the side of her head - probably to run his fingers through her hair - but jerks it back upon touching her temple. “Am- you’re bleeding .”
She wants to tell him that she’s fine, that she can handle it, but truth be told it sort of feels like an earthquake in her chest, so all she manages is another nod before she nestles even closer.
“Elle est innocente. Ne font pas mal lui. Je vais parler avec son partenaire. Je suis désolé pour le dérangement. S’il vous plaît, laissez.” She hears the other man scoff, but then she hears his retreating footsteps, his quiet muttering fading into the night. Jake makes no move to leave; rather, his grip just seems to grow tighter around her as he begins to sway. “What happened?”
“I - I let him use me,” she admits. Jake’s hands are big and warm against her back. “He told me there was a shipment coming in, that you didn’t know about, and - and he asked me to help him because you’d find it really impressive that I was taking initiative - I’m so sorry, Jake, I’m so sorry , I let him trick me -”
“Hey, hey, shh,” she feels his lips against the crown of her head. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong and I’m so not mad at you. At all . I’m just - I’m glad I wasn’t too late.”
She screws her eyes shut and shivers, and one of his hands disappears from her back to reach around for something in his back pocket. “Me too.” She whispers.
He presses something soft against her temple - a cloth or a handkerchief or something - and gently mops up the blood cooling the side of her face. “You scared me.” He says after a moment, and she’s a little surprised to hear how choked up he sounds. “You weren’t answering your phone, and - I just, I had this, this feeling -” He stops, the cloth still against the side of her head, and takes a deep breath. “I’m just really glad I found you when I did.”
“So am I,” Amy says softly.
It’s all becoming too much, too real - she can still feel the press of the gun against her head, even as Jake’s warmth seeps into her bones. She can feel her stuttering heartbeat drumming a tattoo so eerily out-of-time with the steady thumping of Jake’s beneath her ear, and she finds herself focusing on it, finds herself closing her eyes and letting it all lull her away from her still-mounting panic. Jake’s warm and solid against her, a steady rock holding her up through the whirlwind that her life has become, and she’s ready to cry because of it.
Because somewhere out there, the FBI is waiting for her go-ahead to set up a sting operation that is going to put this man in prison for the rest of his life, and she’s very quickly running out of valid reasons to stall.
“Amy,” he breathes, “I - I love you.”
She pulls away to look up at him, the blood-stained handkerchief fading in her peripheral. He’s got that same genuine conviction in his eyes from that night all those months ago, right before he’d spilled everything to her.
“I love you, too,” she says before she can stop herself. Pure, unadulterated adoration floods his gaze and he drags her in immediately for a kiss that makes her toes curl in her heels.
It’s not the blood still dripping from her temple or the memory of the Vulture’s sneer before he drove away; the most frightening thing about it all is that she’s absolutely positive that she means it.
It all falls apart two months later.
Jake’s gone, out of the country on business, giving Amy plenty of free time to poke around his apartment - their apartment, actually, as of one month ago. It’s spacious, but modest; not what she expected at all.
Then again, that’s about on-par with everything else she knows about Jake.
A lot changed over the course of those two months. Jake caught the Vulture trying to smuggle the stolen jewels out of the state and damn near killed the guy for ambushing Amy and abandoning her. Apparently the French guy is an international business partner for the McClane’s - Amy had no idea. Jake terminated the Vulture’s associations with the McClane’s, and they hadn’t heard from the guy since.
Amy found that she didn’t mind Jake’s overprotective tendencies as much after the incident. After all, she reasoned, the whole point of her mission was to get to know Jake .
It’s a year and one day since first receiving the assignment and Amy’s tucked away in the back of a little coffee shop in Brooklyn, waiting for Agent Larson. She’s ten minutes early according to the clock mounted over the sink behind the front counter to her right; even so, Larson appears not thirty seconds later, bobbing and weaving through the tables littering the floor between them and sinking into the seat opposite of Amy.
“He’s in France,” Amy says immediately. “Trying to smooth some things over - after what happened back in November, it’s been a little rocky -”
“Detective,” Larson interrupts. “We’ve decided that we will no longer be needing your assistance on this case.”
Amy feels her jaw drop. “ What ?”
