Jake and Rosa come home from prison. They work through their experiences and put their lives back together. Connected oneshots.

Look whose starting another fic (without finishing the other two she's currently working on)! I don't know why the muse has hit me so hard for fics about Jake & Rosa in prison, but here we are. I wrote a lot of this like a year ago while it was still airing, but it took me forever to figure out how I wanted to structure it. Hope you enjoy! (come rave about how much you love b99 with me on tumblr: feeisamarshmallow)

B99B99

Jake

Jake is trying to think of a time when he felt worse. Surely when he thought he was going to die at the hands of Jimmy Figgis. Or when he got shot. Or maybe all the time he spent alone crying while undercover. Definitely the time he got hit by a car. (God when did his life actually start sounding like an action movie?) But his mind comes up blank. At least all of the other times he had been in mortal danger he would've died an innocent man. Respected by his fellow officers. Surrounded by his friends and family. Fuck he's going to die in prison and his only friend is a cannibal.

He's still jumpy from the comedown after the meth. He can't sit still, his thoughts bouncing around his head on warp speed. And no matter how much he tells himself firmly, pleadingly, threateningly, that he isn't going to take it again (that he couldn't, the warden has confiscated the stash after all), all he can think about is how much he wants to feel the high again. And besides, a voice in his head tells him, if he's going to die in this prison, what does it matter if he dies addicted to meth?

He's restless and so he's pacing in his cell feeling terror and hopelessness and cravings and nothingness in rapid succession. Finally he figures he better try to make some sort of weapon, so at least when he dies he can go down in a fight. (A sad voice reminds him of his joke with Charles, that he was going to die spectacularly in the line of duty and Charles would take his own life at the funeral. Now he feels that to joke about suicide is inappropriate. His time with the squad feels like a lifetime away.)

Suddenly, the warden appears behind him. "Peralta!"

Jake jumps, startled, and throws his poor excuse of a shiv across the room. He's still injured from his beating a few weeks ago, and the invulnerability of being high did nothing to help his broken ribs and bruised…everything. He's trying to hide his pain, casually crossing an arm across his stomach, so much that he almost misses the warden's next words.

"Your squad busted Melanie Hawkins."

"What?" He's hallucinating. This has to be a dream. Maybe Romero has already busted into his cell, castrated him, and kicked him to death, and this is what comes next. Or, is meth a hallucinogenic? He really should know that. But he's not on meth right now. Or, a voice says, is that just what he thinks?

"You're getting out." The guard is terse, as if he doesn't really believe that Jake could be innocent. "Come with me."

"Okay." Jake hears himself say. He definitely doesn't think this is reality, but it's better than the painful death he was expecting a mere ten minutes ago, so he'll take it. His eyes swing around his cell, suddenly aware that on the miniscule chance he really is getting out, this may be the last time he ever sees it. Then his eyes stop on Caleb's bunk, empty for the past 24 hours he's been in the infirmary.

"Wait," Jake says, feeling more grounded in reality (at least, he can actually feel the concrete under his feet now, which is a good start). "Can I do one thing first?" He has to say goodbye to Caleb, questionable life decisions or not, the man did save his life.

B99B99

Rosa

Rosa is sitting in her bunk, scowling, watching the gate to her cell with a singular precision. It's how she spends every evening. It sends the message that no one is going to get anything past her, and so far it has worked. Elena, the Latina with the long braids who helped Rosa start the first riot, nods briskly as she passes, escorted by a guard. Rosa is bored out of her skull, but refuses to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing (and refuses to turn her attention away from the doorway). Suddenly, the guard is at her cell, addressing her curtly.

"Diaz, get a move on. You're getting out."

"What?" Rosa's snaps her head up and raises her voice half an octave.

The guard looks impatient though, so she wastes no time getting up and following him. "Did they catch Melanie Hawkins?" She knows she should just keep quiet until she's out of the prison for good, but there's a giddiness rising in her chest, and although she can't quite trust it yet, it feels good.

"I don't know." The guard says shortly, he's a burly white man with silver wiry mustache and a faint odour of tuna.

None of the staff at the Connecticut Woman's Correctional Centre seem to know or care why Rosa is getting out, and she can barely stand it. They treat her with indifference and cursory respect, she figures because she's not an inmate anymore. There's endless paperwork, and waiting, and people talking about her in hushed voices that she can't quite hear and god Rosa will be so happy once she, and she alone, is in charge of her life again.

Even though on the outside Rosa is calm, on the inside she has this tight, on-edge feeling in her chest. She doesn't quite believe this is happening to her. Doesn't believe that within the next 24 hours she'll be changing out of her drab blue jumpsuit. Doesn't want to even think that there might be someone waiting on the outside to receive her. Rosa's not sure whether the anxiety lodged next to her heart is in anticipation of getting out, or in fear of not being able to leave, of having freedom ripped from under her feet again.

She's been sitting in this poorly-lit room with dirty white walls for hours, by her very accurate estimate. Everyone once in a while, a guard or prison correctional official comes in to ask her a question, to take her ID bracelet, or even just to stare her down. And finally, yet another guard, this one a woman, also white with brown hair pulled into a severe ponytail, leads her down another dark hallway. She gets Rosa to sign a paper, lets her change into street clothes and hands Rosa back her phone.

It's all done without fanfare. And so Rosa follows along with the same neutral expression schooled on her face, but inside the giddiness is turning to utter joy and relief. This is really happening, she really is getting out today. Rosa thinks she can hold it together, until the guards escort her down another hallway, and through a set of doors, and all of a sudden Captain Holt is there. Uniform immaculate, standing poker-straight in the centre of the room, as if he refused to sit in the uneven row of plastic chairs.

Rosa meets Captain Holt's eyes. She's never seen emotion written so plainly on his face, and then she abruptly bursts into tears. Holt reaches out to her, and they embrace, and Rosa's pretty sure he's crying now too. They stay that way, until the guard clears her throat and suggests they leave. Rosa and Captain Holt break apart, and he shakes her hand. "Diaz, glad to have you back."

"Thank you, Sir. Glad to be back."