Hope you enjoyed :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Brooklyn 99
The hangover in the morning is no surprise.
Neither is the fact that you can't quite remember how you got home last night. You lie in bed for a moment, trying not to move or look at the light creeping through the window, your brain processing sluggishly the assumption that nothing terrible happened to you on your way home because you're still wearing the same clothes you were before and nothing hurts too badly apart from your head, which might actually split open at any moment.
A tentative glance at your phone reveals that you have to be at work in an hour.
It also reveals several dozen missed calls and texts from your colleagues, all of which you choose to ignore. Right now you have more important things to worry about, like how you're going to drop off the face of the earth, likely ending up in Mexico or maybe Ecuador for the rest of your life. Surely you could fax your resignation to Captain Holt, or perhaps hire a carrier pigeon?
Drunken confessions aren't your thing. Neither is the aftermath.
You just cannot deal with it today. You allot yourself five minutes of wallowing in misery, tears welling up in your eyes, before you get out of bed to face the day.
You should probably apologize. That would really be the best course of action, you consider ponderously, after downing some aspirin, getting the coffee going, and making your way to the shower. The hot stream of water down your back is revitalizing but also terrible because now you have to deal with the light of day and the consequences of your actions.
Maybe you should just call in sick.
No, that's a terrible idea. Gina would be over in an hour after faking some work emergency, just so she could come and get all the juicy gossip on what had happened the previous night. She'd most likely seen your grand exit from the bar, and you wouldn't doubt that Jake had then told everyone at the table what happened. Not because he was a gossip or trying to hurt you, but because he couldn't keep stuff like that in. A vault, he is not.
Strict professionalism also can't really cut it in this case. The fact is, you crossed a line, run across it like you were winning a marathon, and now you have to deal with that. The words can't be unspoken. And you can't deny them, either, because you can't lie to Jake. Confessing your love hasn't done anything to diminish it. You love him, and he doesn't love you, and things have never looked worse but "there's always another day", as your mom always say because she's a cheeseball. You'll just have to…talk to him.
The thought makes you even more nauseous than your hangover already is.
You make a conscious decision to arrive to work at your usual time, ten minutes early, because you already have plenty to deal with today and "Amy Santiago, late?" would make the list even longer, which might make you have a panic attack. This conscious decision quickly backfires when you realize you've forgotten your coffee, your phone, and your wallet.
It's enough to make you want to cry, as if you didn't already feel that way.
You also want to beg a cigarette off someone but at least still possess sufficient rationality to realize that "relapsed smoker" isn't going to be doing you any favors on eHarmony once you patch this whole mess up.
The thought of dating a series of strangers doesn't do much to brighten your mood, but it does focus your mind enough for you to recall the case you should be finishing up about the woman who thinks she has a stalker, possibly someone she recently dated through an online dating site. You'd been putting off doing door duty at her apartment, hoping you could trick Jake into doing it for you somehow, but suddenly the idea of mundane, solitary work has never been more appealing. You can deal with rude people all day if it'll give you some time to figure out how on earth to fix things with Jake while also fixing your broken heart.
There's only one way that would happen and judging by the shocked, almost horrified look he'd given you last night, that's not going to happen.
You hear his name before you see him, and glance up to see him walking in with Charles, who is giving an enthusiastic description of the excellent filet mignon he had last night. Jake's head is bowed, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and your stomach drops because clearly he's not himself and you did that and you just want to bang your head against the wall because why did you ever open your big mouth? He's your best friend in the whole world and you ruined everything in one drunken night.
He almost walks right into you because he's not looking where he's going, and you can't help but gasp as his hand comes up to grasp your arm. His eyes are searching your face, drinking you in almost, and you rear back, desperately needing some distance and perspective because you're way too fragile for that kind of close contact right now. "Sorry," he murmurs after a moment, his hand dropping to his side where he clenches it into a loose fist. "I…wasn't paying attention."
"I'm sorry," you burst out in a whisper, a quick glance ensuring that nobody is paying attention or close enough to hear. His eyes widen but you keep talking. "I should never have said what I did last night," you continue quietly. "You're my best friend and I value that friendship so much, and you have made your feelings very clear. I crossed a line and I know I can't uncross it but I really hope eventually things can go back to normal between us because I would hate myself if I ruined our friend—"
"Morning everyone!"
