Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing is, he wasn’t even doing anything stupid when it happened.

If he had been in his storage unit, poring over his case files in the hopes of finding something, anything, that could get him out of America’s stinky butt and back to Brooklyn, to Amy and the 9-9, then maybe he would’ve had it coming.

But no, he’d just been out at the grocery store, still in his dumb Fun Zone shirt, figuring out the best way to cart his bag full of blue sports drink—because orange sodas were Jake Peralta’s favorite, not Larry Sherbert’s—and pizza rolls back home on his ATV, when a chilling voice crooned “Hey there, Peralta” from right behind him and before he even had time to panic because he wasn’t Jake Peralta, not anymore, a white hot jab of pain split through the back of his head, careening him into swift darkness.

• • •

He comes into awareness to a rocking sensation. It’s steady and strangely calming, and he feels tired, like he wasn’t supposed to wake up just yet, so he relaxes, letting the repetitive lull carry him back to sleep.

Then the thumping changes momentarily, one rough bump interrupting the peacefulness, and his skull flares with a pain he can’t ignore anymore. He shifts on his side with a groan that sounds muffled and too quiet in his own ears. Huh, was there something wrong with his hearing? He makes to rub at his ears but finds that his arms aren’t where they should be. Both limbs are twisted behind his back in an uncomfortable position, and the harder he tries to move them back where he likes them, the sharper the ring of needles around his wrists pokes into his skin.

He gives up with an exasperated huff, and that’s when he notices, oh, there’s something covering his mouth. He doesn’t like that either, so he finally lets his eyes fall open but there isn’t much to see, just black all around him, and that’s probably not good.

By now, the pain in his head has dulled to the back of his mind and the waking confusion has faded enough that his thoughts are less like molasses and more like maple syrup, and he’s definitely aware enough to start being worried about where he is and how he got there.

Okay, he’s a detective, right? So, time to detect.

He’s Jake Peralta, but right now he’s Larry. The last thing he remembers is loading plastic bags onto the handlebars of his ATV, and now it’s dark and his head hurts and there are zip ties on his wrists and tape over his mouth.

Add in the hard ground and the movement and he’s guessing car trunk, so all-in-all seems like a pretty standard kidnapping—and if the situation wasn’t so serious he would definitely be inappropriately excited that he’s been kidnapped just like in the movies—but his short list doesn’t come up with anyone in particular who would have a grudge against Larry Sherbert.

But now that he thinks about it, right before it all went dark he distinctly remembers that a vaguely familiar voice had called him “Peralta”, and while that definitely narrows down the list, it also raises a host of new issues because no one here is supposed to know that.

The data paints a pretty clear picture, and there’s only one person who would be looking for Jake Peralta in the witness protection program, and if his suspicions are correct then this is really, really bad, but right now his head still throbs and his eyes can’t focus on anything except dark and more dark, so he doesn’t fight it as they slip closed and the once-again-rhythmic rocking nurses him back into unconsciousness.

• • •

The next time he blinks his eyes open, he’s sitting in a chair, spine pushed right up against the stiff back as duct tape is being wound tightly around his chest. There’s pressure circling his ankles and each calf is pinned to a leg of the chair, so he deduces that his lower limbs have already been tied down. His arms are still pulled back, this time forced around the stiles of the chair in a stretch that makes his shoulders ache. He flexes his wrists and, yeah, they’re cocooned in tape too. God, this is Hoytsman and the ice cream truck all over again.

The man tying him up finishes the job just as Jake is dragging his head upright with a stifled moan, his neck aching from where his head been hanging limply on his chest.

“He’s up,” calls the henchman, and claps Jake on the back none-too-gently, jostling his sore muscles. Dick.

“Excellent,” replies a voice, and as Jake’s eyes slide into focus he’s met with a face he’s only ever seen in case files and FBI intel.

“Peralta,” grins Jimmy Figgis, “so nice to finally meet the ant that’s been meddling in my operations.”

There’s about 500 classic movie comebacks to that, but with his mouth still taped shut there’s not much he can say, so Jake settles for falling into the practiced neutral expression he uses for police negotiations.

A cold silence washes over the room as The Butcher’s eyes trace Jake’s face almost serenely. Then, almost before he has time to register the movement, Jake’s head is snapping to the side as Figgis’ fist meets his cheekbone, and he can’t hold in the pained grunt as the nerves on the left side of his face light up.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” Figgis says. “Almost worth the wait.”

He savors the moment for few more seconds before leaning forward to reach for the makeshift gag. He rips the tape off Jake’s mouth with all the gentleness of a snake bite, and it stings almost as much as that time Amy had convinced him to wax a strip of his leg hair in order to understand what an inconvenience trying to have smooth legs was.

Jake takes the sudden freedom of movement to roll his jaw in an attempt to alleviate both the pain of his rapidly bruising cheek and the ache of his jaw before speaking.

“Why are you doing this, Figgis?” He asks.

The Butcher laughs, genuinely laughs. “You’re a detective, aren’t you?” He says, “I’d think you’d be able to work it out.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Not—this—I get that you want me dead; I mean why all the set up?”

Figgis doesn’t cut him off, so Jake takes it as a cue to continue.

“No one in their right mind—though you are insane, so never mind that part—would actually want to come to Florida, so obviously you’re only here to kill me. Why bother with all of this?” He emphasizes the question as best he can with all his limbs tied down, using his head to gesture around the room. “Not that I’m not happy to be alive or anything, but why not just get it over with and move on?”

Figgis regards him coolly. “Because of you and your team of detectives, the DOJ busted 76 of my guys; you tanked my operations, intercepted my hit on that snitch Pimento—”

Jake looks up sharply.

“—yeah, I know he’s still alive. And after I’m done with you and Holt, he’s next on my list, don’t worry. But right now I don’t care about him, because to top it all off you and Holt ran from me for six months, and do you know how much harder it is to find someone when all of your men have been arrested?”

“So, what, this is about your pride?”

Figgis shrugs. “You really screwed things up for me. I think I’m entitled to a little cut and dry revenge,” he says. “And trust me,” he adds, his face turning far darker than it had been before, “I am very good at getting my revenge. And six months is an awful lot of time to plot. A man gets all kinds of ideas.”

“Killing me won’t change anything. The second I disappear the FBI will know you’re here. There’s no outcome where you don’t go down.” So sue him, he’s bad at knowing when to quit. It’s part of his charm.

“All the more reason to have some fun first,” replies Figgis, without missing a beat.

Jake snorts. “I’ve eaten the pizza down here, Figgis. There is literally nothing worse you can do to me.”

“Wanna bet? I’d love to show you why they call me The Butcher, Detective Peralta.”

