A/N: AU where Amy Santiago is on the other side of the law, and Jake Peralta is still the lovable and goofy cop. A gangster!fic of sorts, I suppose.

I. Curse of Curves

He's doing a bit of recon at one of the more liberal nightclubs, nothing too out of the ordinary. It's after the hours of his usual nine to five work day, but being a detective sometimes requires that extra time of dedication. He doesn't mind, after all, Jake Peralta as a reputation to maintain, being the best cop in the Nine-Nine and all. Hence he's running this undercover mission, for the FBI of all people. To say he's totally psyched is an understatement.

His bright mood contrasts with the group of stoic thugs across the room from him, hanging out in the VIP section with lecherous gazes on the women dancing around the room and barking orders at waitresses. The ring leader, Leonardo Iannucci, has got his arm tightly wound around the waist of a girl who honestly doesn't look older than eighteen, and a glass of whiskey in the opposite hand. He's facing away from his girl, whispering to another man who Jake suddenly recognizes as one of the secretaries that works under Lucas Wint.

If it wasn't an odd gesture to do in a nightclub, Jake would have high-fived himself. Unfortunately the club was too dark for Jake to take a picture of the scene unfolding before him, even if he bothered to try. He sighs, even now Jake can't seem to find a way to cleanly close this case. Special Agent Clark occasionally reminded him that patience was a virtue, but all Jake really wants right now is to arrest this guy and start writing his memoir.

"Sir," a waitress prompts, breaking him out of his reverie. She places a Peroni on his table and bends over to pop the cap off for him with towel in hand. He's caught off guard by the fluid movement of her body, clad in black leather pants and a sheer white tank. Unlike most of the other waitresses, who let their hair fall freely over their shoulders, hers is held securely in a bun, and she tucks a loose strand behind her ear as she rights herself. Jake knows this little act is probably a part of her job description, so he shouldn't be surprised when his gaze draws back to her face and she's giving him a disapproving frown. There's a variety of waitresses working around here, and they range from those who genuinely enjoy their job and being brilliant flirts, to those who are very obviously here just to pay another bill. Jake's waitress is obviously sitting at the latter part of that spectrum, but he find she doesn't mind her attitude. In fact, her little frown is actually quite cute.

"Thank you," he does his best to channel the Rex Buckingham smoulder he's been working on in the mirror the last few weeks, but his waitress simply gives him a passive look. Her blank expression could compete with guys on Iannucci's entourage. With the severe bun even a fearless cop like Jake has to admit that she could be intimidating. He decides to switch tactics. "Jake Peralta," he offers, giving her a lopsided smile and sticking out an innocent hand. Her shoulders relax a bit, and Jake makes a mental note to thank Gina. She's right: women tend to treat you better when you treat them as equals.

"Amy," she replies, her voice holding a surprising amount of formality to it. She gingerly takes his outstretched hand, her handshake is strangely appropriate for their setting; a strong grip with two quick shakes, before she releases his hand and draws back.

"You have strong grip, Amy," he blurts, immediately feeling embarrassed from his confession. But Jake has to admit he likes the way her name rolls off his tongue, and he likes it even more when she gives him a miniscule smile. It's really just the quirk of her lips, but it's enough to make him blush. I haven't felt the touch of a woman in many moons, he narrates to himself, thinking more of his alter ego, Rex, than himself. Rex Buckingham not getting laid for the sake of the job would actually be pretty noble, but in Jake's case it's just pathetic.

"I took a seminar," Amy smirks, looking proud. Jake raises her a brow.

"Where?" he asks incredulously. She looks smug as she's about to answer, before a familiar whistle comes from the VIP booth. They both turn toward the booth, and Jake's surprised, though again, he really shouldn't be, to find that Leo is calling for Amy. The crime boss beckons her with a single finger, the girl who was previously on his arm now forgotten on the opposite side of the booth. Amy looks reluctant to leave Jake without filling him in on the glorious details of her seminar, but when Iannucci gives her a suggestive look her resolve breaks. She flushes and bites her lips in a way that kind of makes Jake wishes he was Leo Iannucci. Which is a ridiculous in retrospect, because who would want to be a major criminal asshole like him? Amy at least has the decency to give him a proper goodbye.

