I'm loving Season 3 so far because Jake and Amy are finally happy (!) but I'm also a huge fan of angst that leads to happy endings. So here's something I've been working on periodically for the past few months. Let me know what you think! I would love to have made someone cry.

Disclaimer: I don't own Brooklyn 99.

You're already a little tipsy when you decide to make your way to Shaw's, where you know you'll probably find at least a couple members of the team. It's been a really rough day—long hours, like always, and Jake being kind and warm and entirely unflirtatious, which has become like always too.

You hate it.

Your stomach clenches and your heart aches as you shuffle down the sidewalk, thinking about how much things have changed between you two. He used to be your best friend, your one constant, the one who turned your plans upside down and made you laugh until you were teary and held your hand after that one horrible day when you didn't find the little girl in time. But things are different ever since he told you he liked you, and then you were dating Teddy and he was dating Sophia. You're both single again, but things are still weird. He's keeping his distance, you can tell, and you miss him more than you've ever missed anything.

You try to pull yourself together enough to walk into the bar before realizing that you're still in yoga pants and a giant sweatshirt with some unidentifiable script across the chest. Could your night get any worse?

No matter. You're determined. Alcohol won't take the pain away but maybe it'll at least take the edge.

Your slightly tipsy haze allows you to navigate the throngs of people and make it to the bar without actually seeing if anyone you know is there. You tell the bartender you don't care, just something strong, and whatever he gives you is dark and smells like fire but you down it anyway and don't hiss at the burn because in comparison to your shredded heart what really hurts? You order another.

"Amy!" a voice exclaims, and you drag your weary eyes over to see Gina leaning up against the counter and grinning at you. She seems to be at the same stage of drunkenness as you—tipsy, but not entirely out of your wits yet. Her brows furrow in uncharacteristic concern when she see your face. "Hey girl, you look rough."

The corners of your mouth turn down at the words and when you blink a tear escapes from the eyes you didn't even realized had filled up. "I don't want to talk about it," you murmur softly in such a sad voice you feel bad for yourself, your voice rough and scratchy with tears. "I thought maybe it'd help if I just drank it all away."

Gina shakes her head. "Nu uh, girlfriend, I really don't think that's what you need right now. I'm at a table with Jake, Rosa, and Boyle, come sit with us! We'll cheer you up."

You flinch, and your face becomes even sadder at the mention of him. Gina catches on. "Ah," she acknowledges simply. She gently grips your chin and turns your face toward her, forcing her to meet your eye. "Amy," in a serious tone you didn't even know she possessed, "you need to just tell him, 'kay? That's the first step. If he says no—which I really don't think he will, but if he does—well, that sucks, but at least then it's out in the open."

The alcohol sloshing around in your mostly empty stomach is impairing you sufficiently that you don't even catch onto her doubt at Jake not accepting you, and instead you just run a hand wearily over your face, catching onto some tears that spilled when you weren't paying attention. "I think it'd be worse to have him turn me down than not to know," you whisper sadly, staring down at the second drink that has appeared in your hand. A tear drips into the liquid and you admire the pretty color marred by rhythmic ripples. You sniff loudly and force yourself to meet Gina's eyes. "Don't worry about me," you say with an attempt at a smile. "After tonight, I've decided, I'm going to get over him. For real this time."

Gina's expression is utterly disbelieving, but finally she just shakes her head. "I can't force you," she acknowledges. She motions for the bartender and has him get you a glass of water, making you to drink the entire thing before she stands. "Drink all you want, Amy, but it's not going to help. Stay safe, okay?"

You deliberately don't watch her walk away because then you'll see him and you might do something stupid like start crying (harder, tears are still dripping down your face periodically) or jump on the countertop and declare your love to everyone in the building.

You sit quietly for awhile, sipping your drink every so often and hating it every time. Your goal had been to get rip roaring drunk but you've never been very good at that to begin with, even when it counts, apparently. Your breakup with Teddy only called for one glass of white wine with your dinner that night. If there was ever a night to be out of your mind it would be now, when the realization that you love a man who doesn't return the feeling is sitting heavy on your chest, but of course you're too practical, too rigid to even do this when it counts.