Fortunately, Jake is spared from that line of thought by the sound of an engine as a car pulls up to the side of the safe house Figgis is holed up in. The room lights up briefly, illuminated headlights shining through the room’s single window for a few moments before the car turns off.

Figgis doesn't look worried at the arrival, so whoever’s in the car must be with him.

A minute later the front door clicks opens and two men enter, heavily built and scowling deeply. The first of the two, face drawn tight in displeasure, moves to address Figgis while the stockier man’s eyes fall upon Jake. Immediately, his face transforms into a dark smile and Jake can’t help the chill that runs through his spine.

Figgis and Goon #2 are conversing quietly by the wall, so Jake pushes away the unease and focuses all his attention on eavesdropping.

“Where’s Holt?” Figgis is asking, his face morphing into a frown.

“House was empty when we got there. Someone must have tipped him off we were coming,” responds #2. “You think WITSEC pulled him out?”

That’s all he gets before Goon #3 notices him listening and cuffs him on the side of the head. Jake barely refrains from rolling his eyes in irritation.

“Easy with the merchandise,” he teases. Goon #3 responds by delivering a sharp blow to the thus-far unbruised side of Jake’s face.

The Butcher calls for his man to settle down, but he’s smiling at Jake’s pain all the same.

“Bad news, Peralta,” Figgis announces to the room. “Seems Holt’s invite to this party got lost in the mail. But my men here seem to think you might know where we can send a second one.”

“Man, you guys have a weird definition of ‘party.’ Hey, how about you untie me and I help you get a real one going? I won’t even call my buddies to shut it down when it gets too wild.”

Figgis lifts a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “Cute. Where’s he hiding?”

“Okay, you got me,” he forces out a laugh, pleased when it sounds convincingly confident, “I totally would have busted it up when the noise complaints started pouring in.”

“You got one more chance, Peralta,” sneers Figgis, “Then we do this the fun way.”

As if to spell it out for him, Goon #2 produces a small black surgical bag, dropping it onto the table with a metallic-sounding clatter.

Jake matches the mobster’s smile with one of his own. “I don’t know where Captain Holt is, asshole. And even if I did there’s no way I’d tell you, you have to know that.”

Goon #2—you know what, screw this, if he’s going to die in a hostage situation he’s at least going to name Figgis’s men after Die Hard henchmen. Okay, #2 is clearly the second-in-command, so, I dub thee Karl Vreski—removes the nylon roll of instruments from the bag, unfurling the fabric and positioning the set of tools so that light catches on all the sharp edges and makes them glint dangerously, which, once again, would absolutely be cool if it wasn’t super scary.

Karl’s fingers dance across the kit, selecting a couple of things Jake’s never seen before and definitely doesn’t want to find out what they do. He slinks forward and offers them to Figgis, but the mob boss doesn’t take them. Instead, Figgis’ face is contemplative, like he’s mulling over some new ideas.

“Wait,” he orders.

Jake doesn’t miss the disappointment that crosses Goon #3’s face—seriously, what is this guy’s problem?—as the silver instruments disappear from sight.

“Want us to make him talk the old-fashioned way?” Asks #3—who is Jake is officially calling Heinrich, by the way, because the one with the explosive temper should absolutely be named after Hans Gruber’s explosives expert—cracking his knuckles eagerly.

“No, no,” Figgis muses, a look of faint amusement on his face. “Peralta’s a loyal son-of-a-bitch, he practically idolizes his idiot captain. He’s right, he’d never give up Holt. But I think maybe this relationship goes both ways.”

Oh, great, he’s been promoted from ‘hostage’ to ‘bait.’

Figgis nods to Heinrich. “Make him look nice.”

“With pleasure.” Heinrich’s face splits into a grin like Hanukkah’s come early this year.

Barely a second later the first strike whips across Jake’s face where’s he’s already got a bruise from Figgis and he swears the chair nearly overbalances with the force of the punch. While he’s preoccupied with gasping in pain and blinking away spots, Heinrich pulls him back upright by the collar only to send him right down again with a second punch.

This time Jake feels the skin at his left temple split open under the knuckles, and a thin trickle of blood starts to trail down his face.

The next hit comes to the opposite side of his head and Jake is as grateful as anyone can be while being punched by a mobster’s hitman because the left side of his face is on fire. The gratitude immediately disappears as the fourth punch lands in his gut. He can’t curl in on himself thanks to the tape restricting his chest, so instead he’s forced to cough harshly for several long moments as his lungs spasm to get the right amount of oxygen in.

“That’s good,” Calls Figgis. The lackey backs off immediately, though not without a look of regret that didn’t get a few more hits in. “Hold him still.”

Heinrich saunters out of Jake’s line of vision, and he’s torn between trying to clear his head after being used as a punching bag and keeping the man in his sights before the bastard decks him again.

Before he can really make up his mind, two meaty arms appear from behind him and fasten themselves around his head. One hand latches onto his hair, tangling into the frosted tips and lifting his gaze, while the other grasps his chin and forces his mouth closed once more. Figgis reaches into his jean pocket and pulls out a phone—my phone, Jake realizes with a jolt—and chuckles at something on the display.

“Yup. Three missed calls and a text message from ‘Greg Stickney.’ Your neighbor’s mighty worried about you, son. Better put his mind at ease.”

The hand gripping his jaw tightens as Figgis holds up the camera, and Jake forces his face to remain carefully neutral as his head is moved from side to side, cuts and bruises on full display as The Butcher snaps a slew of photos.

When he’s finally satisfied after what feels like at least forty pictures, Figgis drops his arm and motions for Heinrich to release Jake. He does so, shoving Jake forward with a laugh so that Jake’s body pulls against the tape briefly before the bindings push him back into place.

Jake exhales sharply and forces his frustration down, hoping the annoyance isn’t painting his cheeks in betrayal, because honestly this guy is just being unnecessarily rude.

In front of him, Figgis finishes reviewing the photos and nods contentedly.

“Got your good side, Peralta,” he taunts, waving the phone for emphasis. Jake watches as the man types out a brief message and hits send before flinging the phone at the ground where it shatters. He steps on the broken pieces for good measure, grinding the small bits into the ground before kicking the mangled remains away.

“I have a bad one?” Jake quips reflexively. “Also, just paid that off; thanks a lot.” Heinrich moves to hit him again and Jake tenses in preparation, but Figgis waves his man down.

“No, I like that he’s still fighting,” says the mob boss. “It’s cute. Gives me more of an incentive to beat it out of him later.” He smiles with all of his teeth in a way that’s much too sharklike for comfort.

Figgis reaches into his pockets again, this time retrieving a shiny ring of keys. “Get my car ready,” he says, passing them off to Karl, “Got a few more errands to run while we wait.”