“You’ve been deep undercover for a year now, and so far we’ve made no major arrests. We’ve been trying to set up this sting for months, now - we just think that maybe it’s time to send some new eyes into the case, to get a fresh perspective. We thank you for your service.”
“Wait, wait, you can’t - you can’t just take me off the case . I’ve spent the last year earning their trust. I just - I need a little more time -”
“We have no more time to give you, Detective.” Larson’s voice is gentle, but firm, and Amy recoils on instinct. “We’ll give you five hours to gather your things. You’re to report to FBI Headquarters by no later than five o’clock this evening.” She stands, pity in her gaze. “I’m very sorry, Detective.”
She can hardly draw a breath as she watches Larson walk back toward the front door, partially hidden behind some hipster from the booth behind them who’d gotten up to leave at the same time. It can’t be real, it can’t be happening - what the hell is she supposed to tell Jake?
Amy stumbles outside, gasping at the sudden bite of frigid air at her throat, and hails the first taxi she sees. Jake’s address comes tumbling out of her mouth without a thought and within minutes, she’s inside, pacing the length of his kitchen. It’s warm and cozy and she keeps catching sight of the picture of the two of them from the time they went to Coney Island together over the summer stuck to his fridge between two magnets.
It’s treason, what she’s about to do, but for once in her life she just can’t find it in herself to care.
“Amy!” Jake answers cheerfully after just four rings. She closes her eyes and twists her finger through the phone cord, wishing she’d made the call from the landline in his living room rather than the one in his kitchen. “I was just about to call you! I just got back to the hotel - everything’s great, I got it all smoothed over. In fact, it went so well that they actually really wanna meet you now! How d’you feel about flying over here with me in April?”
“Sounds - sounds romantic,” she forces out.
“You alright, babe?” He asks, voice colored thick with concern.
“No,” she answers truthfully.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I’m just - I got some bad news from someone, just now.”
“Want me to put out a hit on them?”
She chokes out a watery laugh and reaches up to wipe away the tears she hadn’t realized were falling. “Yes, please.”
“Alright, who’s the butthead that made you cry?”
“My boss.”
“Boss? Huh, didn’t know you had a job. Alright, that’s cool, can I get a little more detail? You know the guys aren’t the brightest - who’s your boss?”
She inhales deeply and briefly clenches her jaw when it feels like she’s going to throw her heart up. “The - the FBI.”
She hears him gasp, hears him choke, hears him start coughing violently. “The what ?” He finally rasps.
“You once asked me to hear you out,” she says. “I’m asking you to do the same thing for me right now.”
She pauses, waiting, and hears nothing but the harsh crackle of breath against the receiver.
“I’m...a detective. And about a year ago I got an assignment to go undercover and infiltrate the McClane’s, through...through you.”
“You knew who I was all along,” Jake says faintly. “That day, in the bodega - it wasn’t an accident. You meant for me to trip over you.”
“Yes,” Amy whispers. “The - the assignment was to get to know you and to gain your trust so that - so that I could compile a list of all of your known associates, and...have them all arrested.”
“This whole relationship has been a goddamn lie, hasn’t it?” He demands. His voice has risen considerably, but there’s a ragged edge of desperation she’s never heard before. “You never loved me -”
“That’s not true! That’s not true, Jake, please - please just let me finish. It started off as a diversion, an invasion tactic, but - but the more I got to know you, the more I understood your reasons for doing everything you do, it - it got real. ”
He scoffs, his hysteria evident, and Amy winces.
“I know you have no reason to listen to anything I have to say right now,” she says, “but you need to know - they’re pulling me off the case because I’ve been stalling for too long. They’re gonna send someone else in, someone who doesn’t care that your intentions are pure, someone who won’t hesitate to sell you and your entire operation out. They - they know you’re in France right now. But it’s not too late for you to run.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to save you from going to prison for the rest of your life. Run , Jake. I know there are places you haven’t told me about - go there, hide, and never come back. Please, it’s - it’s the only way.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “This is...treason. You’re committing treason right now.”
“I don’t care. My career is over either way. You’re all I care about right now. Just - please, just get on a plane, get somewhere safe. Please. ”
A window shatters on the other side of the apartment, and Amy freezes. “What was that?” Jake demands.
