A/N: A story born out of my selfish desire for more stories featuring jealous Jake, protective Jake and dancing Jake. Also, I own nothing.

She feels eyes on her from across the room again and swears under her breath. Two thoughts slither across her mind: one, Peralta is going to blow her cover before her op even starts, and two, Peralta is not what she needs tonight.

It's two months into Jake's undercover op and things almost feel normal at the nine-nine. Everyone has struggled with his absence in their own way, and Amy's way has been (unsurprisingly) to throw herself into her work. She thinks even the captain is surprised at the tenacity with which she attacks new cases lately. But then, it's easier to think about work than anything else. Amy has always been good at her job. She was the best part-time associate at the ice cream shop when she was sixteen, and she's been the best at every job since. This one is no different.

(Except that at this job, there's Jake.)

He's sitting at the bar, idly spinning the ice cubes in what she'd bet is a scotch – his go-to when he wants to drink tough. Spinning the ice cubes and watching her. It's the third time she's felt his eyes, and she's getting irritated. She and Rosa are casing this club for a sting they're planning next weekend. They've come undercover to the place a few times, getting comfortable with the layout and familiar with the Saturday night bartenders and bouncers. Rosa is outside right now, chatting with the guy at the front door – he's been a good source of information on the dealers they're planning to bust, and he thinks he's impressing Rosa with the intel. Amy decided to come in and mingle with the crowd for a while. This club is known for its regulars, and first-time visitors stick out; if a few nights of letting a few drunk dudes grind on her means the difference between a successful bust and a failed one, Amy supposes it's an occupational hazard she'll have to accept.

She's been on the floor about ten minutes and noticed Jake as soon as she stepped under the lights. He's with a few of Ianucci's goons – Amy hasn't seen any of them at the bar before and thinks it's simply an unfortunate coincidence they chose tonight to show up. If Peralta knows what's best for her and for himself, he'll stick with the gang and stop staring at her. She shoots him a glare and thinks she sees his lips quirk up in a smile before he turns back to his 'friends.'

Amy redirects her attention to the man with too much chest hair in front of her. He's making his eyebrows do something she infers is supposed to be sexy, and keeps trying to move his hands from her waist down and around to her ass. She accidentally-on-purpose mashes his toe with the heel of her shoe and melts into the crowd, hesitating a moment before deciding to head to the bar and grab a water. Rosa will be at least another ten, and she can take a moment to relax.

Amy approaches the bar and leans over to catch the barkeep's attention, but he's all the way down on Peralta's end. Except Peralta is now behind her. Amy sucks in a quick breath. Surely, surely Jake is not reckless enough to –

"Hey, Vanessa!" Jake shouts enthusiastically, bringing her in for a quick hug. "Been forever, right? You missed the reunion – it was awesome, you should have been there!" His eyes are too bright, his smile too wide. Amy realizes she looks confused and swiftly shifts from a puzzled frown to a distant but amicable congeniality. He's pretending she's an old classmate. He must not be concerned about any of his companions recognizing her – they're still far down the bar and don't appear interested in Jake's detour.

"Yeah, I was sorry to miss it – work kept me pretty busy," she says, gracing him with a small but genuine smile. "How've you been, Jake?"

"Oh, you know, same old, same old," he says. "Not a lot has changed on this end since high school. Still crushing it." He smirks and winks, and Amy scrunches her nose. Jake's cover personality is, apparently, identical to his own.

"By 'crushing it,' do you mean getting shot down by girls and fired from your job?" she asks sweetly. "Because that's what I heard from…Stacy." Eh. Lame finish, but at least the dig landed.

Jake, maddeningly, seems unperturbed. In fact, his smirk morphs into a true, wide Peralta smile. "Vanessaaaaa," he purrs. "You've got it all wrong. Stacy's been telling you these lies? I don't know that I remember her from high school. Help me out. Scale of one to ten - how hot was she?" Jake tilts his head down and waggles his eyebrows. Rolling her eyes, Amy looks away down the bar toward the door, scanning for Rosa. No sign.