Karl quickly obeys, packing his bag back up and stowing it away before he leaves the safe house. Meanwhile, the henchman who’d tied him up earlier—and Jake’s calling this one Alexander, by the way—hands Figgis the roll of duct tape and The Butcher flips it a few times in his hands as he approaches the chair.

The mob boss takes a tauntingly long amount of time as he pulls off a new strip of tape and smooths it over Jake’s mouth. He holds his hand over the gag for a few moments, pressing it down firmly, then shifts his palm to Jake’s cheek, patting it in a faux-fatherly manner while Jake glares up at him.

“Don’t go anywhere, okay?” He says with a lilt to his lips, in the same admonishing tone as one would use on a child. Then he steps away, as if to admire his work, before nodding to the man on his right.

Heinrich steps forward, and Jake maintains a defiant eye contact as the goon winds up and sends a vicious hook crashing into his temple, hurtling him into the black once more.

Chapter Text

“You’re acting like a child, Larry,” seethes Raymond, exiting his car at the same time as Peralta putters up his own driveway on his all-terrain vehicle. He closes his car doors with a glare and marches to meet Peralta on the shared strip of grass between their houses.

“You’re the one being a child here, Greg,” hisses Peralta in return, keeping his voice low. “You took my Figgis file! Look, just give it back, and I’ll quit the Fun Zone and go back to selling ATVs.”

“Absolutely not. You are not only putting your own life at risk by pursuing this case, but mine,” retorts Raymond. “I intend to serve my time as Greg Stickney and return home, alive, to see my husband again. I won’t allow your foolish impulsive nature to prevent that from happening!”

“Fine, you think the raccoon sex cave and the corn dog costume are the worst I can throw at you? Florida is the most disgusting place I’ve ever visited in my entire life; you ain’t seen nothing yet! I’m about to dial it up to eleven on you, son!”

Raymond bristles at the use of the word ‘ain’t,’ the utterly unintelligible butchering of ‘have not’ surely thrown in just to bother him. “No, Larry, I don’t think you will. You may be my boss now, but don’t forget; I have your files, and my shredder would just love to take a closer look at them.”

Peralta gasps in disgust. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me,” drawls out Raymond slowly, over-enunciating the words for effect. With that he turns on his heel and strides to his front door, entering his house without bothering to look back at his neighbor once.

A few moments later, he hears Peralta’s door slamming shut.

• • •

In honesty, he doesn’t truly fault Peralta for continuing to investigate Figgis against orders.

As much as Raymond likes to pretend he is coping with life as a civilian in Florida, the reality is he’s just as miserable as Peralta. This town is driving him crazy, and ‘making the most of it’ has, for lack of a more nuanced phrase, sucked.

He misses Kevin and Cheddar. He misses the sergeant and the detectives at the 9-9. He misses being a police captain. He even misses Peralta’s inane interruptions during morning briefings and the squad’s insistence that they visit Shaw’s Bar after every large arrest, despite it being a mediocre bar with a dismal stock of reds.

At every turn, Florida has been a thankless experience, and now it seems that the state has finally begun to drive a wedge between himself and Jake Peralta. Of course, the current disagreement could easily be resolved if Raymond simply surrendered the so-called ‘Figgis files,’ but that was a risk he could not bring himself to take.

He had flipped through Peralta’s findings upon confiscating the work, and the amount of information the detective had been able to gather with such limited resources was yet another testament to what a fine officer the young man was, but the fact still remained that continuing to search for Figgis as Larry was simply too dangerous to entertain. Though to Peralta’s face he claimed that he had stolen the files out of self-preservation, it would be a lie to say that Raymond wasn’t equally worried about Peralta’s own well-being.

If anyone were to catch Assistant Manager Larry Sherbert investigating a mob boss wanted by the FBI, the amount of questions raised would surely attract unwanted attention. Raymond would rather the detective be upset with him for a little while longer than be compliant in placing Peralta in harm’s way.

But...on the topic of being upset, he should probably do some damage control with Peralta. Although he had done his best not to let his tasks today get to him, he would really rather not spend another day cleaning out a ‘raccoon sex cave,’ as Peralta so elegantly put it.

He ends up not having to go through the slightly shameful process of knocking on his neighbor’s door to beg forgiveness, because Peralta is already exiting his house by the time Raymond has prepared enough of an apology to get by.

Peralta spots Raymond approaching as he’s locking his front door, helmet in hand, and pointedly refuses to look at Raymond as he addresses him. “Ah, Greb, come to apologize for sucking?” Asks Peralta with an air of smugness, brushing past the captain and making his way towards his vehicle.

“It’s Greg,” Raymond corrects. “Larry, are you, ah, going somewhere?” 

“Just heading to the store to restock on groceries, unless that’s a problem with you and you need to invade my private space and confiscate my ATV,” Peralta replies petulantly.

Be the bigger man, Raymond, says his internal voice. “Well, I had been hoping to discuss our shared fence with you. I know you are unhappy with the color I chose but I think if you heard my reasoning you might understand why I chose that...color.”

Peralta rolls his eyes at the shared fence metaphor. “And I think that if you could see the fence from my side, you’d understand that the color is ugly and you should give me my paint back so I can fix it.”

Raymond almost considers launching into his speech about how the ‘fence’ affects both of them again, but that would just stick the two back in a loop; it was the same argument they’d had before.

“Perhaps you’re correct,” he says instead, “I should have at least come to you before I made my decision. But regardless, the fence has been painted, and now I just hope that you and I can move past this.”

Peralta heaves out a sigh and still doesn’t meet his eye, but Raymond’s been Peralta’s captain for long enough to tell that the detective is secretly impressed that Raymond’s made the first move towards reconciliation. Besides, despite his temper tantrums, everyone in the 9-9 knows that Peralta values their relationship too much to actually hold this against Raymond for much longer.

“Do you need anything while I’m out?” Asks Peralta finally, and Raymond accepts the olive branch with as much of a smile as is appropriate in the situation.

“Just water would be nice.”

Peralta rolls his eyes again, but this time there’s humor in his expression as he exclaims: “God, Greg, are you trying to draw attention to us? Nobody drinks water here!” He starts his engine and finally smiles. “I’ll get you something blue.”

With that, Peralta rumbles down the driveway and onto the street in a series of jerking stops and starts.

• • •

Raymond spends the next good while thinking about Kevin.

He can’t help it: the day’s events have revolved so heavily around Jimmy Figgis, and thinking about Figgis reminds him of the 9-9, which reminds him of home, which reminds him of his family. So it isn’t his fault if he is stuck in a state of sappy reminiscence. Besides, he is an embarrassingly sentimental man.

He makes his way to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water from the tap, and the small black and white wall calendar next to the landline catches his eye.