And there it is, you're back to berating yourself like you have been a lot lately. These constant thoughts about why he fell out of love with you, because he's told you as much. You're boring and practical and organized, while he's spontaneous and messy and light and life. The fact is, if you'd gotten your head out of your ass a year ago you'd have had someone who actually liked you the way you were while still being exciting enough to shake things up. Thing is, Jake had wised up by the time you came to your senses. The irony isn't lost on you that you hadn't gotten to that point when he was there, and he'd moved on by the time you caught up.

Story of your life. Always chasing after something and never quite getting it.

You've just taken another sip of…whatever this disgusting concoction is, when in your peripheral vision you see someone slip into the stool beside you. You honestly couldn't care less because, one, no one's going to be hitting on the crying drunk girl and, two, you're kind of a wreck and they'll see that right off and run the other way.

"Didn't know you were the kind of person who liked it hard, Santiago."

You turn quickly to see it's Jake sitting next to you, of all people in the entire freaking bar. He has a sort of dazed look on his face. "Wow, you may not believe me but I did not mean for that to come out the way it did." He slaps his palm to his forehead. "My God."

Despite yourself you can't help but chuckle softly at his discomfort and his proclivity for turning literally anything into a dirty joke.

"What I was trying to say," he continues, dragging his hand down his face, "is that I didn't think you liked strong liquor." His face softens as he sees your tear-stained face. "Amy," he breathes softly, and you curse your heart for squeezing the way it does at his gentle tone. "Gina said you were sad about something," he offers. "Wanna talk about it?"

Your laugh is a tiny bit hysterical and his eyes widen as you pull yourself together again and assume a more serious expression. Talking to him would kind of both fix and magnify all your problems. It's a tricky line you're walking here.

You sigh, allowing your face to fall again because maintaining any other emotion is currently impossible. "Do you think it gets any easier?"

"What?"

"Love," you whisper to your drink, glancing back at him too quickly for him to hide the way his eyes widen and then his shoulders drop dejectedly. You let out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah. Me neither."

He gnaws on his lip and meets your eyes again after a moment. "I don't think it gets much easier," he admitted, "but maybe eventually it's not quite as difficult." He shrugs. "Sorry. That's all I've got."

You nod quickly and turn back to your drink as another couple tears fall because you wish that wasn't it, you wish he had some other words for you, words like Let's give it another shot and I still like you, Amy.

The sigh that rushes from your lips sounds so heartbroken you can see the aching sadness in his eyes when you look at him again, offering your drink to him. "Do you want this?" you ask softly. "I think it'd be better if I just went home." You're not going to feel any better there, but at least you won't have him staring at you with that sad, earnest expression that breaks your heart again because you know he wishes he could help but he doesn't love you anymore so really nothing helps.

He shakes his head and takes some money out of his pocket to settle your tab. "Ames, let me take you home," he offers, holding out his hand to you. "I want to make sure you get back safely."

You're reminded again of how much you lost with him, how much potential and could-have-beens are gone now. One of these days he's going to come to the station with a goofy smile on his face and tell you he got laid last night and she's perfect and beautiful, and they'll get married and have 2.5 kids and a dog, and he'll be happy, as happy as maybe you could have made him if you'd ever had a real chance. You can't imagine ever falling for someone like you have for him, so you'll have to watch it all from the sidelines and go home to your cats and your doilies and your "grandma lifestyle", as he's coined it.

It's really no wonder you start crying again after going down that depressing rabbit trail.

"Amy," Jake breathes, his voice wistful and sad as you let out a tiny sob, refusing to meet his eyes. "Amy," he repeats, leaning forward and brushing his fingertips against your cheekbone, "tell me what's wrong."

"I love you," you choke out in a wet, teary voice because things really can't get much worse, you've decided, and he might as well know so he can let you down gently next time he sees you sober. His eyes widen and his mouth opens to say something but you interrupt him. "I love you, Jake," you whisper sadly, dropping your head to stare at your clenched hands, "and loving you sucks."

You're on your feet almost instantly, wobbling just slightly but backing away anyway as he stands too and tries to reach out and steady you. "I'll be fine getting home," you ensure, turning and practically running out of the bar, ignoring the desperate way he calls your name.