"Oh, Vanessa. Did I hurt your feelings?" Jake asks too seriously. "Now, listen. Stacy meant nothing to me." Playfully, he adds, "You've gotta know I only had eyes for you." She feels Jake pick her hand up off the bar, probably to kiss it or exhibit some other flirtatious idiocy – but nothing happens and she turns back to him, curious. He's looking at her hand, and Amy watches him slowly rub his thumb across her knuckles. His eyes fly up to meet hers and Amy feels a low swoop in her stomach.

Movement to her left distracts her from the change in Jake's demeanor - her dance partner has made his way to the bar, sitting heavily on a stool. He looks more menacing in the low light, and Amy can tell he's been drinking for a while. "Hey, doll," he slurs. "You stepped on me out there. Why don't you let me buy you a drink and make it up to me?"

"Oh," Amy trills, struggling to shift gears from her almost-moment with Jake. "I'm so sorry about that. But I actually – um - "

"Sorry, man," Jake says, suddenly too close behind her left shoulder. His hand is resting, feather-light, on her right hip; it's almost hovering. Amy senses the possessiveness of the gesture and feels oddly grateful. "We're playing Red Rover out back and I just selected Vanessa here for my team. Better luck next time, bro." His tone is light but firm. The guy at the bar glowers.

"I had my eye on this one," the guy says fuzzily, now addressing Jake.

"Gross," Jake replies cheerily. "But I don't think it matters to anyone involved in this situation besides you." He starts to gently steer Amy away from the bar by the hip, propelling her in the opposite direction. "See you, drunkface."

As they turn away from him, the drunk latches onto Amy's wrist and attempts to pull her toward him. Amy, not expecting the contact, stumbles forward on her heels; the man's breath is in her face, hot and boozy, and his grip on her wrist is vicelike. Furious, she wrenches her arm away from him and opens her mouth to tell him where to go, but suddenly he is…not there.

Amy looks to her side and sees Jake, all laughter gone from his face, staring down at her aggressor. It appears Jake has kicked his barstool out from under him. People close to them are staring, and the bartender is eyeing them. She touches Jake lightly on the arm, and his eyes lift to meet hers. The intensity she sees there makes her breath hitch.

"He's down, Peralta," she murmurs. "Let's move out." Loudly, so anyone watching them would hear, she exclaims in a girlish voice, "Oh my god, this dude can't hold his liquor! Jake, let's dance and get away from this guy."

Jake looks down at the man again. Amy notices his hands are trembling very slightly. She slips one of her own into his and pulls him toward the dance floor. She scans the crowd and maneuvers them toward a place far enough away from the speakers that they can hear each other talk, but crowded enough that they shouldn't draw attention. Amy hesitates a moment, then tosses her arms lightly over Jake's shoulders, linking her hands behind his neck; she moves a bit to the beat but Peralta's in another world, eyes flinty, still staring at the drunk at the bar.

"Jake," Amy hisses, "if we're gonna be out here you have to dance with me. Come on."

Jake visibly shakes himself, mutters "oh – right. Sorry," and his hands come to her. Amy gives silent thanks that he has some semblance of rhythm, because he guides her against him in time with the music. It isn't how they'd danced undercover in the ballroom competition – she's much closer to him, and both of his hands are on her, and if she gives herself the opportunity she could read something less than innocent in the pressure his fingertips push into her hips.

"So…" Amy half-yells, bringing one hand away from Jake's neck and wiping sweat from the back of her own. The plastic hair of the wig she's wearing is plastered to her skin and itches like hell. "What brought you out to the bar tonight, Jake?" She wants to talk to him, get a sense of how he's doing, but it's going to be difficult. She reminds herself that Vanessa, Jake's high school flame (flame? Why has she decided in this role play that they used to be involved?), could ask some pretty good questions without raising suspicion.

