And I will go
If you ask me to,
And I will stay
If you dare.

I hated the taste of cigarettes.

It didn't stop me from smoking about two packs in the last twenty-four hours. Smoking had never been my thing; I had avoided it during the rebellious adolescent years, the broke-and-living-in-New-York twenties, and when I made it all the way into my early-thirties without even the curiosity to smoke, I figured It would be a craving I'd never have.

I guess it only took one day to change over thirty years of abstinence.

I flicked ash into the street, eyeing the general hospital in front of me, the stature of the building looming over me like the rest of New York City. I think that's why I left-tall buildings and the constant smell of piss and not at all the emotional and romantic trauma that tainted the view of Brooklyn forever. I pulled the cigarette from my mouth, feeling the smoke fill in my throat, nicotine finally causing my head to become lighter. I look down at the thin, nearly dead, cigarette as I exhaled a thick plum of white smoke from the side of my mouth, a thought echoing in the depth of my mind: I wasn't the one to smoke cigarettes.

I wasn't the one to smoke cigarettes.

I flicked what was left of it into the road and beneath the tire of a taxi before moving into the hospital, shaking the lapel of my leather jacket to dilute the smell of smoke that clung to my entire body. Three years ago, I had effectively said deuces to the city of New York and transferred to a precinct in New Jersey. As much as I had begun to dislike the sight of New York, I don't think I could have moved much farther away from my mom.

And even though it was New Jersey, objectively the second worst location on Earth, first being France, it was the lesser of two evils because living in New York made every day feel like my heart was being stabbed over and over, except I couldn't just die. I would walk around, every day, bleeding out while everyone just ignored it or watched.

But despite everything, I don't think a single thing, or one, could have kept me from coming back. See, Holt was on a case where he chased a man up to a roof of a deli and during a scuffle, was pushed from the top. Fortunately, it was only a one story building (rare for New York) and an awning helped break his fall partially. However, he still severely injured his back, and doctors are afraid he might be paralyzed.

The idea of Captain Raymond Holt, the greatest detective any precinct had ever seen, paralyzed and unable to continue being a detective stole the air from my lungs. Holt being confined to a chair and having to be a desk-detective like Hitchcock and Scully was equally as horrifying. I pressed the adhesive guest tag the hospital security made for me, running my finger across the printed name: JAKE PERALTA.

I used to love seeing my name; I even saved a newspaper clipping of an article detailing my arrest at a Taylor Swift concert. I loved seeing it on my uniform; growing up with a pilot as a dad sucked, but he always taught me to be proud of that gold plated Peralta on the badge. His name meant something, and so did mine. But now? I felt so empty, like I should just change my name to something lame-like Smith or Brown.

I scratched idly at my beard as I stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor, stopping at the Nurse's station to ask where Holt's room was. I moved to room 513, hesitantly moving across the cracked linoleum floors. For the most part, I stared at my shoes, trying to psych myself into seeing a man I had hardly communicated with in three years. This was until a force slammed into me, hard platform crushing the toes from inside my sneakers. Gasping in pain, I stumbled back, and snapping my eyes up to see a familiar face.

Not just familiar. Familiar was an insult to how well I knew the face staring back at me; I had spent countless mornings, day, and nights memorizing every detail she had: her dark, doe eyes, her olive skin, her perfectly aligned, brushed, and flossed white teeth. Amy.

"Am-"

"Don't," she choked out, her face morphing from shock to hurt in an instant. It made my gut twist into knots. "Just... just don't." She turned, marching down the hall towards an exit. I moved forward, looking at her figure move further and further away. I turned, seeing Holt craning his neck to see through the doorway.

"Jacob?" he called, his usual impassive tone soft with interest.

I looked between my mentor and the receding woman, caught between the two things I wanted to do: see Amy and see Holt. "I'm sorry, Holt," I said quickly, poking my head through the door. "I'll be back, but you technically can't move so you're not going anywhere. See you soon, love you, bye," I sputtered before bolting down the hall, moving through the exit to reveal a staircase. Looking down the rails, I noticed Amy's dark hair as she hurried.

"Amy- Amy, wait!" I shouted as I moved so fast down flight after flight, I was afraid I'd slip and crack the back of my head open on the concrete steps. "Come on, Amy, it's been three years," I begged, and it must have worked, because she stopped, gripping the rail so hard her knuckles visibly became white before she spun around to look at me, a deep fire in her doe eyes.

"Exactly J-" she stopped, clenching her fists together as she closed her eyes tight. She took a steady breath and began again. "Exactly, Peralta."

Ouch.

"It's been three fucking years and I haven't heard from you. But more than that, nobody has heard from you: not Terry, not Rosa, not Holt, not even Charles. You cut everyone out of your life, you ran away, and you come here and have the audacity to be angry at me for not being able to be within a mile radius of you?" her words stung as they flew at me like bullets, except I think this hurt worse than a spray of bullets. The thing was... she wasn't wrong. I was the one who chose to leave, I was the one who cut everyone off. Amy, even with her insecurities, had never abandon her dignity; she remained in the Nine-Nine, continued doing her job, and despite how much I knew it hurt her, I knew she hadn't lost who she was.

I could see a binder in her messenger bag.

"Fine. You have every reason, every right, to be mad at me, but I'm not here to make everything complicated. I just want to make sure Captain is okay; I'll be back to Newark tomorrow and you don't have to ever think of me ever again," I mumbled, holding my hands up in defense.

She was quiet, looking at me with an exhausted expression. She closed her eyes and hung her head, hand moving up to rub her eye as her body surrendered to the frustration. "Fine, Jacob. Do what you want. Goodbye," she whispered before hurrying back down the stairs at a speed that should be worth of an Olympic medal. I was nearly busting my ass in my sneakers, and she's doubling my speed in heels. Was it strange I had forgotten how amazed by Amy Santiago I am?

I guess I had forgotten a lot of things.

an / hey so this story is actually posted on ao3 as well, but since i first got into fics on fanfiction, i thought it would be cool to also post it here. just know i'm also posting it on ao3 (AKA THIS IS NOT PLAGIARIZED IT IS THE SAME PERSON). i'm seeing if y'all like it, and if you do, i will post the next three chapters on here. and don't worry, they're longer than this chapter lmfao - d.