“I-I don’t -” The bedroom door swings open and the Vulture comes lumbering out, chest heaving, a deranged, manic quality to his gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“ Amy ?” Jake’s voice is lost over the rush of adrenaline in her system upon spotting the gun in the Vulture’s right hand. “ Amy, what the hell is - ”
The rest of the question is cut off by a deafening gunshot, and a split second later a blinding, searing pain ignites in her left arm, and then she’s on her back on the kitchen floor, staring up at the ceiling. Jake’s voice, louder now than she’s ever heard it before, is still crackling in the receiver, but the Vulture presses the heel of his boot against the earpiece until the whole thing splinters into pieces. “I think it’s about time you and I spend a little quality time together, don’t you think?” He says as he leans over her.
She gasps, chest quaking against the gut-twisting pain in her upper arm. He smirks down at her as he straightens, and she has just enough time to register that he’s rearing his right foot back before her head splits open and everything goes dark.
Amy wakes slowly hours later, groggy and disoriented. She’s lying spread-eagled on something soft, something that reeks of mould and body odor that accentuates the pounding ache in her head. She tries to bring her arms in, to huddle closer against the sharp chill in the air, but something cuts into her wrists and holds her arms in place. She cries out hoarsely at the painful twinge in her arm.
Her eyelids flutter open a moment later, and the first thing she notices is that the sunlight filtering in through the narrow windows some thirty feet above her head has gotten much, much longer since the last time she was awake. It stretches across the dirty warehouse ceiling lazily, and if it weren’t for the dizzying pain and the fact that she’s tied down to this dingy old mattress, she might almost find it relaxing. As it is, it’s a taunting reminder that time has passed on without her.
Amy turns her head to her left and nearly chokes on the metallic scent of her own blood. It’s hard to see clearly at that angle, but she’s fairly certain all the blood she’s lost while she’s been unconscious has seeped into the mattress, spread into a dark stain beneath her. She turns her gaze back up to the ceiling and tries to breathe through the dizziness.
It’s hard to tell, but she guesses she’s probably been unconscious for at least six hours. It’s a small comfort - at least Larson will be looking for her. Still, her surroundings are eerily quiet and the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that she may not even be in New York anymore. She’s alone, and she’s probably going to die.
At least she got the chance to warn Jake.
Another hour or so passes before she hears signs of life. Footsteps - multiple sets - begin clicking down a nearby hallway, and Amy nearly chokes on her heart when it jumps up into her throat. The steps are too calm, too even - there’s no way this is her rescue team.
Her suspicions are confirmed a few seconds later when the door some fifteen feet beyond the end of the mattress opens. “Here she is, gents,” a familiar voice drawls. Amy lifts her head off the mattress and nearly balks - the Vulture is gesturing toward her, his broad grin fixated on the faces of all of Jake’s associates edging into the room. Her heart thunders violently against her chest as her head drops back to the mattress, eyes squeezed shut against the terror.
“You’re tellin’ me that Peralta was dating a mole the whole time?” One of them asks.
“Are you really surprised? The guy’s a complete dumbass. If anyone was gonna get duped by a mole, it was gonna be him.”
Amy clenches her jaw, trying to ignore the tears spilling down her temples and catching in her hair. “What’d you do to her?” Another one asks. She knows this one - Doug Judy, the Pontiac Bandit. He sounds reserved, subdued, possibly even a little horrified.
“Nothin’. Yet.”
“Why’s she bleedin’ so much?”
“Well I had to do something to make sure she couldn’t get away. I shot her in Peralta’s kitchen.”
“And you’re sure she’s the mole?”
“I overheard her having a meeting with her FBI handler in a coffee shop earlier.” Amy screws her eyes shut as she remembers - the hipster that had gotten up to leave with Larson. Now that she’s thinking about it, he did look a little familiar.
“Alright, alright, so - what are we supposed to do with her?” Doug asks.
“I say we see how many limbs we have to cut off before she bleeds out.” The Vulture says.
Her chest quakes a little, but she manages to reign her choked sob in. “Whoa, easy, man,” Doug says. She hears someone take a step forward - when she peeks through her lashes, she sees Doug has edged between her and the Vulture. “What does Jake want us to do with her?”