"In college," she says as she scribbles out his bill, answering his earlier question. She hastily drops the piece of paper on the table, looking ready to run, so he grabs her wrist out of pure instinct.

"When do you work here?" he wonders, cursing himself for sounding totally not stalkerish. He really needs to get laid, like soon. Amy pauses, taking a step back even with her wrist in his grip, taking a good look at him. Jake feels Leo Iannucci glaring daggers into his forehead behind her, but he's gaze is stuck on her lips. They're, as Charles would say, ample. So ample. He swallows as his eyes trail up to hers, finding that she's staring back at him intently.

She's definitely come to some sort of decision when she snatches her wrist out of his hand, that satisfied smirk crawling onto her face again. Her eyes hold a bit of mischief as she slowly backs away from him.

"Nope," she singsongs, wagging a finger at him. "Don't even think about it, Jake Peralta. I am not the woman for you." Even as she says this Jake's distracted by the way her hips swing back in forth, and he swears he can hear Iannucci chuckling from here.

"Oh," Jake mumbles, more embarrassed than before, but refusing to look Iannucci in the eye if, in fact, he was laughing at him. Instead he gathers up the courage to lift his gaze back up to Amy's, a slightly frustrated sigh escaping his lips when he realizes just how pretty her face looks even in the club's shitty lighting. He wishes he noticed that first, maybe she would have liked him better. Then he freezes, realizing just how much he didn't know about her This is stupid and you still need to get laid, Jake thinks again, but he still hands over his parting words to Amy.

"Ah. I guess I can dream, right?" Jake admits, running a hand through his hair. Amy looks actually affected by his put-out words, but she doesn't offer him pity.

"You can," she teases instead. "I work here every other weekend." Amy then nods purposely to the bill on the table. "You seem like an good, upstanding guy, Jake," she says, as he turns over the bill. "You really don't want to mess around with someone like me." Jake's heart rate skyrockets when he barely makes out her number on the back of the paper, followed by a short note that can't be properly read in this lighting. He glances back up at Amy to question her, but she already has her back turned to him.

He gapes, caught off guard by the large piece tattooed onto her back. It's kind of unclear through her sheer tank and the dark setting, but he still can make out the seven branches of a tree, through the series of strobe lights that hit her back. taking The tree takes up most her back, and from what he can tell the trunk follows the line of her spine, the roots trailing off around the small of her back.

Jake follows Amy's hands as she gracefully takes out her hair tie and clip, hair tumbling down her back and hitting just below the shoulders. She has the nerve to wink at him over the shoulder before strutting over to Leo Iannucci.

The high school-looking girl from before watches the scene play out, just as slacked-jawed as Jake, but she has the pride necessary to walk away before Iannucci gathers Amy into his arms.

Their kiss is like the ones from Nicholas Spark-esque chick flicks, the kind Jake would never admit to dreaming about when he listens to his Taylor Swift mixtapes. Iannucci holds her waist and grabs a fistful of her hair, deepening the kiss while Amy clutches his shirt tightly. He practically swallows her, but Jake has to admire the way she fiercely kisses back, channeling a passion he wishes she'd directed at him instead. They break apart with what Jake's sure is an audible smack, at least from that table, and Amy is left panting with bruised lips. She trails a hand up Iannucci's chest and whispers something to him, and Jake watches as the man goes still. For a moment, Iannucci seems conflicted as he shuts his eyes, mumbling to himself.

Finally, he opens them and leads Amy frantically towards the exit, still muttering to himself all the way across the room. They pass by Jake's table and Leo Iannucci doesn't give him a second glance. Amy winks at him again as she's dragged away, nodding to the paper.

Jake sighs, deflating in his seat. He takes a swig of his beer, turning over the bill again to try and make out her messy handwriting. He imagines that when she's not in a rush her penmanship would be quite impressive, because even this little note is surprisingly legible once he's produced some light from his phone. He sputters when he finally makes out the contents of the note.

Looking forward to seeing you next Saturday, Detective Jacob Peralta.

His blood runs cold.

To be honest I wrote this all the night before with no planning whatsoever so I have no idea where I'm going with this fic or if it's even capable of turning into an actually story, but we'll see.

I just really wanted Amy Santiago to be a badass criminal. Like that's all the justification I have.