Chapter Text
He can’t believe this is happening.
Like. Any of it.
It isn’t enough that Holt is gone or that Dozerman is dead, but the Vulture is his new captain? And he’s demanding that Jake break up with Amy? It has to be some kind of sick prank, some kind of grueling psychological evaluation that Wuntch has ordered on all of them as a ‘screw you’ to Holt.
He sinks back against his couch, sitting the way he always made fun of Holt for sitting (that is to say, bolt-upright with his hands on his knees, probably looking thoroughly, stiffly uncomfortable), and his heart aches dully in his chest. The memory of Holt’s bittersweet smile hits him again like a punch to the gut and he has to fight off yet another weird urge to bury his face in his couch cushions and moan in misery.
There’s a sound in his kitchen - a cabinet door snapping closed and a half-irritated sigh - that draws his attention to the right and the corner of his mouth up. He watches Amy search through the cabinets for two clean plates and wonders if he should tell her that they’re all still in the dishwasher, clean but yet to be put away properly. In the end, he decides against it; exasperated Amy has always been his favorite Amy.
“Do you even own plates?” She asks, letting her frustration color her voice in that trademark Santiago style, hands on her hips and foot tapping an erratic beat against his linoleum floor. He feels a little guilty - she’s had a hell of a day, too (a hell of a week, really. Every night that week was spent working late at the precinct, trying to keep up with all the paperwork that comes with going through three captains in less than a week, and this is the first night since their first date that they’ve both had off) - but it’s like some kind of weird natural instinct to tease her just a little bit no matter what’s going on around them.
He snorts. “Uh, yeah, Santiago. What d’you take me for, a caveman?”
“I found a bunch of black sticks in a bag that said ‘carrots’ on it in one of these drawers. I didn’t even know carrots could rot like that, Jake.”
For some reason, the way she says his name in the midst of such a domestic complaint makes his breath catch in his throat. He takes her appearance in; she’s wearing her yoga pants and one of her old academy shirts and her hair is up in a loose pony tail, but one of his over-sized half-zipped maroon hoodies hangs off her smaller frame. She’d borrowed his hoodies before, but this is the first time he’s been allowed to openly stare. Amy Santiago is barefoot in his kitchen wearing his clothes demanding to know where his plates are. This is real, this is happening. She arches an eyebrow, clearly ready for one of his patented witty retorts, but it just won’t come to him. “Try the dishwasher,” he says calmly.
Her brow smooths over; her surprise at his early concede to defeat is evident. She trots backwards slowly and disappears beneath the counter as she bends to open his dishwasher. Moments later she pops back up, triumphant grin on her face, two plastic plates held aloft over her head like trophies.
Minutes later they’re seated comfortably on the ground, backs against his couch, coffee table pulled up and take out feast spread across the surface. Initially it’s no different than any other night they’ve spent like this; they turn on Magnum, P.I. and he loudly mourns his inability to grow a mustache while she laughs and throws egg roll bits at his head. But then the food is gone and Amy leans back with a contented sigh and suddenly it occurs to him that he can actually act upon the urge he always gets when she does that to sling his arm around her shoulders.
So he does. He keeps his eyes glued to the screen, but from his peripheral vision he sees her glance at him. His face heats up when she scoots a little closer; he’s positive he’s red all the way down his neck when she leans her head against his shoulder and sighs again. It’s always been a nice sound, one that reassures him that she’s on the opposite end of the gradient from her scary panic moments, and warmth bubbles in his chest at the realization that she feels completely comfortable being this close to him.
Thoughts of her face the moments before he’d kissed her for the first time as Amy rather than Dora come back to him. He’s always thought she has an expressive face, and the only other time he’d seen it so contorted with fear and uncertainty was the night her brother Luis was in a car wreck. He’d been there for her that night (he’d driven her to the hospital, worried that her trembling hands would lead to yet another accident and that was really the last thing any of the Santiagos needed that night) and he’d been there for her again in the evidence locker.
And, inevitably, he thinks about Holt again.
“This is weird,” Amy says, snapping him back to the present situation before he can get too lost down that chest-ache-inducing rabbit hole. She’s shifted down a bit, leaning more of her weight against his chest, and his heart thrums pleasantly. He runs his hand up her upper arm lightly and marvels at the warmth he can feel radiating from her even through his hoodie sleeve.
“What is?”
“This. Us. It’s weird.”
His heart clenches.
“Not bad weird! Not bad. Sorry,” she reaches up with her left hand to cover his right against her arm, and he automatically lifts his fingers to lace through with hers. “I just meant…I can’t believe this is actually happening.”
“Yeah?”
“Actually, it’s more like I can’t believe how easy this is. It’s never been this easy for me before. Should it be this easy?”
“I don’t think there’s a ‘should be’ or ‘shouldn’t be,’ Ames, I think it just…is.” He can still feel the gears in her brain spinning overtime, so he turns his head and kisses the top of her head. “We’re together, now. Romantic stylez.” He says into her hair. “I can kiss your head when you’re overthinking.” She chuckles and twists slightly; he feels the muscles in her upper arm twitch, like she was going to reach around him, but decided against it at the last possible second. “You can do this,” he reaches down and plucks her right wrist up off of her lap and pulls it across to his left side, grinning at the sound of her laughter, “and I can do this,” he turns a little awkwardly to wrap both of his arms around her shoulders and squeezes her in the weirdest side-hug he’s ever participated in.
“Definitely weird,” she says, face half-smashed against his neck, but he can hear the smile in her voice.
“I don’t even have to hide my stupid googly eyes from you anymore,” he says once his grip around her has loosened to something a bit more comfortable.
“You weren’t very good at hiding them before,” she says, playfully poking his side.
“Yeah, well, now I don’t even have to try. I can hold your hand and stare at you all day long and we can come home and hang out and do this,” he squeezes her briefly again. “It’s not even a dream.”
He says that last bit mostly to himself, because sometimes it still feels that way. Amy’s quiet for a second; he feels her eyelashes flutter against his neck as she blinks rapidly. Her arm tightens around his waist, and she lifts her head up to quickly peck the corner of his jaw.
“If you do any of that at work, Rosa might kill you.” She says after another moment of silence.
“Yeah, but think about how happy it would make Charles.”
“Ugh,” Amy groans against his chest. “He is way too involved in your love life, man.”
Jake shrugs, grinning like a fool. Amy’s shampoo smells like strawberries - or maybe grapefruit, he really can’t tell - and he inhales the scent deeply and shamelessly. Her head tilts back and he immediately leans in for a kiss, long and slow and deep because it’s something he has been wanting to do for the last five days (and the six years before that) and, finally, there is absolutely no one there to stop him.