The corner of his mouth twitches down in a slight frown as he looks at the rows of crossed out days announcing that it’s officially been six entire months since the night Figgis had called Peralta at Shaw’s and issued the threat that set all this off. It seems like a lifetime ago.

A life before arcades and secrets and walking groups and a recently-deceased female wife instead of a fully alive-and-well husband whom he loves.

God, if Kevin could see how emotional he’s being right now.

He places his empty glass in the sink to be cleaned just as the sky begins to darken like an omen.

Sunset won’t begin for another hour or so but the typical Florida afternoon clouds have begun to roll in, blotting out the sun like a thick cloak.

The thought of sunset reminds him that he has dwindled away the rest of his afternoon, and he glances at his watch. Peralta’s been out grocery shopping for a little over an hour and a half: a bit of a long trip, but then again it isn’t particularly unlike the young detective to dawdle.

He lets the thought leave his mind as he settles into his armchair and picks up his copy of Aristophanes’ The Ecclesiazusae—one of Kevin’s personal recommendations.

• • •

Raymond is so lost in the cunning wiles of the women in the ancient Greek comedy that he hardly even notices that his cellular phone has been ringing on the coffee table until the vibrations almost send the small device over the edge.

With a hum, he bookmarks his page and checks the caller identification. ‘Taylor Taccone, Your Manager’ scrolls across the top of the screen and Raymond almost considers ignoring the call—it’s bad enough he is forced to deal with the man’s incompetencies in the workplace, now he has to handle them at home?

He brings the phone to his ear and prepares for whatever foolish drivel the Fun Zone manager has for him this time.

“Heyyy, Mr. Fart!” Sings the voice on the other end as soon as the call connects.

“Taylor,” Raymond greets his boss, “I was not scheduled to work anymore today, is there a problem at the Fun Zone that I should be aware of?”

Taylor laughs. “Nah dude, are you blazed again? Gotta stop doing that if you ever want a promotion, man. Whatever, I don’t actually care, I was just calling to say great work with the go karts today. Your video is hilarious! I’ve watched it like 50 times—wait, I just hit replay—51!” He breaks into obnoxious laughter again. “Anyway, it’s been great for business, all the kids wanna see the spot where “Corn Dog Pwned by Go Kart” took place. Some dude even called from New Jersey asking if he could meet with you guys! You’re putting us on the map, Mr. Fart! I underestimated you, maybe you are cut out for a management position. Remind me to give you and Lar raises or something, I don’t know. Kahuna, out!”

He hangs up before Raymond has a chance to wonder what video his boss could possibly be referring too. However, if he’s accidentally managed to gain an online presence, it will need to be reported to Marshal Haas, so he turns to the internet for further research.

He’s not entirely sure how to spell ‘pownned,’ but luckily—or perhaps unluckily—the video in question has been viewed enough times that it’s already quite high up in the search results despite his various misspellings of the word.

It only takes about half a second for the shaky footage to even out and for Raymond to recognize himself mostly obscured by the ridiculous corn dog costume but, more alarmingly, Peralta’s face on full display throughout almost all of the video.

As if to complicate matters, the description line of the post, which reads “Corn Dog Mascot FAIL: 2 losers eat it @ the fun zone in coral palms,” clearly marks the location the video was taken at.

Raymond checks the time again. Three hours and 47 minutes is officially too long for anyone to be out grocery shopping, even Peralta. Especially Peralta, considering in his four years as captain almost all he’s seen the detective consume are orange sodas, chemical gummy products, and microwaveable pizza foods.

He calls Peralta’s phone twice more—both times he’s sent to voicemail again—so he types out a quick message to Peralta and prays the detective hurries home.

Larry,

The issue with our shared fence has become unexpectedly urgent. Please contact me as soon as possible to discuss.

Sincerely,

Greg, your neighbor

He resolves to give Peralta a maximum of 23 minutes to respond after calculating his average response time to Raymond’s messages, but after 16 pass with no response he can’t deny the bad feeling in his gut, so he marches to the landline and dials a number that Greg Stickney of Coral Palms, Florida should absolutely not know.

The phone rings once, twice, and then with a click the receiver picks up. Raymond waits silently, almost holding his breath, until:

“You’ve got Jeffords.”

• • •

Raymond makes quick work of explaining the situation to Sergeant Jeffords. The sergeant, to his credit, remains a professional and attentive listener, only interrupting once or twice for a clarifying detail here or there and not wasting time with greetings and catch-up once he hears the urgency in Raymond’s tone.

When he’s finished recalling the events of the past few hours, Sergeant Jeffords confirms what Raymond has been thinking: their cover is blown and Raymond needs to go into hiding immediately—without Peralta. Raymond protests, of course he does, but he knows he can’t wait around forever. If Figgis has contacted the Fun Zone to look for them, he’s probably figured out where Greg Stickney and Larry Sherbert are living, so their homes are no longer safe. Here, he is an easy target.

Neither man says it, but Raymond knows they’re both thinking the same thing: it may already be too late to warn Peralta of the danger he is in.

The phone call ends in reserved tones and a heavy silence, with Jeffords promising that the FBI and the 9-9 are on their way and Raymond in a state of shock, quickly packing up his emergency bag.

• • •

One hour later finds Raymond stowed away in a tiny, two-room, emergency safe house with nothing but the bare essentials and a phone disabled of all features save messaging, on the off chance that by some miracle Peralta is alive and safe and tries to contact Raymond after all.

Then, as if the universe has read his thoughts, his cellular phone lights up with a message, and the contact line reads ‘Larry, your neighbor.’ Raymond jumps to open the text, naively hoping that it is Peralta explaining that the grocery store was incredibly crowded or all but one check-out line was out of order or his all-terrain vehicle ran out of gas on the way home or he stopped along the way to pet a dog and his phone died and he couldn’t remember his way home so he had to find someone to lend him a charger until he had enough battery to use his cellular phone’s Global Positioning System.

Instead, he’s met with a single line of text and he thinks that he actually feels his heart sink.

9544 McGintley Street. 3 hours.

Below the text message are three picture attachments. Raymond knows what they will contain even before he opens them with not-at-all-shaky fingers.

At first, all his professional trained police officer brain can comprehend is that photographs absurdly resemble mugshots, one of the front and one of each side.

Then his clinical detachment fails, and he just stares.

It’s Peralta, with a badly bruised left cheek and temple, and a not-yet-dried trail of blood streaming from above his left eye and traveling down to his jaw.

Peralta, with carefully-restrained anger in his eyes and a falsely calm expression on his face.

Peralta, with unfamiliar hands clutching his head, manhandling him into position for the photographs.

The message is clear enough. He has three hours to make an appearance or Peralta will die.

