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Chapter Text

He's only been undercover a month, but already he could swear he'll never be Jake Peralta again. There's blood caked underneath his fingernails, and no matter how much he scrubs (and God, he's been scrubbing a lot lately), it won't come out.

He can remember the first time Paulie and the boys had taken him to the bar and Jake, young idiot Jake, thought that was all the initiation he'd needed. And hey, he's seen Goodfellas, he knows damn well how the mob works. Well, he thought he did.

But then he's waking up, tied to a chair, and there's a gun in his hand and it's pointing directly in front of him. A few feet away is another mobster from Upstate and Jake would be damned to remember his name. But he's knocked out cold and Jakes hand is sweaty and Paulie comes up behind him, claps his hands on Jake's shoulders.

"You see's, round here, we like a little assurance"

His onion breath sinks into Jake's nose, works it's way down to his lungs.

"Donnie was telling me the other day that you, Jakey, you were a cop." and when he says cop, he slaps Jake's head around a little in his hands. Jake is shaking, Paulie is still behind him and his hand is tied too tightly, too tightly, he can't maneuver the gun, oh god-

"And so I says' to Donnie- Jakey? A cop? You gotta be kiddin'. That kids a cop the same way I'm a peacock"

The air is thinner here, and Jake recognizes it as the warehouse where they house half the coke. The other half is what he's here to investigate. It's just, he doesn't remember the air here being so, so thin.

"But here we are" Paulie says, finally circling to come in front of Jake, "And I don't really like being called no peacock"

"I'm not a fuckin' pig" Jake spits out, the words thick on his tongue.

"I'm not a fuckin' pig, Donnie knows. He knows. Fuckin'-" He swallows, tries to get some moisture in his mouth but he just can't, "fuckin' pigs fired me. It's what I get for tryna play things by the book. Can't ever play by the book"

And Paulie looks like he considers it for a moment, really chews on that information.

"Alrighty then. See, that's the kinda thing I like to hear. I like you Jakey." He cups Jakes cheek in his palm, and his rough, warm hand feels foreign against Jake's clammy face.

"I like you. So I thought I'd just- give you a chance to prove yourself. My pops always told me, every man has a right, a god given right, to prove himself worthy of what he's gotta do in this world."

And Jakes hand is squeezing the gun, the metal feeling impossibly hot in his hand.

"So here's my thinking, Jakey. You're either the kind of pig who was never meant to be a pig. You're one of us, Jakey, a wolf. Can't ever win on your own, you gotta rely on your pack. And I understand you. I see you." Paulie is behind him again, hand back on his shoulder.

"Or," The hand tightens, a bruising grip, "Or you're the kinda pig that dresses up in wolf's clothing. Calls himself a predator. Round here we like to take our time ripping up those kinda pigs."

Jake is trying desperately to calm his shaking. I'm a wolf I'm a wolf I'm a wolf.

"See, what a wolf would do here, is recognize the kind of predicament he's in. A wolf would understand that he's gotta POW!" Jake jumps in his chair, his muscles tightening as Paulies' shout echoes around the warehouse, "take care of this gentlemen in front of you, join a pack and prosper."

The man in front of him is waking up, and Jake's life just got so much harder. He understands now, with absolute clarity, that he shouldn't have ever gotten himself involved with this. He'll never be Jake Peralta, Die Hard enthusiast ever again.

"And a pig would make a nice dinner."

Paulie finishes.

Jake knows if he tries to negotiate he'll get ripped apart. He clenches his eyes shut, weighing options. There's been talk of human trafficking, sex slavery, horrible things the mob has done. If Jake loses this case they'll never let another cop go undercover like this. Lives hang in the balance.

On the other hand, he is not directly responsible for any of the crimes the Ianucci's might commit. If he shoots this guy, that's blood on his hands.

He takes a while to mull it over. Paulie leaves, tells him he's got till the morning to figure out what kind of animal he is.

Jake can't ever forget the hours he spent, tied, staring at a dead body he'd shot. Waiting for dawn.

He's definitely not Jake anymore.

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It takes days for him to try and get ahold of his handler. He can't call the man, Paulie would know. Can't do much of anything but wait for his handler to approach him.

Finally, he sees him on the side of the street, selling hot dogs and surreptitiously making eye contact with Jake. A heave of relief overcomes him.

"I'd like a hot dog with a side of I'm-in-too-deep-pull-me-out."

His handler looks at him incredulously. Rage sparking behind his eyes. The man is tall, surprisingly muscled for how lean he is. He has a short, neat haircut and sharp eyes.

"I'm afraid we're all out of that condiment sir. Would you like to follow me to my supply chain to get some?"

They get into the food truck, close the doors.

The handler keeps staring at Jake.

"Something- something bad happened. Maybe I'm not cut out for this case-"

"I'll spell it out for you Peralta. Here's what happens- you get pulled out. Paulie finds out you've been with the 99 the whole time. We don't have enough intel to get you into witness protection. And I'm damn sure not going to just let you waltz off into sunny god damn Florida the first time you see a rain cloud. So let's say you get pulled out."

Jake swallows, hard. This isn't going how he'd wanted it to go.

"First, they come for your coworkers. Then, they come for your mother. Can you figure out who they come for next?"

Jake clenches his jaw.

"You got yourself into this. You're in it for the long haul. Either you bust every single one of those mother fuckers or I find part of your lungs in a trash can on Coney Island. Understand?"

Jake nods.

Not for the first time in a week, he feels trapped.

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"Last thing before we start the day, squad. Last night at approximately 4am there was a mob related shooting on 11th. All involved have recieved medical treatment. We have the victim in interrogation room B. This individual is a known enemy to the NYPD. Bearing that in mind, it would be completely out of line to act with anything but professionalism toward this individual. Dismissed."

She's only just gotten to work. Jake's been undercover for some odd six months now. Amy can still remember the last time she saw him- the things she wanted to say-

"Mob related?" Boyle asks, and Terry nods, all their eyes swing towards the door to the interrogation room. One of the beat cops is still in there, a hold over from last night that wanted to try his hand at interrogation.

Amy walks into the observation room and stops in her tracks.

Jake is unrecognizable.

His hair is grown out a little, there's some kind of old hair goop in it. His eye is black, there's a scar above his eyebrow now. Bags under his eyes that must've taken months to build up. His skin looks thinner somehow. He's gaunt.

His eyes are staring lifelessly at the plaster under the window. He's sitting in the chair, almost completely slack. She can see a hint of a long white bandage sticking out from under his shirt, right by his collarbone.

Someone shot Jake.

Someone had been aiming for Jake's heart.

And she knows him. He has a deep rooted fear of addiction, would never take any drugs as a shitty teenager because of it. Even when he got his tonsils out he refused pain meds. The pain he must've been in, even now, would be overwhelming.

The beat cop is shouting something at him, gesticulating wildly.

"Talk to me you dumb motherfucker. I know you know. Who shot you, huh?"

Jake keeps staring, blankly.

In the flash of a second, the beat cop has surged forward, grabbed Jake's hair and slammed him into the table.

"Who shot you?"

She's in a panic to get out of the observation room, get to Jake, stop the cop from beating on Jake, who the fuck even was this guy?

Busting into the room, the cop has already brought down Jake's head a second time and is going for a third when she uses her baton and brings it down in the man's knees, sending him to the ground. Jake doesn't even look up.

There's blood on the table where his nose must've broken.

"Jake-" she's breathless.

"I'm. Not. Saying. Shit." He grinds out. He's still not even looking at her.

"Look at this, uh? Police brutality? On my client, absolutely despicable." Some slimy lawyer has come slithering into the room, and Jake finally looks up.

"This man," The lawyer clamps hands on Jake's shoulders, including where the bandages sit. They squeeze and Amy spares a moment to mourn Jake's weak pain tolerance. He winces, minutely, and brings his eyes to Amy's for just a millisecond. She could've sworn it'd never happened, it was so fast. He's fucking miserable. "This man is a victim."

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They bust the human trafficking ring on an anonymous tip. A whole dungeon underneath a bar, women and children clinging to the bars for salvation. Some of them speak English, other's don't. Amy wonders if she'll ever be free from the nightmares.

Two sublevels, three, four, they keep going, down to five. On the fifth sublevel, they find Jake. He's got that same dead look in his eyes, held up by his wrists. His lungs are spread out in front of them, and he's rasping in rough air. He still doesn't look up when they rush into the room. He's shirtless. She thinks she can see - god - whip marks on his back. Burns on his sides. Deep bruises on his torso.

He has a broken rib. They strung him up with a broken rib.

"Jake? Oh god, Jake-"

When they cut the rope he falls to the floor, boneless. His lips opening and closing like a fish out of water and he can't breathe, can't get any air in. Finally, his eyes meet Amy's and he's terrified. She's thankful for her first responder training, thankful for her nagging fear she'd need to use it someday.

She gets him in the right position, clears his airway, and watches his breaths per minute until more help comes.

She, of course, pretends not to notice the sobs wracking his body. She pretends not to notice the fearful flinch when the door swings open and Terry enters the room to carry him out.

She pretends he's still her Jake.

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It's months later, past the pneumonia and hospital stay and departmental therapy and Jake feels, well, almost like Jake again. He can breathe Brooklyn air, go to Shaw's, see his mom. Most importantly, he's working cases at the 99 again.