You're cut off abruptly as Gina comes waltzing into the station with her typical charisma, not caring that you are currently delivering the most important apology ever. You glance at Jake quickly to see that he's just staring at you, his expression a mix of what you might categorize as frustration, confusion, and shock. "I'm sorry," you whisper again before turning abruptly and dashing down the hall to the evidence locker.
You're relieved to find it empty and quickly find the darkest, loneliest corner in which to hide and try some deep breathing exercises and ponder various ways to leave the building without having to talk to anyone.
You flinch when you hear the door slam shut. "Amy!"
There's nowhere to hide but you still try to shrink further back into the darkness just as Jake rounds the corner and sees you. "There you are!" he exclaims, running a hand exasperatedly through his hair and making it stand up on end. He strides purposefully toward you, backing you further into your corner. "And may I just say that you are terrible at dealing with your feelings, Amy Santiago."
You're a bit miffed that he has the gall to say that to you. Sure, you haven't been a prime example of emotional stability lately but this is Jake Peralta. There should never even be a question that you are the more emotionally stable of the two.
You probably shouldn't remark on his words but you can't help yourself. "That's saying a lot," you mumble, refusing to meet his eyes. "If it's between you and me, I win at dealing with feelings."
Jake rolls his eyes. "First of all, it's not a competition. Second of all, what evidence do you have? First, you tell me that you love me—you love me, Amy—and then you take off into the night. Then today you tell me you're sorry and you'll do anything to fix it, and you run away again! Don't you even care what I have to say about any of it?"
"I know what you have to say about it, Jake!" you exclaim suddenly, stepping forward and causing him to take a step back in surprise. You can't take this quietly, unable to take the truth of his words anymore. "You've moved on, I get it, but you're right, I love you, and I don't exactly want to hear you tell me straight up that you don't love me anymore! Maybe it's selfish but I'm trying to salvage what little pride I have left. And you can call me a coward but my heartache capacity is kind of at its limit so forgive me if I wanted to avoid hearing you say outright that you're over me."
"I never said that," Jake argues fiercely, stepping even closer to you. "I never said that, Amy! I've been trying to act like everything's hunky dory and just…platonic between us, but I never said that I was over you."
You stare at him for a long moment in stunned silence, watching as he takes in several heaving breaths, his eyes wild. "What?" you manage to squeak out.
Jake studies you for a moment before taking another step closer, effectively caging you in as his hands move to rest against the wall on either side of your body, his face inches from yours. "You are my best friend," he says softly, his voice more serious than you've ever heard it before. "You are the only person who can make me both the angriest, and the happiest I've ever been. And I know I'm not great with these kinds of things, but I want to try with you." He leans back, cupping your face with his hand. "If you hadn't run away last night," he says softly, then adds with a low laugh, "and also if you were sober," he continues seriously, "I would have told you that I love you too. And I would have asked you out to dinner."
You were ready to deal with him letting you down gently. You were ready for the ensuing awkwardness of unrequited love. You had a plan for all possible eventualities…except this one.
Jake Peralta loves you, and he wants to date you, and you were just not prepared for that.
"What?" you squeak out again.
Jake takes a step back, still close but not quite crowding you, and takes your hand in his. "I love you," he repeats, and then is quiet, because he knows you better than anyone and he knows that sometimes you need to hear things more than once and have some time to process.
"You love me," you repeat softly, your heart full of both disbelief and the kind of joy you didn't think was possible, the kind that makes you want to go screaming through the streets even though that is completely unlike you.
His smile is wide and beautiful and you want to kiss it and decide to hell with it just as he's repeating, "I love y—" You grab his face and press your lips to the smile that matches your own.
It's the best kiss you've ever had. It's sloppy and messy, and you keep giggling and he's laughing too but his hand is also clutching desperately at your hip and your fingers are in his hair and the solid contact of him pressing you against the wall is the only thing keeping your knees from giving way.
Not even Charles' exultant screams could pull you away.