Raymond’s chest feels as though it is being physically squeezed, but at the same time he’s almost relieved, because the photographs could be much worse and at the very least he now knows that Peralta is presently alive.

Raymond exits out of the messaging application and dials the Brooklyn area code for the second time that day.

“Sergeant Jeffords, I’m afraid the situation has changed.”

Chapter Text

When Jake wakes up this time, he’s staring at his lap, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders and back are burning from the various ways they’ve been pulled at both by the duct tape bonds and his time passed out yet again. He supposes he should be, in some way, grateful that the bindings are so stupidly tight; they’ve kept him from sagging while unconscious and forcing his shoulder blades even more out of place. 

On the other hand, however, this sucks.

His face feels swollen and sore and he’s sure he looks like a murder victim the 9-9 pulled out of the river, all bloated and discolored. His left eye is definitely a gross shade of purple by now, and he genuinely thinks that if he gets hit there one more time his eyeball might literally explode, and not even in a cool action movie way.

On that note, he debates feigning unconsciousness for a little while because being knocked out is probably the best way to avoid getting beat up, but when he hears no movement for several long minutes, he drags his head off his chest to survey the room.

A quick glance out the window barely helps him figure out how long he’s been out, because even though it’s now dark it could have been 30 minutes since sunset or six hours, or it could just be cloud cover before or after a storm.

Further recon reveals that there are no cars parked outside, so the mob boss and his men are still out doing whatever it is they’re doing. On the bright side, Figgis is ridiculously low on man power, so there’s only one man to spare to stand guard over Jake. On the less-bright side, it’s Heinrich. Of course.

Honestly, the man probably volunteered to stay back. He definitely hates Jake an inordinate amount for someone who’s just a lackey for the boss. Maybe he’s the fraternal twin brother of someone Jake’s put away. That’d be pretty cool; who doesn’t love good villain motivation?

The only silver lining in this situation is that Captain Holt managed to escape when Karl and Heinrich came for him. But now that the captain definitely knows that Figgis got him, Jake can only hope that Captain Holt won’t give in to whatever ultimatum Figgis texted him.

(A deeper part of him knows that Holt will absolutely try to help Jake and has probably already devised a master plan to outwit Figgis and save the day, and on the one hand, wow, his father figure actually cares about him enough to do that, imagine that, but also mostly it scares him because what if something goes wrong and then Captain Holt dies, too.)

Well, there’s only one solution then. He’ll just have to pull off an epic escape à la Black Widow at the beginning of the The Avengers, take down Heinrich, and save himself. Easy peasy. Plus, now that he’s got his odds evened out, one-to-one, he’s feeling a little more of that classic Peralta confidence surging through him.

Of course, it’s let’s actual one-to-one and more one-to-one-tied-to-a-chair-and-beaten-up, but Nick Cage has absolutely faced worse odds and he almost always manages to come out on top, except when he plays the villain but that’s just further proof that the good guy always wins.

He glances up and around the room again, trying to make sure that Figgis’ guard dog isn’t watching him too closely.

Luckily for him, Heinrich is still sitting at the poker table in the corner, shuffling cards with one hand while his other runs up and down the handle of a frankly huge butterfly knife, so Jake is in the clear to start looking for a way out.

Priority one is going to be getting out of this chair, but unfortunately all Larry Sherbert carried on him was a folding pocket knife and a basic Swiss Army keychain, and both of those have been confiscated since Jake’s abduction, so there’s no dramatic hidden weapon reveal to be had.

Since cutting himself free is off the table, he turns to looking for any sort of weak spot in his bonds. He has to admit, Alexander did a pretty excellent job of overdoing it with the tape, but if he’s learned anything from at least thirty years of watching action movies, it’s that the bad guy always makes one little mistake for the hero to exploit later.

Oh, and score. There it is.

He gives himself a moment of silent celebration as the tips of his fingers catch onto the end of the duct tape around his wrists. It’s a bit of a stretch, but he manages to twist his fingers up high enough to start picking at the loose edge, teasing it with the pads of his fingertips so that it will eventually start to roll up or lose its stickiness and give him a little more to grip.

As he plucks away at the tape behind his back, the rest of the pieces of his plan begin to slot together in his mind.

Okay, so, Step 1: stealthily unwind tape from wrists. Step 2: get Heinrich to come over, headbutt him, then use his recovery time to loosen the chest tape with newly freed arms. Step 3: probably punch Heinrich, mainly to keep him down but also because karma’s a bitch. Step 4: free legs and arrest Heinrich. Step 5: be lauded as a hero and have Matt Damon play him in the movie.

Oh yeah, it’s all coming together—ow. Hand cramp.

Point is, he’s a genius mastermind and tape is starting to curl up as he continues to flick at every piece his straining fingers can reach. Finally, enough comes loose that, with a little more stretching, he can pinch the loosened flap of tape between two fingertips. He grips it as solidly as he can and pulls, but his angle is all wrong and the tape yanks noisily again itself and Jake barely suppresses a cringe.

Oh, no. That was loud—that was too loud. Heinrich’s head had snapped up at the noise, and his gaze is sweeping across the room. Not cool, not cool, not cool.

Time crawls as Heinrich listens carefully and Jake does his best to pretend he heard nothing. The only sounds in the safe house are Jake’s too-loud breathing through his nose and the creak of a single floorboard as Heinrich stands and walks the length of the room to the window. He peers through the curtain, seeing nothing, then turns his eyes to Jake, who avoids Heinrich’s gaze until he realizes maybe that’s more suspicious and decides to chance a glance over.

After what feels like an hour of tense silence, Heinrich gives a minuscule shrug and returns to his post at the poker table, and Jake has to physically restrain himself from letting out a breath of relief.

Okay, so, removing the tape is gonna be a little trickier than anticipated in the quiet room.

Time for a modified plan.

New Step 1: provoke the huge angry guy who likes to hit you so you can goad him into having a conversation. Cool, cool, cool. Good first step. Solid. Step 2: once tape over mouth is removed; upgrade to verbal distraction. Noice, he misses talking anyway. Step 3: use sound of voice to cover sound of tape being unwound from wrists. Then adapt the original steps 2-5 into steps 4-7 and bada-bing, bada-boom, he’s back in Brooklyn in time for breakfast.

Alright, so. Time to aggravate.

No doubt, no doubt, that’s cool, he can do that. He’s really good at being annoying. Rosa says so all the time.

Okay. Here goes everything.

“The customer service here sucks,” he says, enunciating his words as clearly as possible, which admittedly still isn’t very much. It comes out sounding like: ‘Uh cudamur thurvi ‘ere uckths.’ Close enough. At least it was loud.