“I dunno what that dumbass wants! I didn’t ask! Look, back in the day, when we caught a mole we exterminated them. Period.”
“Okay, but this ain’t back in the day anymore. Besides, she - she’s been here for a year, and...I don’t think anyone’s been arrested.” Footsteps approach the bed and she flinches away, turning her face into her right arm. “Amy,” Doug says gently, “did you sell any of us out?”
“No,” she moans quietly, “I didn’t, I - I was stalling, I swear I didn’t tell anyone -”
“ Bullshit !” The Vulture roars. “She’s lying !”
“Yeah, man, you’re really gonna believe her?” Someone else calls.
“It has nothin’ to do with if I believe her or not!” Doug retorts. “It’s all gonna come down to if Jake believes her. Y’all ain’t doin’ anything to her ‘til he says otherwise.”
It’s quiet for only a moment before she hears scuffling to her left. She tries to twist away from it, away from the grunts and the sounds of fists hitting flesh, but the maneuver pulls painfully at her arm and she ends up sorely regretting the move.
“There,” the Vulture pants. Amy opens her eyes again and feels ice in her veins upon realizing that Doug has been dragged away, pinned to the far wall, restrained by three guys. He’s straining against them, clearly trying to get back to where he was, but before she can say anything her vision is filled with the grimy, stained bottoms of the Vulture’s pants. He kneels down beside her, his smile slimy and dangerous, his hand all but crushing her jaw when she tries to turn away. “Where should we start?” The crowd behind him jeers, a few of them throwing out suggestions, and more tears spill down her face. “You wanna start with the left arm? It’s pretty much useless at this point, anyways, so I’m kinda doin’ you a favor, here…”
She catches one glimpse of a serrated blade glinting in the low light before she screws her eyes shut once again, desperately trying to draw in on herself, to retreat into her own mind before the pain drowns her. The sharp edge presses against her shoulder, through the thin material of her t-shirt, sharp and present, pressing ever harder. An uncomfortable groan escapes her throat just as her t-shirt rips; the groan quickly morphs into a piercing scream when the blade begins to rip through skin.
The whole place erupts just as she’s starting to think her entire body is going to burst. She can still feel herself screaming, the sound only adding to the chaotic confusion, and this is it - this is what dying feels like, what it sounds like.
She just wishes she’d gotten to see Jake one more time. She can practically hear him in her mind; the way he would be bellowing at the top of his lungs were he actually in the midst of the chaos, the way he would hurl insults and threats at the Vulture for daring to look at her the wrong way, let alone laying a hand on her.
It’s the gunshot that shocks her back to reality. Her eyes snap open and Jake’s there , looking harried and haggard and enraged , gun pointed eye-level toward where the Vulture now lays motionless on the ground. He lowers the gun slowly, chest heaving. “I told you, you stupid son of a bitch.” He says, voice rumbling in his chest.
The others have mostly gone still around the edge of the room, but Jake pays them no mind. He’s already spun on his heel, gun clutched tightly in his hand as he rushes to Amy’s left side. “Jake,” she gasps.
He doesn’t say anything, but she sees it - in the ripple of muscles in his jaw, in the tremble in his fingers as he fumbles with the knot at her wrist, in the glassy quality of his gaze. The gun lies heavy an inch above her left hand but the moment her hand is free she brings her arm to her middle, hissing at the pain, eyes screwed shut.
“Ames,” Jake’s thumbs swipe at her face, following the curve of her cheekbones quickly. “Look at me.” A hoarse hum breaks in her chest. Her heart is still beating way too fast. “ Amy .” There’s a note of panic in his tone now, his touch growing a bit harder against her face. “Don’t do this to me, please don’t do this, show me your eyes - c’mon, Amy, please -”
The room seems to suddenly dissolve into chaos again, and she’s not sure what’s happening. Jake’s hands are ripped away, and he’s screaming her name, begging her to look at him. But her eyelids are so heavy and the darkness is so warm and the pain is receding, fading, gone.
It’s a bright morning in January when she wakes to the sounds of Rosa cursing the television.
A week. That’s how long she’s been here, asleep, in this hospital bed. That’s how long it’s been since the FBI raided the warehouse and made over a dozen major arrests. That’s how long Larson has been praising her name.