And anyway, he thought he was healed. Physically, emotionally, metaphysically, sexually, yada yada yada.

But then all it takes is one afternoon to send him back.

It's a slow day at the 99. There's a parade going through downtown that the 98 has been put in charge of policing, so there's really nothing for them to do but stand by and see if the 98 needs back up. They're playing some dumb game, but damnit if Jake isn't winning.

And then Terry claps a hand on Jake's shoulder.

And he's underground. He's under-under-underground. And he can't breathe.

"I don't know nothing" He's gasping out, because air doesn't go down his lungs the way it used to. And when he looks up, Paulie is furious in front of him, and he's got a cattle prod, and Jake just can't get away, he's trapped- he's trapped-

Paulie says something to him, he can't make it out. He's going to get hurt for not understanding the question. He's going to die here, he thinks. He's definitely going to die here. And he didn't even bust anyone, all the evidence was at home. He had one last meeting with Paulie before he was going to call his handler.

There's fluid sloshing in his lungs. The cattle prod keeps getting closer. The air is burnt, he's burnt. His cover is burnt and his skin is burnt and Jake Peralta is- is burnt.

Amy can't stop Sarge before his hand lands on Jake's shoulder. Jake lunges forward, away from Sarge, hits the ground on shaky legs. Amy tries walking towards him but he skitters back, afraid.

"I don't know nothing" he says, heaving raggedly. He's not even here right now.

And that's when it hits her. The lawyers hand gripping Jake's injured shoulder. They conditioned him. Whether Jake realized it or not, he's been conditioned to be obedient to the mob.

"Please- I don't-" He's having trouble breathing, "I don't wanna die Paulie"

She wants to take him in her arms and make him forget everything that'd happened when he was undercover. Between herself, Rosa, and Gina, they get the room clear pretty fast.

"Jake" Gina says, and cards her fingers through his hair like she used to when they'd watch movies together in high school.

"Snap out of it pineapples"

Jake looks up at her, still afraid but confused.

"You with us?" She asks

He looks around. He's visibly shaking, arms clutching his sides like he's trying to keep all his organs from spilling right out.

"Ames?" He asks, and she rushes forward to hug him. Clutches him in her arms and feels him trembling.

The old Jake would never let her comfort him. And maybe this trust was better.

Chapter Text

The thing about Sophia is, she's beautiful. Way out of Jake's league, almost everyone agrees. He thinks he definitely doesn't deserve her. And well, he's heard that from just about everyone because just about everyone apparently feels good about weighing in on his relationship. There's no such thing as boundaries when you work as close as the 99 works.

And really? He agrees with them. His credit score is two digits, he never really got the hang of keeping his living space clean, and drinking in moderation was never a special skill of his. By all means, Jake is a walking disaster and he likes it that way.

So when a beautiful, intelligent, skilled lawyer comes gracefully strutting into his life and takes him under her wing? He'd never complain. He feels like a grown up with her around.

His life is better with her in it, too. He goes out on weekends, to art showings were they try weird cheeses that he has to have Boyle look up. She only comes to his apartment, because she says she's worried about bringing Hurrican Jake down on hers, which, fair.

Things are good, they're really good.

Except, maybe they're... not so good?

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The things is, he never learned how to argue with women. He has a very special talent for arguing with men and Jake has honestly considered putting it on his resume before, but he just can't argue with women. It makes him feel like his Dad. He can disagree with women, sure, but if it's something major? He can't do it. He'll always side with her, in the end.

With men it's usually whoever can yell the loudest, prove themself right with who cares more. With women, it's more about actually proving you're right, and Jake just can't communicate like that. Especially when emotions are involved. And trying to explain to Sophia that he doesn't want to meet her parents because he's scared he's not enough, he'll disappoint them, give him another few months so he can be a better man, the words stick to his tongue and all that comes out are one worded replies.

So, he meets her parents.

It goes terribly.

He's sitting outside the brick apartment, an old build from the 50's. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks something must've been filmed here because the trees lining the road is beautiful combined with the vintage street lights that cast a faint glow over the leaves.

It's August, the perfect temperature outside, and just lightly sprinkling. And Jake Peralta, god help him, can't catch his breathe.

He stepped out from the shouting for a minute to calm down. Seperate himself from the chaos. Is he the chaos? He clenches and unclenches his fist, prays for divine intervention to undo the entire night. Let him re-do it, for the love of God. He could've told Sophia he was feeling sick, they could've stayed at his apartment and eaten Chinese food and watched something with Vin Diesel and he would've been just fine.

It takes a while for the rain to calm him down. Jake squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out thoughts about her family long enough to feel like himself again.

When he manages it, he looks over at the door, the dreading knowledge that he'll have to go back in hauting him.

As he hauls himself off the curb of the road, Sophia comes stomping out of the door.

"Okay. What. The hell. Was that?" She's barely containing herself and he suddenly understands why she's such a great lawyer. Every word is carefully articulated and she knows how to argue and she knows what she's doing and Jake- doesnt.

"I'm so sorry, it just- it slipped!" Jake watches as she goes from angry to angrier. He was hoping for some sympathy, but clearly that's out of the question. Oh. Oh no. She's not on his side at all.

"I'm sorry, Sophia, it was an accident." He's not even trying to make eye contact anymore.

"An accident? They spent hours making that meal Jake. And you can't even seem to wash a fucking dish."

He blushes. She was right. He dropped the plate. His wrist burnt.

He thought he was doing good, making a good impression. He offered to help with the dishes. But then, her Dad had pulled a baking sheet out of the oven, where he claimed if you baked the oil on it it washed easier. Jake shrugged, figured it was just a nice family quirk. Loveable.

But then her Dad had tipped the pan just the wrong way, spilling hot oil all over Jake's wrist. He dropped the plate he'd been holding and it shattered all over the ground.

Jake was pretty sure the burn was 3rd degree, if not severe 2nd degree. Was there a 4th degreee? But before he could so much as apologize, they were all shouting around him. And with the shouting, the pain, the soap and oil and everything everywhere, Jake couldn't so much as defend himself.

His eyes clench shut.

"I'm sorry."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He goes in on Monday with a gauze pad lazily taped over the burn. Anytime he moves his wrist his whole arm feels like it's on fire.

"Nice" Rosa says when he shows it to her, and he feels a little like a badass. He still hasn't worked out a less embaressing story about how he got it, but no one asks so it turns out he doesn't need a story.

Life goes on.

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He comes home late one night, at least late compared to when he's been getting home. It's 11 oclock when he walks in, a light buzz from the excitement and from beer at Shaws. He cracked a big case, he's proud of himself. It took a lot of work and the way the Captain looked at him made him feel important. Jake Peralta is good at his job.

By the time he's undressed, laying in bed, he's exhausted. Basically already asleep.

"I don't like you being out this late." She says, and like an idiot he groans in agreement before he's even fully processed what she's said.

"I think it'd be better if you were home by 7 from now on." She says next, and he agrees with her more. In all honesty, if she had asked him if he was a dragon he would've agreed.

But that's how it starts.

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The rules keep growing. Be home by seven. No going out with the squad after work. None of those bad ass street tacos because she thinks they give him weird breath. No video games, no this, no that. No working cases with Amy.

Maybe that's the rule that hurts the most. And when he tells the Captain that he and Santiago are going through a bit of a rough patch as desk mates, the Captain sees through it, but doesn't say anything. He feels like he's in a different universe than the rest of the squad. He struggles not to laugh at her jokes, tries not to hurt her feelings but maintain a professional distance.

And he'd be damned if Amy Santiago didn't see straight through it. Maybe at first she was confused, angry even. Growing up with a million brothers meant she was tough, and if she thought someone didn't like her then Amy Santiago didn't waste her energy on them.

But then Sophia had made a dramatic appearence at lunch time, curling herself around Jake and dragging him out of the bull pen for some pop up sandwich shop. Except Sophia had just been staring at Amy the whole time. Jake had been tense as a wood board, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

It was a show for Amy.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He hasn't even introduced Sophia to his Mom. It's not an accident, either. He doesn't think his Mom would approve, except maybe he's scared she will approve, and then he'll be really stuck.

Jake and Sophia regularly get in fights about it. She asks him why he's not all in on their relationship like she is and he just doesn't have an answer. She's perfect, she's supposed to be perfect, but the longer they date the more he feels like he's suffocating.

He can't tell her anything.

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She trips him, on the stairwell to his apartment one day. She pretends it was an accident, but it's been seven months since they started dating and Jake ain't no spring chicken. He saw the look of anger in her eyes before she stuck her foot out. And it makes sense, that she'd do something. They were arguing about his mom, yet again, and he had nothing new to tell her, yet again.

He always called it arguing, but maybe their fights were just Sophia yelling different things at him. So she stuck her foot out, right at the right moment, a perfect accident.

After all, Sophia was perfect, she didn't make mistakes.

He goes tumbling down 2 stories, breaking his arm in the process. And she's nice again by the time she catches up to him at the bottom. Her beautiful, soft fingertips ghosting over his arm where it's bent at an angle that arms definitely shouldn't bend.

"Babe? Oh my god, Jake, are you ok? I'm so sorry honey, I'm so sorry"

He latches onto the pain, uses it as fuel. After all, it's the first thing he's felt in months. When her fingertips lose their gentleness and roughly grip the break, though, he can't even fool himself anymore.