“Don’t talk,” grunts his guard, and Jake can’t help but smile behind the tape because, seriously? Name one time ever that that’s worked.

Instead of shutting up, he looks the hulk of a man directly in the eye and says, slowly, carefully, dead-seriously: “9 out of 10 doctors would not recommend.”

Heinrich’s regular bad-guy-glare immediately dials up to a full-on glower. “I know you think you’re tough shit, Peralta, but I’m not messing around here. You can either sit there quietly or I can beat your face in until you stop moving. And Figgis ain’t here to tell me when to stop this time.”

Wow, overcompensate much? Jake lets out a laugh that’s more of a snort behind the duct tape gag and rolls his eyes, lifting a single brow.

Heinrich’s hand twitches, and Jake thinks: this is it, let’s go, but the man just stays where he is.

“This ain’t the first time you’ve screwed me over, Peralta.” Says Heinrich, and yup, okay, starting a conversation, good, so just take the tape off already.

“First you turned snitch on the Ianucci’s, then you got that Fed piece of garbage Annderson to flip on Figgis. I’m real tired of you sticking your big nose into things that don’t concern you.”

Wow, first off, racist. And second, the Ianucci family? That was like three and a half years ago, man, get over it.

“Maybe you just need better taste in mobs,” Jake says in response, but of course it once again comes out as mostly just a big jumble of muted, undistinguishable noises. It’s a pity; Heinrich will never know how genuinely hilarious Jake is.

But evidently he’s horribly misjudged his own ability to annoy because in a single second the henchman’s self-control cracks and Heinrich’s meaty hand wraps itself around Jake’s throat, fingers digging into his flesh and palm pressing down on his Adam’s apple, not tight enough to fully cut off his breath but firm enough to serve as a clear reminder that Heinrich could kill him without a second thought, just tighten his grip and squeeze until Jake’s neck snapped or he suffocated.

Jake freezes, his next stifled criticism stopping in its place and crawling back down his throat as his entire body right down to his lungs stops to avoid angering the clearly unhinged man any further.

Okay, so, this isn’t working. New plan, new plan—

“Laugh all you want, Jakey,” hisses Heinrich, flicking open the way-too-large-to-be-fair butterfly knife, “As soon as the boss doesn’t need you alive anymore, I’m gonna carve the skin right off your fucking face and I’m gonna enjoy every second of it.” He touches the blade to the corner of Jake’s eye and Jake, still frozen, can’t even move his head back thanks to the hand slowly choking him. Why does everything in his life have to escalate so quickly? Heinrich smiles at the fear that Jake is failing to conceal, and begins to trace his knife lightly down the detective’s face in a preview of what will come if Jake doesn’t figure out some other way to get the hell out of here and soon.

The knife settles on his jaw, tracing the line of it, and the hand on his neck tightens a little more; randomly, he regrets taking a job at the Fun Zone instead of actually working for Dan’s World of ATVs. Somehow, dying in the gray ATV t-shirt just seems so much more dignified than dying in a bright blue Fun Zone polo that proudly proclaims to the world: ‘I’m an adult man with a college education who works at an arcade!’

Heinrich’s eyes are glazed with a wild sheen; Jake can feel the delicate inner workings of his esophagus and the thin bones in his neck as they start to grind together and his own pulse thudding loudly in his head and—

They’re interrupted by two curt knocks on the door.

Heinrich slowly removes his fist from Jake’s neck, maintaining their eye contact in a way that conveys that this isn’t over, and Jake thinks he actually feels the rings of cartilage in his throat decompressing as he desperately catches his breath through his nose.

While he breathes and breathes again and promises to never take oxygen for granted ever again, Heinrich trades his knife for a gun and approaches the door. His eye has barely come level with the peephole when the frame shudders and the door flies inward like a rocket, knocking Heinrich clean off his feet and back into the adjacent wall.

And there in the doorway looking more incredibly badass than Bruce Willis could ever dream of being is Captain Raymond Holt.

Heinrich immediately attempts to leap up, but Holt meets him with a fist to the face, shattering Heinrich’s nose with a devastating crunch and sending the henchman toppling over in what is maybe the single most action-movie-esque moment of Jake’s entire life.

Coolest daptain ever.

Holt tears his gaze from the now-neutralized threat and finds Jake’s face, scanning the blood and bruises with what looks an awful lot like concern, and when Holt’s eyes finally settle on Jake’s he sees his own relief mirrored in his captain’s face as for 0.2 seconds he thinks that this nightmare is finally over.

Then the universe says ‘sike!’ and Jake’s eyes widen as Karl emerges from the splintered doorway, a shiny black pistol pointed at Holt’s head. Alexander follows, circling around the captain to flank his other side. The floorboards shift behind Jake, and Captain Holt’s eyes flick up to something above Jake’s head just as a cold barrel presses against the back of Jake’s skull and, ah, that would be Figgis.

“Raymond Holt,” greets the mob boss, a trace of a smile in his tone.

“Figgis,” replies Holt evenly, raising his hands in the air and allowing Karl to take the gun from his loosened grip in an almost-perfect picture of calmness, but his left nostril twitches and his lips are pursed ever so slightly in a dead giveaway that he’s internally freaking out.

“Glad you could make it,” says Figgis, because he doesn’t know Holt and his mannerisms. “Now, I know you had time to alert the Feds about me. So where’s the rest of your little squad?”

“Not present. I was under orders to remain in protection at a safe location and I inferred from your message that you wished for me to come alone. No one knows I’m here.”

“Smart man,” responds Figgis.

“Indeed. But please, let’s end this farce. You’ve got me where you want me; what now? Do you plan to kill me or are we going to stand here all night like a pair of Saratoga show ponies?”

The Butcher lets out a humorless laugh. “Well, straight to the point then. Is he always this blunt?” He asks, tapping the gun twice on Jake’s head to indicate that he’s talking to him.

Jake cringes on reflex and Holt starts forward in alarm. Karl and Alexander grab an arm each, stopping the captain short.

“Stop this, Figgis,” pleads Captain Holt monotonously.

“Don’t worry, Holt, I’ll get to you. But for now... I know you care for all your little detectives, but he’s different, isn’t he?” Figgis asks unnecessarily, rhetorically, relishing in the way Captain Holt tenses and glares whenever Figgis’ hands and fingers get too close to Jake’s body.

“Jacob Peralta is an excellent detective and a valued member of the precinct. That’s all,” Captain Holt insists in a clipped tone.

Figgis doesn’t buy it, and continues as if Holt hadn’t spoken.

“But, I guess you do have a point. He’s been through enough already, wouldn’t you say? Just look at that face.” Figgis’ hovering free hand finally picks a spot to land and he pats Jake’s bruised face sardonically; Jake flinches away as best he can, his skin crawling. “And I’ve been neglecting you. So, tell you what: I think I’ll kill Peralta now, let my boys go to town on you, then wrap all this up with a nice bullet to your brain and leave you here for your friends to find. Sound good?”