That’s how long Jake has been in maximum security prison.
Seven days.
“He saved my life, Rosa,” Amy tells her through gritted teeth. “He flew all the way back here, knowing the FBI was after him, just to save me. I can’t let him rot in prison for that. It’s not right. It’s not fair. ”
“I know.” Rosa says quietly.
“I have to do something.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that. That’s...why I called someone for you.”
Amy furrows her brow, but before she can ask, there’s a knock at her closed door. It opens a second later and Sophia Perez slips inside, her briefcase held before her like a shield, eyes wide and uncertain as they dart back and forth between Amy and Rosa. “Sophia,” Amy breathes.
“Detective Diaz called me and said you - you have a case for me.”
“We want your opinion. About whether or not someone has a case. Potentially. I didn’t say anything about there definitely being a case, don’t twist my words like that -”
“Rosa,” Amy interrupts. Rosa sinks back in her seat, jaw clenched, and Amy turns back toward Sophia. “I just spent the last year undercover infiltrating the McClane mob.”
“I heard about that.” Sophia nods. “How’s the recovery?”
“Well, I’ve only been awake for about twenty minutes, so pretty good so far.”
A half-smile flashes across Sophia’s face. “What do you need from me?”
“I - there’s a guy. A man. He was - he was...involved. With the McClane’s. And you - you’re the best damn D.A. in the city. If he even stands a chance of being acquitted, it’s gonna be with you as his attorney.”
Sophia perches on the edge of the empty chair to Amy’s left, sets her briefcase down, and crosses her legs. “Tell me about him.”
A chance. Sophia told them Jake had a chance. Amy had an unsettling feeling that it might involve some perjury, but suddenly it didn’t really matter anymore. Robin Hood didn’t deserve to go to jail, even if what he did was technically wrong, and Amy sees no difference when it comes to Jake.
Sophia visits the hospital again a day after that first time, this time with a notary in tow, looking to get Amy’s written statement attesting to Jake’s innocence. “You’re not well enough to actually attend the trial,” Sophia explains, “which works in our favor. They’ll rip your statement to shreds, I’m sure, but at least we’ll get to avoid a cross-examination this way.”
It takes a few tries, but Amy manages to write a statement that is both professional and personal, swearing by Jake’s inherently good nature, crediting him as her savior several times over. Sophia shoots her a small, knowing smile when she tucks the statement into her briefcase; it grows slightly when she leans over to squeeze Amy’s right shoulder reassuringly.
Amy’s released from the hospital one week later, left arm heavily bandaged and bottles of painkillers rattling loudly in her purse on the walk to Rosa’s car. She spends the ride to her old apartment staring out the window in silence, trying not to think about the trial just starting on on the other side of the city.
The trial drags on for two weeks, covered on every news outlet, and by the end of it Amy’s ready to completely lose her mind. She’s pretty sure Rosa’s gonna kill her - she hasn’t responded to a single one of Amy’s texts in hours - so Amy has resorted to wandering up and down the aisles at the bodega two blocks from her house, alone. Her shoulder and upper arm are still bandaged, but it no longer hurts to swing her left arm at her side when she walks. She’s all set to finish the dose of painkillers her doctors gave her at the end of the week; though, really, she’s pretty sure she’d be okay if she stopped right now. It’s progress; it’s passing time.
Her phone begins to buzz in her pocket just as she kneels down to study two brands of detergent on sale on a bottom shelf. She fishes it out of her sweatpants quickly, heart skipping a beat upon registering that it’s Sophia’s name on her screen. “Sophia -” Amy answers, but sharp emotion juts up her throat so suddenly she cuts herself off.
“Not guilty.” Sophia says excitedly, and Amy tips backwards, landing on her butt right there on the bodega floor. “They found him not guilty on all counts, Amy!”
“Even - even the manslaughter?”
“Ruled as self-defense. Besides, do you really think any of those jurors were gonna blame him for that after listening to what he caught that man doing to you?”
Amy covers her mouth with her trembling left hand. “So he’s - he’s a free man?”