He has to get out of this relationship.

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The first time after the stair incident he "breaks up" with her, she shouts and shouts at him until he's down on the floor, crying.

God, he hates crying. He feels like a little kid, some fucking pathetic kid. She's calling him all kinds of names and he thinks he might be his Dad. Isn't this what his Dad did? Make women angry?

She kicks him while he's on the floor, and it wouldn't hurt except Sophia is perfect and she does pilates and she's wearing heels and well, his rib is definitely bruised.

"You think you're anything without me? How dare you. You were nothing when we started dating. Good luck finding someone else that wants to put up with you."

He feels lower than dirt. He could sink right into the ground right now and feel better than he does.

"Oh, and by the way? I'm pregnant, douchebag." She says, and storms out of his apartment, leaving him heaving on the ground.

He begs her for days to talk to him, and she takes him back within the week.

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He asks his Mom if she still has anything from when he was a baby. Specifically, he's thinking of some of the adorable cop costumes he'd wear on halloween every year.

He's terrified. He can't be his Dad. He can't leave Sophia, leave his baby. But Jake is terrified to stay and raise a kid with her. His wrist is still scarred from the last time he'd interacted with her family, his ribcage still smarting from a few weeks back. And hey, he would've thought it'd've healed by now but apparently his body just hates him that much.

"Oh, Jake, no. She's not- is she?" His mom asks, and Jake is hurt by the lack of excitement in her voice. She sounds as scared as Jake feels. And she hasn't even met Sophia! Jake finishes the conversation crying over the phone. He tells her everything.

The burns, the stairs, the fights, everything. And when his Mom curses, and she's an angel so she hardly ever curses, Jake still wants to defend Sophia. So much of the problems he has with her is just speculation, just things he's caused or made up, and the weight of it is heavy on his shoulders.

He's trapped trapped trapped.

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She told him she was pregnant months ago. She isn't even showing yet. She hasn't bought anything for the baby. She won't let him come to any appointments, and he's dying to see an ultrasound of his baby.

He's got to get this right. He can't destroy his baby's life like his Dad had destroyed his.

"Please, Sophia, please let me come."

She's already annoyed, he hadn't gotten the right brand of almond milk for her and she had to use sub par almond milk in her tea.

"I'm sorry about the milk- really- just let me come, just this once."

She's getting quieter and quieter. Lately she just ignores him when he asks about the baby, she leaves the room or goes on her phone or just changes the conversation subject. So he keeps begging, because she definitely can't shut him out forever, right?

"You're the shittiest detective on Earth." She says. She's sitting at the table, scrolling through something on her phone. It's been a lazy Sunday and mid day is just about to hit.

"There's no fucking baby, Peralta." She says, and Jake could swear the ground is falling out from underneath him.

"No baby?" He whispers.

She looks at him with nothing but cruelty in her eyes. He feels decimated.

"Never was." She says, and gets up to take a shower.

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All of her things are out of his apartment by the end of the week, and air finally comes all the way down his lungs when he takes a deep breath.

He has the squad over to celebrate, revels in the sweet beer Santiago brings. Gina is blasting some pop music, herself and Scully in a dance contest.

Over the excitement he locks eyes with Amy, smiles for the first time in a while.

Chapter Text

By the time they find him he's firmly seperated from reality.

Finding him itself was a coordinated effort, every precinct in the city coming together to search for Jake. They'd pounded doors, followed every possible lead. Jake Peralta's abduction was a city wide affair. Of course, he was the fifth (fifth!) cop to be targeted in a month. The rest of the bodies were resting in the morgue. It'd been a whole month since the killer had started their... spree? Their manifesto? Any way Amy could think to phrase it was terrible.

She could almost hear his voice too, "Santiago, come save me!" and he would dramatically flail his arms up in the air. God help him, he was her idiot damsel in distress. And God help her, she'd imagined finding him some a thousand times since the morning he'd gone missing.

Except life just couldn't work like that. They wouldn't have even known he had been taken if it wasn't for one, major miscalculation. Holt had received an email from a doctor on the morning Jake was taken, excusing Jake from work.

Even if the email didn't look phony, there's no fucking way Jake sees a doctor for a head cold. A head cold? He's gone through internal bleeding and refused medical advice.

The alarm bell had been raised before everyone was completely awake.

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A day passes in the search for Jake Peralta, then two. No one in the squad has slept. The 99 collectively smells like Scully. It's a new low. They've tirelessly gone through the CCTV footage. There's Jake, distracted, walking down the street with both earbuds firmly planted in his head. Distantly, Amy knows he was definitely listening to the playlist she made him and it hurts that she was the weak link. He's wearing his favorite hoodie, the sneakers he bought for way too much money, and he definitely needs a haircut. He's Jake.

One minute he's walking, one minute the CCTV footage cuts out and when it routes back there's no Jake to be found. He's a ghost.

(No, he's not a ghost. He's alive. No body has been found yet, he's alive)
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The toxicology report comes back on the two dead cops, and at a press conference Wuntch announces that they'd been found with a heavy dosage of hallucinogenics. This, combined with heat stroke and what they assume to be sensory overload, had sent the officers into nervous reactions, and eventually heart attacks.

Both of the officers were under 40.

Detective Holt was, as always, stoic during the briefing. Amy couldn't help but notice the way him and Wuntch had gone into a seperate room to talk before the briefing. There was no surprise in his eyes when she'd made her announcement, either. She must've told him about the drugs before she told the public.

As the days bore on, Wuntch and Holt worked closely. Late nights in his office, cycling through the information again and again. Amy had tried listening in, but their combined intellects were beyond even her skills.

They'd been looking through who would have the medical knowledge and resources to keep a human alive as long as possible, under the most... stressing conditions.

She was glad she couldn't understand them. Just a glimpse made her feel nauseated. In those days, herself and Kevin had traded too many scared glances to count.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"The Panic Attack Prowler Strikes Again"

Amy has to actively resist the urge to burn down every last news paper stand in the city. There Jake is, smiling on the front page. He'd hate the picture they chose. He's in his beat cop uniform, but it's back when he didn't know what moisturizer is back then. She can hear him complain that he looks like a "dry bitch".

God she's going crazy.

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Then, Holt has a breakthrough.

She comes with him on the bust, dying to see Jake again. Dying to see if Jake is... well, dead.

And he's not, but just barely.

Jake is being held less than five miles from the precinct. To think that he'd been right there, the whole time, was bound to eat at her for years ahead. She prayed he didn't know how close he'd been. She doesn't know what she'd do if he looked at her with disappointment after this.

He's in a room about the size of the interrogation room. There's a strobe light in the corner, mounted high up into the ceiling. Similarly, there's a speaker mounted next to it. There's a speaker in every corner of the room. The outlets to them would've been directly over Jakes head. They're collectively blasting what must be four different heavy death metal tracks and the volume is deafening, even to her.

When she finally rests her eyes on him, his pupils are dilated. Some kind of death metal is playing, and he's heaving on the ground. He's in just his boxers. His arms are ziptied behind his back, ankles zip tied together. God, two pieces of plastic had kept the whirlwind of Jake Peralta subdued for days.

It's just a reminder of how fragile their sense of safety was.

It's over 100 degrees in the room, and Jake is covered in sweat. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and he's writhing in a corner. She thinks he must be- is he grunting? Is he trying to say something? It's impossible to tell over the music.

Holt shoots out the speakers, and Jake flinches further into his corner.

"Jake?" She asks, but he just looks through her.

"Nnn- nnnoo" He slurs, shaking his head wildly against the walls. Distantly, she thinks he's definitely going to hurt himself if he keeps going like that.

"Jake, it's Amy. You're ok"

A cool breeze is flowing into the room from where she'd opened the door. It helps that Holt had unplugged the space heater, which had been also mounted to the ceiling. She shuddered to think about Jake, barely coherent, desperately trying to reach the outlets to unplug all the items torturing him. Desperately jumping on his tip toes through the delirium to find a moment where he wasn't being terribly assaulted.

He's sobbing on the ground, drawing in weak breaths and crying. She knows he's hyperventilating, he was when she'd first entered the room but she thought he'd be doing better by now.

"Jake, can you hear me?" She knew he'd be high on... something but this still isn't what she'd expected. There's no defensive jokes, he has no walls around him. Just pure panic.

She takes a step forward but he flinches further back into the wall, still grunting out that terrible "nnnnn" noise.

"Santiago, the paramedics are here"

Painfully, she takes a step back. They surge forward into the room, strapping Jake into a gurney. They have to cut off his zipties to do so, and Amy watches wordlessly as the plastic falls to the floor, coated in blood.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Later that night, he wakes up gasping.

Her hand is on his arm, and his skin has pulled tight by now, cooling in the room temperature air.

The squad had left a few hours ago, Amy practically had to shoo his Mom out of the room to go to sleep. No one had taken care of themselves since he'd gone missing three days ago and they were looking pretty scary.

But now, God bless him, Jake is awake, and heaving in deep breathes. He bolts up in bed, staring first at the wall in front of him, then turning his head to Amy. She smiles at him, relieved that he's awake.

"Ames?" His voice is small, weak. It's a reminder of how close he came to dying. It's a reminder of how fragile he still is.

"I'm here Jake." She says, and he clutches her hand in his.