Jake’s breathing has sped up and he knows Captain Holt can tell because he’s looking at Jake with actual fear in his eyes, and Jake feels bad because he’s the cause of that fear, but underneath the fear is something else; pride, assurance, comfort; and Jake locks onto it and he feels bad, because Holt is going to have to watch him die while they make eye contact, but at the same time if this is really it then he at least wants the last thing he sees to be Captain Holt looking at him like he’s proud of him, like he’s done something good.

Figgis smiles. “Great.”

The Butcher cocks his gun, the sound echoing in the small space, and the muzzle presses deep into the back of Jake’s head.

“No, wait—!” Captain Holt strains against the men holding him still.

The hammer pulls back.

Chapter Text

A number of things happen at once.

Peralta throws his weight to the right and the chair teeters on two legs. A deafening crash melds with a sickening bang as the gun fires and Peralta smacks into the ground with a yell that is harsh even through the gag while the front and back doors fly all the way open and Sergeant Jeffords and the detectives of the 9-9 flood the room in full tactical gear.

All of the sudden the world that had narrowed to Peralta and the gun prepared to execute him explodes like a kaleidoscope, expanding back to normal in a disorientating surge of sound and light.

The hands gripping him like Lucifer’s claws are torn away in a chorus of shouts, Diaz and Santiago like avenging archangels as they order the men’s hands up with righteous fury, and there is hardly time to view the occasion as the long-awaited reunion that it is amongst the raucous flutter of chaos.

Jimmy Figgis’ men are outnumbered, but they fight as if they have the upper hand, throwing punches and moving around too rapidly for the 9-9 to risk firing shots in the contained space.

“Drop the gun!” Jeffords’ commanding shout breaks through the din, and Raymond looks up to see a shiny black circle aimed directly as his forehead. Jimmy Figgis’ face creases in a snarl, and his hand tenses as he prepares to depress the trigger regardless of the warning.

“No!” Peralta, still bound to the tipped-over chair, lets out an alarmed cry that even the duct tape covering his mouth can’t suppress, kicking out with all his might. Part of the tape around his ankle separates from the chair with the force and Peralta manages to catch Figgis in the leg, throwing the criminal off balance before he can shoot. In reply, Figgis unleashes a wordless shout of rage, disentangling himself from Peralta’s leg and decking the detective with the gun still in his hand.

Peralta’s head snaps to the side, bouncing off the hard floor, and what can only be described as white-hot rage floods through Raymond’s body in an instant. Every other thought leaves his mind at the sight, and suddenly he is rapidly closed the distance between himself and the pair.

The next thing he knows he’s colliding viciously with Figgis’ body, grabbing onto the man as the momentum of the tackle carries him into a roll, only letting up once Jimmy Figgis is as far away from Peralta as Raymond can manage. He allows himself to punch Figgis, once, with the excuse of subduing a dangerous criminal, then finds that he is barely able to restrain himself from the brutish act of laying into every part of the mobster he can find.

It barely matters, anyway, because a second later there’s an officer by his side handcuffing Figgis and Raymond hardly even registers which member of his squad it is as he safeties the gun he wrestled from Figgis and rushes back to where Peralta lies on the floor.

Now that the immediate danger has passed the detective’s eyes are closed and his creased forehead rests on the cool floorboards as he takes deep breaths in through his nose. Raymond lays what he hopes is a comforting hand on the detective’s shoulder and Peralta grunts and winces, and Raymond notices for the first time the dark patch of blood spreading through the bright fabric of the detective’s shirt.

A flash of horror overtakes him before the logical majority of his brain reasons that a shoulder wound isn’t likely to kill Peralta before he can get to the ambulance that Raymond can hear approaching in the distance. Still, he forces himself to become 37% gentler as he quickly cuts through the bindings on Peralta’s wrists, a strange flutter of pride running through him when he sees that they have already been halfway unwound by Peralta himself.

Once Peralta’s torso is free, he moves his own uninjured arm up to gently peel the duct tape away from his mouth, nose crinkling slightly with discomfort.

Raymond wishes he could frame his features into something like reassurance, but his face is still lined with worry and the aftereffects of rage and looking at Peralta’s face—seeing the cuts and scrapes and blood and bruises up close—puts his injuries in high-definition, impossible to ignore.

He focuses on severing the remainder of the ties instead, and helps Peralta carefully to his feet, mindful of the gunshot wound.

“Are you alright, son?” He asks, and the spontaneous word choice lingers in the suddenly quieted room—at some point the remainder of the mob had been quashed and arrested; uniformed officers are herding the men out to the waiting squad cars; a handful of federal agents are conversing with the Coral Palms sheriff and Marshal Haas.

Peralta’s face cracks into a ecstatic grin despite the situation. “You called me ‘son’ again,” he exclaims excitedly, “No take-backs!”

Raymond can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed at the slip as the remainder of the 9-9 shepherds them out of Figgis’ safe house and into freedom.

• • •

Raymond doesn’t miss the way Peralta closes his eyes as they step through the doorframe, for once relishing in Florida’s warm evening air. He wonders if Peralta thought he would die in that building; that he would never breathe fresh air again, murdered at the hands of a man seeking wrongful vengeance.

The emergency medical technicians are upon Peralta in an instant, coaxing him towards the flashing lights of their vehicle and asking questions about his medical history in a whirlwind of action.

“Can you tell me your name, sir?” He hears one of them ask, and he sees the exuberance diffuse across Peralta’s face as he answers truthfully for the first time in half a year: “Jake. My name’s Jake Peralta.”

As the rest of the detectives disperse to attend to their own respective matters and the adrenaline fades from his body, it hits him that this is really over. Figgis is secured in the back of a squad car; Diaz has read him his rights along with a personalized message from Adrian Pimento, and Raymond can finally go home.

Oh.

Home.

To Kevin.

He fumbles—actually fumbles, lord help him—for his cellular phone. There are only two mobile numbers saved it in, but he would know his husband’s phone number half-blind in a ditch on muscle memory alone.

He reminds himself how lucky he is that Kevin is too gracious a man to let any calls go to voicemail when he can easily answer the phone—“Our outgoing message begins with ‘We cannot make it to the phone,’ Raymond, we can’t just lie to them by knowingly ignoring a call.”—as the phone call picks up in two rings.

“Hello, Dr. Kevin Cozner, Ph.D., it’s me, your husband—”

“Captain Raymond Holt.” He can hear the obvious smile in Kevin’s voice and wonders if he’s being equally as emotional. Well, they have already pulled out the pet names, so he supposes this conversation has officially lost all chances of being professional.