“He just left the courthouse fifteen minutes ago, completely and totally free. I got caught up talking to the press so I don’t know where he’s gone -”
“It’s okay,” Amy interrupts as she scrambles to her feet, “he’s probably getting on a plane out of here right now. Sophia, I can never thank you enough for this, I’m serious. Just send me a bill and I’ll - I’ll start making payments, or something -”
“No need. This one was totally pro-bono.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do you have any idea what this is going to do for my career? I’ve already got a dozen messages back at the office - that’s more than enough payment for me!”
“Thank you again, seriously, I owe you so majorly.”
“All in a day’s work. Congratulations!”
“You too,” Amy says weakly. The phone beeps in Amy’s ear and she lowers it slowly, staring down at the screen without really seeing it. Free. He’s free. And hopefully he took her advice and ran as far away as possible.
There’s an emptiness in her chest now, a dull, faded ache, but Amy ignores it. She’s being selfish, really - that’s the only explanation for the overwhelming sense of loss. He came back to save her out of obligation, nothing more - and now she’s saved him from a lifetime in prison. So, really, they’re even. They can both move on.
The bodega suddenly seems very small and crowded, and Amy’s dangerously close to hyperventilating or bursting into tears or some other really embarrassing thing to happen in public. She steps backwards, mind already focused on the warm seclusion waiting for her back at her apartment, but instead of rolling across flat ground she finds herself stepping across something rather soft and uneven.
She falls backwards, arms swinging wildly to grab onto the shelves, but something warm and solid stops her from sprawling over backwards. She blinks and her heart nearly bursts - she’s staring up at Jake’s face.
“Jake,” his name comes out all funny and clogged. He smiles - small and tentative - and eases her back to her feet. “What are - what - what are you doing here?”
His smile fades into what can only really be described as a smoldering stare. “I came to thank you."
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"Your partner." He shrugs.
Amy blinks rapidly before filing away the information for later dissection. "What do you have to thank me for?"
"For sending Sophia and - and for calling me to warn me. I know that wasn’t an easy decision for you -”
“It was,” Amy interrupts. “It was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”
He nods slowly, eyes never leaving her face. “Right. Well, I - I know it was a dangerous decision. And I know you didn’t just do it out of guilt or obligation, or whatever.”
She swallows thickly. “No, I didn’t.” She admits softly.
He smiles again, familiar dimples appearing only to accentuate his prominent laugh lines, before his eyes flicker to her left shoulder. “How’s your arm?”
“It’s good. It’s healing. They say I should have full mobility back in a month.”
“Good. I was worried, I thought - I mean, it just - it looked really deep -”
There’s a fractured quality to his gaze, a hitch in his inhale, that makes Amy want to hug him tightly. “I’m okay,” she reminds him in a whisper.
He nods quickly, and then shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake the memory out of place. “Yeah, you are." He says softly, before he rocks forward on the balls of his feet. "Well, I wanted to stop by and say thank you for everything you did for me.”
She recognizes the end of the conversation, and for a moment she’s absurdly desperate to draw it all out for as long as possible. “You’re welcome.” She whispers, casting her gaze down at her shoes. The same shoes he’d tripped over a year ago, on the day they met. She traces the scuff mark carefully, hoping that by the time she looks up, he’ll be gone.
His finger is warm where it hooks beneath her chin, pulling gently until she looks back up at him. “I’d like to repay you, if you’ll let me?”
His eyes sparkle with playful mischief, and Amy feels herself blossoming from the inside out. “You could - you could buy me a magazine,” she murmurs.
He outright laughs at that, his hand falling away from her chin to skim down her arm and catch her hand in his. “Yeah, I guess I could,” he says through his broad grin. “Or I could take you to dinner instead.”
Amy nods, grinning broadly. “I could definitely be persuaded to go to dinner.”
“C’mere,” Jake mutters, yanking her to him with an arm slung around her waist. She has just enough time to brace herself before he’s kissing her hard, his lips soft but demanding where they slat against hers. She feels herself melt into him, shivering at the feeling of his hand running quickly up her back to press her closer still to his chest, and the only coherent thought she can form is finally.
They leave the bodega hand-in-hand and walk all the way back to Amy’s apartment together. She teases him once they get inside, and he swears he’ll leave eventually to go get dressed, but follows each one of those assurances with another searing, earth-shattering kiss that eventually leads them to stretch out on her couch with the TV on and muted in the background.
They never make it to dinner.