"Oh, you know," Jake says loudly. "The same noble purpose of a Saturday night for any young stallion – trying to meet a pretty girl." He shifts her in his arms so that her back is to him; the music thumps in her temples. She feels Jake drag one nail across the nape of her neck, towing the itchy hair all to one side. "This wig is horrible on you," he murmurs, and Amy can hear the glee in his voice. She knows without looking that he is smiling at the back of her head. "But as bad as it is, and as happy as that makes me, I kinda wish I could see…ya know…you." He pauses. Amy says nothing, continuing to move against him, waiting. "I've missed you, Amy Santiago," he finishes tentatively, voice low in her ear. Amy shivers. Since Jake's words to her outside the precinct before he started his op, she isn't quite sure what she feels for her partner, but she's no longer sure she can say the buck stops at friendship.

Amy turns in Jake's arms and lifts her eyes to his. She wants to say something meaningful, but has no idea where to start. The environment, for many reasons, is not ideal for this conversation. They're both undercover, the music is so loud, and soon Rosa – shit, Rosa. Surely she's gotten all the information she needs by now. She's probably looking for her. Amy checks her watch. Jake's eyes follow hers and stop at her wrist, which has shaded a blotchy, angry red from the drunk's grip. "Hey – are you all right? Do you need to put ice on that?" he asks, his voice laced with concern. "That creep may have really hurt you." He sounds simultaneously disgusted and anxious, and Amy can't help but feel touched at how worried he seems to be over her.

"It's fine, Jake," she assures him. "I'm a big girl. I've experienced much worse than some loser twisting my arm. I can take care of myself."

"Title of your sex tape?" he asks hopefully. Amy laughs, and the wattage of his smile goes up.

"Not your best, and I should have been prepared for that, I guess, but we're both out of practice," she admits. "High school jokes die hard, hm?"

"All I can think about now is that you said 'die hard,'" Jake replies. Amy laughs again and Jake seems to take this as permission to move ever so slightly closer to her. His hands feel big on her waist. Amy forgets Rosa for a moment and rests a hand on Jake's chest, feeling his heartbeat. It is good to see him. She worries about him more than she would ever admit, even to the rest of the nine-nine. Undercover work can change a person, and Jake is someone she's decided she doesn't want changed. He's looking at her like he's drinking her in, and she realizes that as nice as it is for her to see him, this impromptu meeting likely means much more to him. He is isolated with the Ianuccis, unable to have contact with any of the people he's made his surrogate family save Gina.

Just as Amy thinks Jake's gaze may literally ignite her, his eyes lift above her head, scanning the other side of the room. "Shit," he mutters, watching something Amy can't see. Leaning close to her ear, he says quietly, "It's time to pull the classic Peralta move that results in the classic Peralta brush-off. Don't hate me, okay?"

Jake straightens up, grabs both of Amy's shoulders and hauls her to him. Before she can register exactly what's happening, Jake is kissing her – a searing, scorching kiss that has her literally off her feet. He is holding her to him, one hand tight around her waist, the other intentionally very loose in her wig, so as not to get tangled. Amy's mind, spinning wildly, manages to think one complete thought: he can focus on this kiss and not getting caught in my hair? How is this not everything he has in him? Could he possibly kiss better than this?

Jake comes up for air to say against her lips, "Slap me."

Well. Give Amy Santiago an order and she'll follow it. She uses a precious half second to run her tongue lightly across Jake's bottom lip, and relishes in the tremor it sends through him; then she disconnects the kiss, brings her right arm back and gives Jake Peralta the most stinging slap she can muster. "You're a pig," she says loudly, immediately feeling the absence of his arm around her as he bends over and looks down, one hand on his knee, the other on his cheek. His Ianucci buddies are right behind him – one pounds him on the back while two others stand and laugh. "Time to go, Jakey," says one of them. "Doesn't look like this was gonna end well for you anyway, huh?"

Jake straightens up, grimacing, and moves to follow the men through the crowd toward the exit. Just before he melts into the throng he turns and looks at her. His eyes scan her, head to toe and back again, as if committing her to memory. Then he's gone.

Not much later that night, Amy gets to work stripping herself of the vestiges of the evening. The monstrous wig is easy to remove, and the sheen of sweat, dirt and glitter on her limbs does not take long to wash away. The feeling of Jake's eyes on her, on the other hand, sticks stubbornly to her skin. She tries for a while to scrub it off, then gives up. Her heart isn't in the effort.

Fin