"I'm- I'm so sorry." He whispers, and clenches his eyes shut. His body is being wracked by full body sobs, and Amy didn't realize she could feel so terrible. But Jake won't stop apologizing, and he's crying and she hasn't said anything else. She's rendered speechless.

"I didn't mean to, I'm sorry"

It's her first hint that there's something wrong.

"Please- P-" He's stuttering now, his grip on her hand growing slack.

"Nurse? Hello?" She's shouting towards the open door and now his eyes have rolled back into his head and he's seizing on the bed.

"Help! Help me!"

She's shoved aside as a swarm of medical staff invade the room.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next time he wakes up, he's been strapped to the bed. Distantly, she knows the hospital just wants to keep him from hurting himself. They said there must still be traces of... something. In his system, and until they're certain it's all out they need to take his best interest into account.

"Ames?" He asks, again. And while she's more than happy he's awake she's cursing his innate ability to only wake up when they're alone.

"Jake." She exhales his name. It's like saying hello to her now.

"Where'm I?" He's slurring a little, still. He's blinking slowly, and she turns off the lights in the room to try and make the transition easier.

"Thanks" He says, and she notices how he's tugging at the leather restraints tying him to the bed. His breathing is starting to quicken, and he looks at her distrustingly.

He's instantly awake. She thinks she can see the moment when the adrenaline hits his eyes, and he's breathing faster now, frantically pulling at the restraints.

"Amy?" His voice is panicked and her heart breaks. He looks down at his wrist, at where the restraint meets the bed, and looks back at her.

Before she can say anything, though-

"Is this real?"

Her heart breaks.

She can see tears flooding his eyes, and he clenches them shut. If the waterworks start lord knows he can't really wipe them away.

Her jaw works up and down. She's had more training than anyone else in the precinct but she never- never had a seminar for this.

"Nurse?" She calls, and Jake looks betrayed. He's even more frantic now, scared when the nurse walks in.

"Nnn- please- Amy-" He's choking on the words as they wind up his throat. She feels stiff as a board, what is she supposed to do?

"Oh honey. Just take a deep breath now and I'll get those off you in a minute" The woman says, and Jake looks up at her, terrified.

"Gimme one of those deep breaths now." She's got a clipboard but Amy suspects vaguely it's just for show. Jake shoots her one afraid look and pulls in air, deep into his lungs.

"That's right, you got it. My name is Theresa. You're Jake, correct?"

He nods, frantically.

"Alright, now I'm not supposed to be doing this until tomorrow but if you don't tell anyone I won't, ok?" She's bending down, undoing the fasteners on his wrists. Then he's free. Jake pulls his limbs into himself, until he's curled up like a little kid.

"Ok Jake, I can give you about an hour to get adjusted and then I have to send in the doctor, is that ok with you?" She speaks slowly, and even Amy feels reassured by her measure and calmness.

"That's alright." He mumbles. He's looking up at her like a god.

She gives him some vague assurance, winks at Amy, and walks back out of the room.

When the doctor comes in Jake is still clutching at Amy, hugging her like he never thought he'd see her again.

Chapter Text

It doesn't sink in at first. It felt like there were hands wringing his stomach out, their cold grip sinking into his soft flesh. His hands are slack on the table, secured by cuffs that are tight (too tight), not that he'd ever notice. His right knee is bouncing up and down because he has so much nervous energy he could burst.

It doesn't sink in at first.

His eyes glaze over. He's numb. Just last week, Jake Peralta had a wife, a beautiful home, a loving family that he created at his work. In the past hour, Jake Peralta has lost it all.

And really, it makes sense. There was no way a plan that outlandish could really work, and he should've learned better than to trust a DC movie with something so serious. That's a classic Jake Peralta mistake, trying to execute a poorly thought out plan even when the consequences were so dire.

His eyes clench shut. The back of his throat feels oily and hot and aching and he wants to cry, but he knows there's people behind the observation glass that are just looking for another way to rip him apart and so he can't. He tries to clench his fist but the cuffs, they're so god damn tight, he can't get enough circulation to do much of anything.

My name is Jake Peralta, he thinks, and I'm going to prison. Except that can't be right. He's the good guy! He was trying to protect the civil rights of the public of New York, all he's ever done and all he's ever wanted to do, and now he's going to prison. Again.

Distantly, he wonders to himself if CJ has any idea the damage he's done. Will CJ lie awake at night, thinking about how he'd betrayed so many fellow New Yorkers? Will he even stop to think about how terribly he'd betrayed Jake?

Maybe that was selfish. But the cuffs are biting at Jake's wrists, and he wants to thrash around and fight like a wild animal to get free, until he can bust of the hot, tight room and breathe clean air and drink water and talk to his mom, and be Jake Peralta. He wants to go rabid, do anything to avoid prison. But he knows better.

"You're going to jail buddy. Big time."

The Vulcher is in front of him. Jake doesn't remember him walking in, doesn't remember him ever leaving before that, though it must've happened.

"You know I got some cousins up there. Real cool guys" The Vulcher is halfway sitting on the table, looking down at Jake and soaking up his misery.

"Light sexual harassment, you know how sensitive women are nowadays." The Vulcher is now picking at his nails, flinging crum into Jakes personal bubble.

"Anyways, they totally know you're a pig and let's just say your welcoming isn't going to be very warm"

Jake looks up at him, and if he could feel anything right now he might've put some kind of emotion on his face, like rage or fear or- anything. He distantly wants to remind the Vulcher that he is also a pig, but the energy for it fails him.

At some point the Vulcher leaves and John Kelly comes in the room. Jake's head is hurting, there's a bruise forming on his forehead. He thinks he can remember the Vulcher slamming his head onto the interrogation table, but the details are a bit fuzzy.

"Hey Jacob" Kelly is smirking, his eyes twinkling with that familiarity that Jake hates so much. It takes every muscle in his body to stop him from lunging up from the table and sinking his teeth into Kelly's throat.

"Listen, I'm real sorry about this bud." The nonchalant lilt of his voice makes something boil, deep inside Jake. He keeps talking, waving his hands and gesticulating the way people do when their head is so firmly planted up their own ass they haven't seen the sun in years. Jake just stares straight ahead. Kelly must still be talking, but all Jake can hear is a faint white ringing in his ears.

"I acted alone. It was all me." He says, gritting his teeth and avoiding eye contact with the actual Devil. At that, John Kelly stops whatever he'd been saying, seemingly in surprise. His eyebrows shoot up on his forehead, and his eyes hold something akin to... amusement.

"Oh, Jacob, they didn't tell you?"

Jake looks up, and John Kelly must see something in his face because his grin deepens.

"We know you 'acted alone'" Kelly makes a quotation mark gesture with his fingers at that. His terrible, wrinkly old shitty fingers.

"Your friends sold you out. They were let loose at least an hour ago, I expect they're at home now. Oh, no one really told you? See, I always say we can improve our communication."

Jake's brain cracks, a deep crevisse splitting Jake Peralta straight in half. He wants to laugh, he'd really thought he was numb but now he can't stop the tidal wave of emotion baring down on his heart. Peralta can't feel his legs, he must be floating on the revelation that they'd never been on his side from the start.

Maybe it was just the frenzied state of his mind, and maybe it was something deep inside him, insecure about where he had always stood with his friends and peers. But something dark rose within Jake and whispered into his ear : " You fucking idiot. Don't you see? Don't you see you've always taken the fall? Witness protection. Undercover jobs. Prison (the first time. Hah.). You're a puppet, you're the fall guy. You're nothing, you always have been"

Jake was alone. He thought back to the nightmares he'd had after he got home from prison the first time. He thought back to the guard beatings, the gangs, the god damn meth. Jake thought about how he'd told Amy, late at night once, how sometimes in his dreams he was still there and choking on his blood in solitary. And she'd held him, then, run her cool hand through his hair and grounded him.

It had helped too. But he didn't tell her about all the other times because he loves her and doesn't want to be her burden. It's not her fault that the prison haunts him. Who he was in prison, haunts him. And though it wasn't so long ago, he'd managed to build up a brick wall in his mind to try and keep the absolute terror from breaking out and consuming him whole.

He was going back. And this time, there would be no phone calls, no letters, no secret fucking nokia phone.

He was untethered.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After some time, Holt is able to gain entry to the observation room. John Kelly is smirking down at his best detective, who is staring straight at the floor and holding himself unnaturally stiff. Holt's brow begins to furrow, and for the first time he considers whether his plan was ever such a great idea.

"He's all set, hook line and sinker" Wuntch slinks into the room like a slug.

See, what the absolute fool John Kelly was unaware of, is that they'd bugged Jake Peralta hours ago. And now Kelly was revealing all of his (incredibly illegal) spying tactics to the young detective.

The only thing was, Holt realized, he'd never included Jake in on the plan. Jacob was remarkably intelligent, of course, but at times he lacked a certain amount of emotional maturity. With a case as huge as this was, Holt couldn't be sure young detective Peralta could keep the secret and act believably near the end of the plan.

Holt's eyes strayed to the cuffs around Jake's wrists. They were closed too tight, his hands red and puffy from lack of circulation. He could see where they were pinching the skin, and wondered why Jake hadn't so much as said anything when he'd normally complain about the wind blowing his hair the wrong direction.

John Kelly was still talking to Jake, though it had nothing to do with the case. As Wuntch slinks back out of the room to put Kelly under arrest, Holt turns on the speaker in the observation room.

"And you know the interesting thing about where we're sending you? No visitation. Silly, I know, but you are what is now classified as a violent offendor."

Holt's brow furrowed deeper. Jacob didn't even look like he was listening. His eyes were glazed over. His back impeccably straight against the uncomfortable steel chair. Even if Holt had been trying (failing) to get the man to improve his posture for years, this couldn't have been what he meant.

"Commisioner John Kelly, on the full authority of the New York Police, I place you under arrest for..." Wuntch keeps going as she bends Kelly over on the table and cuffs his hands, and Holt takes careful notice of how much looser they are on Kelly than they are on Peralta.

He leaves the observation room, eager to get to his detective.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Jake? Can you hear me"

She's been trying to get him to 'wake up' for twenty minutes. By now, most of the 99 is crowded into the tiny observation room, stood in front of Jake. They've tried everything. Amy has run her hand through his hair slowly, calmly, that special way he likes. Rosa lightly punched him on the shoulder. Boyle wept, but that was really just his normal by now.

Holt had sat in front of Jake and told him how proud he was of him.

Yet Jake wouldn't react.

It was like they were talking to a statue. Faintly, Terry knew he'd checked out of reality. Something had happened between when they were all in the holding cell together and when Kelly had gotten arrested, and Jake's mind couldn't bear the stress.

Rosa, sick and tired of waiting and watching, watched the tapes.

"Oh Christ" She said, low, thick guilt swirling in her gut.

Rosa Diaz had been good at prison. She'd been good at high school too, so she knew the lay of the land before she'd even arrived to her max security facility. But Jake had been bad at high school, and doubly bad at prison. While Rosa had left her time in incarceration healthy, whole, and happy, Jake had left his time beaten, severely underweight, and with a host of new phobias.

He'd tried to talk to her not so long ago about what it had done to him, but the words had gotten tangled in his throat and choked him until he cried. She'd hugged him uncomfortably, unsure how to respond, but they'd gotten through it together.

Except this time, he didn't think he had anyone to get through it with.

This time, they'd broken Jake Peralta.

Chapter Text

He's in the infirmary. Some white supremacist kicked his head until everything went black, and when he wakes up he's in a world of hurt. And Jake really doesn't have any idea when it all went down, because his head hurts so bad he can hardly remember what landed him in the infirmary (again). The last thing he can recall is the sentencing, the last terrified look he gave Amy before they hauled him off to the big house. Ironically, the big house was really just turning into Jake's personal, suffocating, claustrophobic coffin.

"Hnngh" He meant to say hello, but that works too. His head is throbbing in time with his heart, and his hands are clutching at the dry, stained sheets under him. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know they're stained, he just knows he bled enough into them last week to warrant some gnarly new colors. What was it that made him bleed that much last week? Was that the time Gutierrez shanked him right in the kidney? Or could it be the time the white supremacists took their turns trying to see how many breaks they could get in each rib until he started to cough up blood? By now Jake must've stained the entire linen closet with his blood. Maybe Owen should be thanking him for giving their decor a much needed update.

"Jesus, here we go again" he can hear the male nurse say from across the room. Jake tries to open his eyes, but the flourescent lights burn his retinas and he clamps them shut again. That's alright though, because he doesn't hear the squik-squik of Owen's Reeboks against the cheap linoleum so he can continue to suffer alone. Vaguely, he thinks he can hear Owen talking into his phone, "Yeah, he's up. I don't know!", he chuckles, "Yeah, right?" Owen's laughing some more. Jake has been around teenagers before. He knows when someones laughing at him.

He tries to lift his hand to his eyes to block out the light but they're cuffed to the bed, and he can't help but feel frustrated tears welling against his lower eyelids. He'd try and fight against the cuffs, try and say something to god damn Owen, but Jake just doesn't have the energy.

His last thought as he slips back into the ether is, "Jesus, Jesus, please, kill me."

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He's back in the infirmary a week later. Jake still can't form full sentences, the concussion still making him feel slow and dull. It takes a monumental effort to do even the smallest things that used to come easy.

Jake wishes he could see a real doctor. Wishes fucking Owen would tell him absolutely anything, like if he'd ever get better or if this was just the rest of his life. If he got out of prison would it even be worth it? He wasn't the brightest crayon in the box but now, now that he could hardly do simple math, would Amy still want him? Would Holt still employ him?

His whole life ruined, Jake flinched from Owen's freezing fingers as the man prodded at Jake's broken arm. He couldn't quite remember how he got it, someone had asked him a question in the cafeteria and while Jake was trying to parse it, they'd wrenched his arm so far up his back it snapped.

His dumb brain could hardly comprehend the pain.

As Owen's rough hands dug into the break, Jake moaned.

"Hurtss" He hissed out, hating the slow way he talked now. He felt as though he were underwater, desperately trying to swim upwards but never quite having the steam to break the surface.

Owen grabbed his forearm harder.

"You're wasting our already low resources. Stop being a pussy and suck it the fuck up." Owen growls at him. Jake knows he has a reason to be angry too. The prison's medical supply had never been that large, that much Jake can remember. And he's noticed that... Jake has been in the infirmary... more than the others. There's some dots to connect there, that has to be connected. Owen's anger, Jake's visits, low supplies.

He can't do it. Instead he shrinks back away from Owen's touch, holding his arm to his chest like a wounded and frightened animal. And he is one, for a moment. There's only so many times you can be beat and keep your rational thoughts.

At some point, you get it beat out of you.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They're taking him somewhere. Jake digs his heels into the cement floor, terrified. He's mumbling something to them, but not even he can quite understand it. Something around "Not solitary", or maybe "please solitary". Really, he doesn't know what he wants, just that any special attention is bad.

One of the guards is looking at him pityingly, and it only increases Jakes' fear.

"Jesus, they really did a number on him" The guard says to his peer. Both of them have Jake by the shoulders. He's not being handled as roughly as usual, but the animal that controls Jake's head tells him not to trust it.

"Jay. Cub." The guard is enunciating slowly, staring directly into Jake's eyes. It makes him want to shrink into a corner.

"You" The guard points to his chest, "Have. A. Visitor." The guard smiles, mimes shaking a hand to indicate what he means by 'visitor'. Jake was ashamed to say that he'd needed the demonstration.

He still doesn't trust it, though. His fearful eyes flick from one guard to another, and they carry on with their task. They drop him off inside the visiting room.

"Jake?" He can hear Amy's startled, afraid gasp from the table closest to the door.

His brow furrows. He knows her. She's his Ames. But he can't remember a lot about her. Never before has he hated his addled god damn brain more than when he looks into her beautiful eyes, completely lost.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By the time she gets into the visiting room, all her nerves are on fire. She brought her favorite soduku, his favorite graphic novel, a liter of orange soda to share, and enough anxious energy for an army. Her knee is bouncing up and down uncontrollably as she waits for him to come in the room.

It's been a month since she last saw him. Every other time she's tried to come, they've told her that he's in the infirmary, though they refuse to specify why. Every other time she's stormed out of the prison with tears in her eyes and thrown a liter of orange soda so hard onto the pavement it exploded, and the wasted sugar just made her more upset.

But now she's here, and he's not in the infirmary, so by god he'd better be alright. She's wearing his favorite dress of hers, one that he always told her made him feel like he was going to marry a princess.

She's imagined the upcoming moment for weeks. He walks in, in his orange jumpsuit that makes his skin look awful, and he breathes her in. He tells her she looks beautiful, and she secretly holds his hand under the table as they catch up. He's made peace in the prison because of his naturally lovable personality and she gives him a blank copy of her favorite soduku, with fun tips written in the margins that relate to their best dates.

It's perfect, in her imagination.

Christ above, though, imaginations were for idiots.

When he walks in she doesn't recognize him. And, she thinks as she stares into his eyes, he definitely doesn't recognize her. He's lost 20 pounds, and it doesn't look good on him. He's got a cast on his right arm, which he's clutching to his chest like someone's about to rebreak it. He's limping, and there's two guards on either side of him that let him walk towards her with sad eyes.

"Jake?" She asks, and can hardly comprehend the frustration in his eyes.

"Ame-s?" He asks back. But when she said his name, she was asking what happened to him. She was asking if he was alright, why hadn't he called her, who did this to him. When he said her name, he was asking who she was.

She gets him sitting, tries to covertly touch him, gently, so the guards don't notice. He looks at her as if she were an alien.

"Jake, what- what happened?"

His brow is furrowed, like he's trying to come up with the words. Like they're not even on the tip of his tongue, but lingering near the back of his throat like cement slugs.

One of the guards that brought him in earlier steps in.

"He received a head injury 34 days ago, ma'am."

She looks, shocked, from the man to Jake.

"Where's a doctor?" She's outraged now. Her voice is rising in pitch and volume.

"Ma'am, he's already seen the doctor" The guard sounds like he's apologizing, and Amy doesn't spare a glance to him. She's only got eyes for the love of her life, for what the fuck they did to him. As she gets angrier, she can see he's becoming afraid of her.

"Under New York Law 3452-452-6.24.2, inmates are permitted a private doctor for a second opinion allowing the on-site physician is inadequate and or lacks the resources to provide sufficient treatment." She says it in a monotone voice. If Amy allowed any emotion to get through, she'd scare the shit out of Jake.

Her training tells her he's had a serious brain injury, combined with god knows what else. He probably didn't even get any pain medication for that broken arm.

"Uh-" The guard is looking to his coworker across the room, as if asking for help.

"Jake", she says, softly so no one else can hear. His eye brows raise, to indicate he's listening. His eyes rise from the floor and lock onto hers, and through the wall in them she can see frustration, fear. Pain.

"I'm going. To help you." She says to him, running her hand over his. Through the wall she can see raw relief, and he clutches her hand like it's his life line.

At this point, it literally is.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Prisoners are required to have an armed transport to and from their secondary appointment's office. It's not an accident that somehow, Rosa is assigned to be his armed transport. It is equally as 'accidental' that Amy just happens to be his driver, wearing a comically obvious party store mustache.

It takes them a century to get him into the transport van. Rosa and Amy can see the guards dragging him from the doors, down the walkway and to the sidewalk. He's digging his heels in again, absolutely terrified in their grasp.

Amy takes silent note of how Rosa clutches the metal of the van door, slightly bending it in the hot summer sun.

They handcuff his wrists to a hook in the floor. It's obvious that the small length of chain is hurting his broken arm, but he doesn't say anything, just flicks his eyes from Rosa to Amy and back again as the guards leave and Amy starts up the van. They don't say anything until they're off prison property.

"Jake." Rosa says, her face a mask of worry. Jake just looks at her, confused and lost. Rosa has seen many men die, a few of them undeserving but even more deserving than not. She's seen terrible men under painful duress, and she's put terrible men under painful duress. Never before has Rosa seen someone she loved so, so dearly in so much fear and pain.

"Jake?" She asks, her voice softer now. His eyes drop down to the floor, his fingers fumbling with each other in his hands.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Amy watches with apprehensive fear when the doctor comes back into the room. He'd asked to see Jake privately, to keep the room as uncrowded as possible while Jake was vulnerable.

When the doctor walks back in, his eyes are set firmly on Amy's, his expression grim.

"Well, there's good news and there's bad."

Amy could laugh at the cliche and she knew Jake would if he even knew where the fuck he was. But instead, Jake is sitting in a hospital bed, shaking even harder than he was when he'd been loaded up into the van.

Amy's throat is dry, or she'd ask what the bad news was first. Luckily, Holt beats her to it.

"He's suffered extreme trauma. It appears as though he's suffered a grade three concussion, with repeated injuries that halted any healing. Jacob has numerous bone fractures, including but not limited to the majority of his rib cage, his wrist, his radius, and his cheekbone. He has moderate organ bruising, it appears as though he's been burned quite severely on his upper left arm, and the damage along his throat suggests he's been subjected to force feeding. Some of his injuries... I haven't heard of coming from a prison since the early 1920's."

The doctor makes honest, direct eye contact with every one in the room.

"The good news?" Boyle croaks out.

"The good news is, outside of some scarring, he should be able to make a full recovery."

All the tension in the room drained. The nine-nine leaned on one another, caught boneless by relief.

"That being said"- The doctor said, and they all looked up at him once more - " The damage Jacob has received is... quite severe. Not just physically, but also... psychologically. I can justify keeping him in a residential center for a few weeks, until he's recovered some of his cognitive functions, but past that..." The doctor trails off, looks at them all again.

"Past that he'll be released back into his cell block." Holt finishes. The doctor nods.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jake wanted nothing more than to bring his fists down on his skull until he remembered everything. He could sleep here, in his private room in the woody area the facility lied in. Jake had time to think, to see Amy and Holt and Rosa and Terry, and to heal for the first time in who knew how long.

"Ames." He says one day, looking right at her even though it burns the animal in his head, "Thank you."

She melts, hugs him just tight enough that he feels safe, not so tight that it aggravates his battered torso. His arms clasp behind her back, and he wishes he could stay like this forever.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Holt and Amy solve his case before he has to go back to prison. Of course they do, they're his beautiful saving angels. Or maybe he's just high. Or maybe they're his beautiful saving angels and he's high?

His hand grasps Amy's. He's in the back of the car, on the ride home after his final surgery to fix the bone fragments that had been floating about in his arm.

He's safe, he thinks, her body warm against his, with Enya playing on the tape deck Gina refuses to throw out.

Safe

Chapter Text

It's not the violence, he thinks, it's the isolation.

There's an LED billboard outside his shitty apartment, streaming fuschia light into his living room. He's sitting on the same old ratty couch with that weird smell, staring straight forward at the wall.

His cover is blown. Paulie knows. Christiano told him the other day, right before Paulie left for the airport. Jake only knows because when he tried to beat the shit out of Christiano he hadn't seemed intimidated for shit, and anyone who's anyone knows Christiano is the weakest mother fucker above 32nd street. The point is: Jake is burnt.

The wall must've been white, once. The whole building was once new and shiny and clean. Jake's brow furrows as he takes in his apartment, considers what the time has done to it. The baseboards are now chipped, and dirt fill the cracks where shoes kicked at them. The walls are covered in stains that'll never come out again, the results of drunken arguments and swinging fists. One of the burners on the stove is missing, where the last tenant had gotten too high on smack or something worse, and in his euphoria he'd set down his hand on the red hot metal. Realizing the burnt skin could never be cleaned away, the owners must've opted to remove the fixture entirely.

Jacob Peralta, who was once the star detective in the New York 99th Precinct, is burnt, like the skin on the stove. His skin is mottled and scarred and grotesque and at some point his handler must've realized there was too much burnt skin on this case to clean away.

He'd opted to remove the fixture, entirely.

Jake's hands are dry, which he thinks is wrong. He's covered in a cold sweat, and the ratty couch that's just barely holding him up smells like old cheese. His hands clench the yellowed fabric next to his legs. When they do, they touch years of dirt and crumbs and misery.

He knows the procedure by now. They'll show up within the next few hours. He'd gotten lucky that Christiano had told Paulie right before Paulie had his big vacation; if it was any other time Jake would be dead by now.

But all vacations come to an end, and Paulie was returning. Paulie would take a minute to settle in, throw his bags into his huge home and command one of his many wives and girlfriends to unpack for him. Jake could see Paulie unwinding from the long flight in his study, spread out in his leather chair that he'd lean back in. Paulie would wrap his meaty, fleshy, fist around a small glass tumbler and knock back all the whiskey it could hold.

Then, once Paulie could access his rage, he'd be on Jake.

First would come the water boarding. The water, ice cold to knock the air out of his lungs, would also be mixed with salt to burn deep into his chest. They'd go like that for a while, up until Jake thought he was dead. But he'd never get that lucky.

Next would come the pliers. Paulie would cut off a few of Jake's fingers, remove a tooth or two, just until Jake had forgotten who he was in all the pain. And, if that didn't work, there was always the ice pick.

Next, of course, was the video. Paulie would start up his ancient VHS recorder, straight out of the 90s. Jake's mom had once used the exact same device to record Jake's first (failed) skateboard trick in the street in front of his house. He knew how well the horizontal lines, characteristic to all VHS recordings, would crawl up the screen and distort the images into something grotesque.

Paulie would record Jake, crying, alone, in pain. Jake could even imagine the lights in his apartment all being off, except for one that would illuminate his terrified, painful face. He'd try and beg for his life (or maybe for his death), but the air wouldn't move through his lungs like it used to. He'd sob and gasp like a fish, like an animal, until Paulie, sauntering through the frame, would place 3 sudden nails into his skull with the old nail gun.

That still wouldn't be the end. He'd get Jake at just the right parts. He'd lose all cognitive abilities, rational functioning, memory, then his bodily functions would go. He'd sit there, paralyzed, until his spinal cord finally ran out of blood and he died.

Knowing how it would go down didn't make Jake feel any better. How could it?

He'd called his handler a few days ago, as soon as Christiano had found out. But no response.

Jake Peralta, the burnt skin of the NYPD. May he rest in peace.

Sitting on the ratty couch, Jake's (still) dry hand clutched his service gun. He'd kept it under his pillow, always, always living in fear that this very day would come.

Jake Peralta weighed his options. He could:
A. Go out in a blaze of glory. He could (try to) shoot every single one of those fucking goons until they over took him, swarming like the bugs they were.
B. Kill himself before he could give them the satisfaction.

Jake took a long moment to consider. After all, this was possibly the heftiest decision of his life.

Then, he put his beautiful, trusty gun to his temple, hand shaking harder than ever against the safety on the weapon he promised to only use whenever absolutely necessary. Jake squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to think about the grisly death that would otherwise await him. Through that awful thought, though, was a memory.

Working at the 99, late one night years ago. The entire team was working some case, some low brow thief that the commissioner insisted they put 100% of their workforce into. Himself and his coworkers sat, reading through the data, the analysis, for hours on hours until the black and white pages in front of him looked more like grey blobs than letters.

Eventually, Boyle mumbled something and left. They'd all shrugged him off, figured he needed to go home to Nikolaj and they wouldn't blame him for it. As the night bore on, they circulated theories and un-did their ties, loosened their belts, leaned back in their swivel chairs.

And Boyle did return, with some weird Slovakian donuts from a niche restaurant that he claimed was only open for an hour in the dead of night.

Laughing and joking and eating those disgusting, yet oddly addicting donuts, Jake had felt family.

In that shitty apartment, with that god damn gun against his god damn head, Jake's eyes teared up at the memory of his family. Were they thinking of him, now that he was a full year out? Did they replace him on the team?

Jake considered that thought for a moment too. The scene changed, Boyle came back with donuts and they all let loose except it wasn't Jake in Jake's chair, it was an imposter, good god! It was a stranger! Amy tucked her hair behind both ears and corrected the stranger, the monster, on his grammar and Jake, hovering just overhead, felt so alone he could hardly bare it.

He could tell himself it wasn't real, it would be easy. Gina only had one Jake. Amy only had one Jake. Holt... was probably fine. But the point still stood.

His arms dropped into his lap.

" Hey Jakey!" Paulie was outside his door, now.

The cold sweat he'd felt earlier amplified. What was he supposed to do? Open his door and greet death with arms wide open? Or wait, wait for it to come busting through that thin barrier between his apartment and the world?

Jake, naturally, could never say no to a challenge. His beat up sneakers pounded against the dirty linoleum, and blood rushed through his ears faster than he could imagine while he stood before the door.

"I'm not mad, Jakey, really" Paulie said, now. His palm suddenly drenched itself with sweat. His body was cold, he couldn't think. If he opened up this door, he was accepting... everything.

If Paulie was sending those videos to the families of his victims, where would Paulie send Jakes? His mom died a few months ago. No luck there. It stung to think that Jake was the end of his mother's family line. How disappointed she would be in him. If only she'd knew how disappointed he was in himself.

Would the 99 take the video? After he was dead, would they come together and take the time to see Jake Peralta die? Would they mourn for him? With no one else to do that awful work, he hoped they would. The sum of Jake Peralta's life was approaching, fast. What if he'd eaten one more of those donuts? Wrapped his arms around Amy one more time?

He imagined the man at his desk. It really wasn't Jake's desk any more, and it honestly was never probably his entirely.

Jake opened the door.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When Rosa inspects the apartment of the vic, she's disgusted. The walls are the color of bile and the bathroom looks like it hasn't been cleaned in her lifetime. No cockroach would ever stoop to live in here. She's not alone in the apartment; there's the CSI team crawling around everywhere, and Amy must be on their asses about preserving the evidence because Rosa hasn't seen her in at least 20 minutes.

When Rosa finally meanders into the room of the crime, she sees the body and she stops all movement. The man is in his mid 30s, he's tied to a chair in what must've been the bed room. His face is so disfigured she can't make out any facial features. He's lean, but not too muscley. His hair, matted in blood, was black. He's five foot something, from her initial assessment.

He's also been dead at least a week. The body has begun to decompose in the humid summer air, and if death had a smell it would be better than this. She'd gag at it if she wasn't a stone cold bad ass. But, still, she does admit, it does get to her a little.

Right away she knows this is a mafia case. She knows the Toriatelli mafia enough to recognize this would've been one of their killings - anyone that lives on this side of town can recognize the markings. It's obvious down to the brand of nails protruding out of his forehead. She stops to look at the marks on the arm rests where the man's hands would've clawed for purchase against the pain being inflicted upon him. Not for the first time it dawns on her that this could be Jake, and not just in a metaphoric sense.

The horror spreads through her gut through her legs, rendering them weak and fragile. The description fits, everything fits. Before it can take hold of her completely, Rosa puts that to the back of her mind. After all, there's work to do.

She does look a little closer at the vic, though, trying to find some of Jake's moles on his arms or that scar just above his eye brow. But, a week into death, she knows Jake would be unrecognizable. Those distinctive marks would be overcome by the marred, marbled skin that's pulled taut against the gases trying to escape his body.

She knows where Jake's undercover apartment is. She knows he thinks no one knows, but of course she does. Rosa has her god damn ways. And this isn't that fucking apartment.

He could've moved some voice whispers into her mind, he could've moved and you haven't even bothered to check on him in weeks.

She'd spent long nights the first month Jake was gone, sitting just far enough away in a recycling series of dummy cars, using binoculars to look through Jake's windows and watch him dress his wounds as he found his footing in his undercover assignment. She made sure he was alright, knowing that if he wasn't she couldn't really do a damn thing anyway.

Within seconds of Amy entering the room Rosa can tell the same theory is working through her mind. Rosa expects an emotional outburst, expressions of fear and worry and guilt. She's grimly surprised to see Amy toughen up in front of her eyes and put the thoughts back, and Rosa follows suit.

Their eyes meet over the room. And Rosa knows Amy is her teammate (her family), because there are no other words said before they go to work inspecting the scene. They both know what they could find.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Amy, in her infinite brilliance, busts it wide open not twenty minutes later. A cell phone, hidden in the middle of the mattress, on it's last legs of battery. The phone is a generic, gas station brand, a burner. It reminds Rosa of her days in high school spending twenty minutes trying to conduct a two sentence long text on her Nokia phone.

When Amy flips it open, there's a missed call and a voicemail. She looks at Rosa once more, and plays the voicemail.

"Lou, Lee, Louie, what ever we decided on for the codeword, I'm burnt. I repeat, I'm burnt and I need extraction. Christiano told Paulie everything. I've got- I have a day, maybe two till they get me. I don't know how Christiano found out- I swear, I haven't cracked or anything. Louie you gotta get me outta here"

Jake's voice doesn't sound the same. This Jake is darker, deeper than before. He sounds terrified over the phone. Amy checks the date of the voicemail, sees it was sent two days prior.

They both connect the dots at the same time. Within seconds, they're out of the apartment, and Rosa doesn't have to even think to give Amy the directions to Jake's undercover apartment because she already knew.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Who knows how long he's been drowning. That's the first thought that hits Rosa's head as they bust in the front door and are confronted with the sight of Paulie standing over Jake as his head is being held under the surface of the water. Amy and Rosa probably arrived sooner than back up could even load into their cars. They've killed Paulie Toriatelli and sent bullets into the foreheads of the two men clutching Jake's shoulders before back up is half way there.

Jake hits the floor like a rag doll, weakly wheezing into the filthy flooring. His limbs are tangled with the bodies of his dead tormentors. He's clearly having trouble breathing, the tub of ice water still looming above him. His mouth is gaping, gasping like a trout. His hands scrabble for purchase, clenching and unclenching into the goons' blood soaked clothes, like he can't control his muscles at all. Rosa can hardly stop to try and remember whose blood that is in Jake's hair before her and Amy are hauling Jake away from the bloody tanglement.

When her hands first grip into his sopping wet shirt, he flinches away from her, eyes clouded by pain and fear. What worries her is that it doesn't seem to go away even when they've taken him out to the hall way and back up finally arrives to clear his prison (his would be grave?)

Jake still hasn't caught his breath, and when Rosa and Amy collapse next to him and lean his back up against the wall to help him breathe, he shrinks back and struggles in their grip. Rosa's toolkit of emotions tell her she needs to slap him to get him out of it, but some much more rational side of her brain tells her it wouldn't be very helpful in that moment.

Instead, Amy grabs some scissors and a trauma blanket from her emergency kit and cuts off Jakes ice cold shirt. He's stock still, pupils blown wide as we watches the blades of the scissors cut through his clothing. He's incredibly tense, and it occurs to Rosa that he's almost in the same sitting position he was when they'd entered the apartment. His chest is covered in bruises, and it looks like a few of his ribs have been caved in. Rosa knows he still doesn't know he's been saved from the way he clenches his eyes shut when the scissors reach the neck of his shirt.

Once the trauma blanket is around his shoulders they both back away, allow him the space to gain coherent thought. His breaths are ragged, and his brow is furrowed, caught between that awful terrified look he had and something more confused.

When the EMTs finally bother to show up, he panics and passes out when they come forward to assess him.

Rosa and Amy consider it a mercy.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When Jake Peralta wakes up, he's in the hospital. The bed underneath him is warm, and his torso is wrapped in clean, white bandages. He has two fluffy, white pillows propping up his head, and the sheets he's clutching are also starched and clean.

Ignoring the pain, he inhales deeply in relief. He can hardly remember anything after the first twenty minutes of the ice water, but miraculously he clearly must've survived. He cracks open an eye against the blinding flourescent lights above him, and his sight comes to rest on Boyle, sitting in a seat that has been pulled ridiculously close to the bed, reading a book to Nikolaj, who is sitting in his lap. Just behind them, on another cot, are Amy and Rosa, fast asleep. To his right is Terry, leaning over a table and deep in concentration in some pile of paperwork. In front of him is Holt, fixing him with a calm, collected stare. Jake finds solace in the knowledge that they don't need to talk.

After a year, deep in the isolation and violence and paranoia of the mafia. After his mom's death and the muted grief he could never process. After the beatings and the pain and the fundamentally changing lies and fear, Jake can still talk to his captain with a glance. Holt's eyes tell Jake, you're alright, you're safe, and you're loved. We're glad you're safe.

Jake hopes that Holt knows how relieved Jake is to be in the room with all of them, warm and clean and unburnt again. If the glint in Holt's eyes is any indication, the message is received. He melts into the bed, relishing in the tranquility of that moment. Jake thinks to himself, I am Jake Peralta, and I'm just fine.

Moments later, Scully and Hitchcock come bumbling into the room, their arms full of vending machine treasures, and they alert the team to Jakes awakeness.

He knows now, if he would've died, they would have mourned him.

Chapter Text

Detective Peralta was not looking very good. His head hung down onto his chest, his hair matted with grease, sweat, and blood. The white t-shirt he was wearing couldn't possibly be considered white ever again, and his arms were visibly mangled despite the poor video quality. He was breathing in long, shallow wheezes, clearly having trouble pulling air into his abused lungs. Jake was lightly shivering, though no one could tell if it would've been because of the blood loss or if it was below room temperature where he was held.

The 99 was crowded around Holt's computer screen, and if the situation was any different he'd tell them off about professional boundaries. The situation wasn't any different though. They were all tensed, uncomfortably leaning over one another to get a look at the fuzzy screen. Breathing on one another, it smelled like coffee and sweat and anxiety.

It had been 2 weeks since Seamus Murphy nabbed Peralta. 3 days since the first video came into Holts inbox, and then the videos started coming daily. They couldn't tell if they were being taped each day or if the video they were watching now was from two weeks ago. From the way the blood was drying on Jake's forehead it had to at least have been a few hours since they would've gotten to him.

"Can't believe they haven't found you yet boy-o." Seamus Murphy strolled on screen, cattle prod in hand. Jake hadn't woken up yet, and Murphy spared the camera a gleeful expression before jamming the prod into Jake's gut.

He jerked in the rickety chair, his arms tied behind him convulsing painfully. And oh, yup, he peed himself.

Holt wanted to look away, spare his detective some dignity. He knew Peralta hated the squad seeing him weak. Despite himself he watched on.

The gag in Jake's mouth was rubbing the edges of his mouth raw. He was screaming behind it, and a moment later Murphy withdrew the prod and continued to circle around the terrified detective.

"You know there Jakey, I'm just starting to think they might not be looking too hard for you."

Jake's head, clouded with pain and probably hunger and probably an incredible amount of fear, swiveled to look at Murphy and gauge how much the other man was messing with him. Murphy, still strolling, inspected the tip of the cattle prod. Holt couldn't help but notice Jake desperately trying to contort his body away from Murphy, only managing to twist his torso in the chair.

Holt knew Jake very well, 7 years of working with him closely meant he understood very well how Jake thinks. He knew Jake well enough to understand that what Murphy was saying was landing in Jake's head. Taking root there.

"I actually thought they would've found you by now. It's been, what, a few weeks? How long would it have taken you to find one of them? Probably not a few weeks."

Jakes eyes were still focused on the prod. Holt willed Murphy to shut the fuck up and give his detective a break.

"I kind of like the idea of just keeping you for myself" Murphy murmured, mostly to himself. Jake was trying to shrink into himself in the chair.

Murphy tapped Jake's cheek with the prod, which wasn't powered up if the lack of convulsions was anything to go by. That didn't stop Jake's full body flinch, or the way he started hyperventilating, thick streams of tears winding down his cheeks.

"Oh buddy, Jakey, don't cry. We could be family now." Murphy stroked Jake's face with the prod, the detective shaking like a leaf in the dimly lit video. A spark flew, the electricity shocking Jake and he screamed into the gag like it was the last noise he'd ever make.

The video ended.

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They'd gotten him at home. Amy had to go into work early for a case, and Jake was going to take the opportunity to clean up the place. When she got back from work that night she'd already be in a good mood, as she always was when she got a few extra hours of work in. Then she'd be in an even better mood seeing a clean home.

The last few weeks had been rough, and Jake just wanted... to do something for her. To show her he cared.

His headphones in (Jake knew himself too well to ever trust himself with airpods), he was mumbling some stupid rap song from the 90s, washing dishes and thinking about why ska ever went out of style when he was clubbed in the back of the head. After that he was a goner.

Amy came home to a slightly cleaner home that evening, with the exception of the shattered plate on the kitchen tile and a smear of red brown dried blood. The lock on the front door was unrecognizable.

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Jake woke up in a cell, out of the chair he'd been stuck in for god knows how long. He was still in the same, grimy clothes, still covered in his own blood (and... other things). And he was still so beat to shit he could hardly lift his head without the room spinning.

There was a single, child size mattress on the floor, which was also beat to shit. A small bucket a few feet away that looked like it may have some water in it. The room was only lit by the small window about 10 feet up on the wall, too far away for Jake to even try and look out of it. If his ribs were less bruised (splintered, wrecked) then he'd try and wave a hand out of it for help. But as things were he couldn't even heave his body up.

He didn't know how long it'd been since he'd been taken. In all honesty, the time just blurred together. A symptom of the many head injuries he's received and the lack of any time telling technology.

He shivered, the room was freezing. The shiver jostled his injuries and Jake let out an involuntary, low moan.

He tried twitching his fingers, wishing them to do anything for him. As if his fingers alone could drag him out of here, back to his life with his friends and his family and his Amy.

The slight twitching of his index finger shot pain into his broken middle finger, and he counted his lucky stars his ring finger hadn't been broken or else he's sure his wedding ring would've fucked up the swelling and then he'd be down a finger.

There was a camera in the corner, near the ceiling. His eyes found it after some adjustment.

Who was watching? Murphy? He still didn't understand who Murphy was, what Jake had done to him, what the man's relationship with Holt or Amy or the 99 was. All Jake knew is that he was the punishment for something. And, hey, better him than Rosa, Boyle, Holt, Terry. Amy. Far better it be him.

"It's been nearly a month there boyo" Murphy said. Jake flinched at the voice, again aggravating his already fucked up body.

"I figured I'd just let you there. The truth is, I sent them the address of where to find ya a few days ago. Maybe you just weren't good enough punishment, eh? Who should I go for next?"

The gag is gone from his mouth, Jake realizes. He can talk now.

After a month of screaming, his throat is sore and voice scratchy.

"I'm sorry, don't go for anyone else. I can do better" He says, trying to muster some volume and probably failing. He doesn't know what it is exactly he can do better, but he'd rather be alone in this than drag one of his loved ones.

"Very convincing there, Jakey. Let's give it another few days eh?"

Jake can't respond. His overtaxed throat calls it quits and Jake, lying limp halfways on halfways off a yellowed toddler mattress, enthusiastically nods and wishes for more pain.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Holt, if you're hearing this, I'm sorry. I know I can do better, I'm sorry."

Holt watches the feed keenly. A few days ago they got a livestream of a cell Jake was being dragged into. The boy was completely limp, visibly mangled.

"Please come get me, I'm so sorry"

Jake's pleading eyes were staring straight in the camera, and the desperation writ plain on his face made Holt's skin crawl. The detective thought they would leave him there to die. He'd been beaten to believe that he'd been left there, in pain, alone, cold, to die.

"Holt" Jake was moaning, low, crying, begging.

As was Holt's new, terrible habit, he wished to turn away and shut off his computer but couldn't bring himself to.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He begs regularly, now. Cries and begs for someone to come get him. Murphy told him the 99 could see the recording once, and for a few days he did try to stay dignified. Murphy's goons would come in and beat the shit out of him as per usual, but Jake tried to still keep some integrity through it. However much he could, at least. He must've lost at least 30 pounds since this whole fucking deal started.

But if they were watching, and they saw this, and they knew he was in pain, and they knew where he was, why weren't they coming? What did he do? He though they were his family.

So he started begging with them, pleading.

He didn't want to die in here. He didn't want to die in here. He really wanted to die, now, but god in heaven above he didn't want to die in here.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They do find him, eventually.

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"NYPD, put your hands up!" Amy's barking out orders, going through the abandoned prison. Rosa's on clean up duty, cuffing the perps probably a little too tight, reading them their rights.

Amy's on a mission.

Her and Holt are stalking through the halls, guns raised. Checking each cell as they walk by.

They eventually find the solitary cells. They eventually find Jake, in the solitary cells. When they walk in, light floods through the room and he's flinching, recoiling, trying to twitch away from the door but he's too injured, and he can't.

"Detective Peralta" Holt is rushing forward, on his knees, gently laying a hand on Jake's shoulder, despite the full body flinch that follow

As Jake's eyes adjust, he starts to weep in earnest.

Jake's weak fingers are clutching at Holt's clothes, clinging as though Holt is about to walk away and leave him there on the floor.

"Please, Captain, please" He's wheezing, and Holt can barely recognize him through both of his black eyes, his swollen face, the scar where he was electrocuted on his cheek.

"D'n't leave me, d'n't leave" Jake is trying to say. Holt is trying to flag down the paramedics, but his diverted attention panics the detective. As Holt goes to stand, Jake collapses back onto the floor and grips onto the bottom of Holt's pants. Amy's still frozen by the dor.

Holt is shouting for the paramedics to come, and Jake is frantic, crying begging Holt not to leave him. He smells awful, his hair has grown, he's a skeleton in the same clothes he was in when he was taken.

Holt crouches down once more next to the man he thinks of as a surrogate son. Jake is shaking, using all of his strength to hang onto Holt.

"Detective Peralta."

"Jake."

Jake looks up at him, then, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He's desperate, still, nothing like the Jake that had gone missing, a ghost. But he locks eyes with Holt and Holt looks at him as though he were a human being and Holt cards one hand through Jake's hair, somehow aware of the never healed gash in the back of his head and he avoids it.

And Jake leans into the touch, still afraid Holt will walk out the door but also giving into the weak, shallow hope that Holt will save him.