In that case, there’s no point in running through the formalities of a proper greeting.

“I missed you,” he says.

“Oh my, Raymond.” Kevin sounds shocked, but he quickly concedes, similarly abandoning his pretense of professionalism. “I’ve missed you, too. As has Cheddar; he’s been absolutely rambunctious as of late. Three days ago on our morning walk he licked the young Ms. Margaret Wallace’s hand when she came to greet him.”

“Licked?” Raymond chuckles at the anecdote. “I am appalled. He knows better than that. Put him on the line at once.”

“Oh, Raymond, you’re too much.”

There’s a pause after that, entirely too long to be socially acceptable, and Raymond just stands there quietly and listens to the love of his life breathing over the line; an muted pattern of soft, even breaths that Raymond had not realized he could miss so dearly until he was no longer falling asleep next to it every night, and in that moment it seems like the most wonderful sound in the world.

“You’re really coming home?” Kevin asks at last, subdued and timid in a way that is so unlike him, as if he fears that this is an awful joke or perhaps just a dream.

“It’s over,” Raymond confirms, voice equally as soft.

The smile is back in Kevin’s voice. “Then I’ll see you for breakfast tomorrow morning. I’ll prepare toast for two.”

Another pause.

“I love you.”

“I love you as well.” Raymond’s voice cracks on the last syllable—god, he is a mess—but he can dismiss it just this once. The conversation is over, but Raymond hesitates to hang up his cellular phone. Kevin does the same, and Raymond feels as if he is a smitten juvenile chanting ‘no, you hang up first’ back and forth and over and over.

He longs to have Kevin’s hand in his own again, to give a firm handshake, to interlace their fingers, to rest his palm over Kevin’s fingers while they watch Jeopardy! at 7:00 sharp.

“Just one more night, Kevin, I promise.”

“Please hurry,” his husband breathes.

They hang up simultaneously before they can become too emotionally compromised.

• • •

Approximately 30 minutes after Peralta’s Florida nightmare ends, the crime scene has finally begun to die down.

Marshal Haas and the agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation have evacuated the scene to process Jimmy Figgis and his men. The Coral Palms sheriff had cleared out the moment he realized there was no one left for him to arrest. All but one of the emergency care vehicles had similarly left once they confirmed there was only one man in need of medical attention.

(Although Detective Boyle had insisted Raymond be checked over as well, spouting off concerns that Raymond may be ‘in shock’ before departing to fetch what he promised would be a soothing meal of Turkmenistan mutton chops stuffed with pumpkin pulp and onion mash.)

Raymond has reserved himself to perching not-quite-casually on the hood of a black squad car, the picture album of Boyle’s newly adopted son Nikolaj forgotten at his side. He had begun to look through it, genuinely trying to enjoy the 4,000 ‘essential’ photographs of the adolescent male child, but despite his efforts to remain distracted, his gaze had continually strayed to his injured officer until he could ignore it no longer.

Peralta sits in the opened up back of the final ambulance, legs swinging back and forth childishly as they dangle over the edge. He looks much too cheerful considering the daunting affairs of the past few hours—Raymond wonders how much of it is an act put on to calm his peers.

An intravenous line transfuses blood into the crook of his elbow and white bandages creep over his shoulder, the bloodied blue work polo replaced with a loose tank top. (Raymond is reminded that a meager seven hours ago, that blue shirt had been the largest of his problems; the object of his desire and the root of his and Peralta’s brewing rivalry.)

Peralta is deep in conversation with Santiago—she is holding an ice pack to his eye with one hand while her other clasps his own hand firmly—and Raymond wants, needs, to check on Peralta again, make sure he is not in pain, that he is psychologically sound, but it feels improper to interrupt their reunion for his own needs.

“All due respect, Captain, but if you don’t go over there and talk to him I’m going to whack you with my baton.” Pipes up a blunt voice to his right.

Raymond nods in assent. “Thank you, Diaz.”

“‘Course. I’m great at motivation.”

“Once I am reinstated as your captain you will not speak to me like that again.”

“Yup.”

• • •

Despite Detective Diaz’s strong words of encouragement, Raymond still finds himself on edge as he strides briskly towards Peralta. Thankfully, Santiago notices him making his way over and removes herself from Peralta’s side with a quick kiss and some gentle remark that leaves both of them smiling, so by the time Raymond sinks down in the back of the emergency vehicle he at least has the buffer of privacy to temper the awkwardness.

Looking Peralta in the eye feels almost painful; at this distance every small white bandaid and thin little stitch over every cleaned up cut stands out against his black and blue bruised face, each one a dark reminder of Raymond’s failure. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”

Peralta looks at Raymond like he’s just announced that Beethoven is only his sixth favorite German composer.

“‘Sorry’?” Peralta echoes. “You saved my life, Captain.”

Raymond shakes his head. “You were still hurt. I should never have allowed that to happen. I am truly sorry you were ever in a position wherein you could be used to get at me.”

Peralta stares back at him for a long while, looking a combination of amused and concerned. “Captain, you’re emoting,” he teases. Then, as his own words sink in, a mild look of panic replaces his grin and he blurts out a frenzied string of questions. “Do you feel okay? Did you get a concussion in there? How many fingers am I holding up—”

“Peralta.”

Peralta silences himself, though he still looks a bit cautious.

“I assure you I am uninjured,” says Raymond, “You, on the other hand...” Good lord, he’s trailing off now? Peralta’s right, Raymond is a blubbering mess. He is clearly not fit for conversation right now—he’s causing a kerfuffle, for goodness sake! Surely his current state is a side-effect of his passionate telephone reunion with Kevin.

Peralta seems to agree. “Woah, woah, woah, um, sir? Please go back to being robot captain.”

“Meep morp,” Raymond concedes delicately.

It is not his most convincing display. Peralta catches on easily.

“Uh... Captain?” The detective’s tone is quickly moving back to worried. Raymond supposes he should just get this ‘feelings talk’ over with before he completely looses his nerve and backs out.

“I’m proud of you, Peralta.”

Peralta’s expression softens, the way it always does when Raymond gives him praise, but his face still maintains a good part of its confusion. “Thank you, sir, but I didn’t do anything except get tied to a chair and held hostage.”

“Quite the contrary. You saved my life and managed to stop Jimmy Figgis while restrained. As you can tell from my tone that is incredibly impressive.”

Peralta merely hums in response.

A comfortable silence settles gently over the two as they sit in the back of the ambulance. Six months of separation from their home, of fake lives and dead wives, of lying and hiding and sorrow and turmoil, and now, with one camera phone video and gun, here they are.

Predictably, it is Peralta who breaks the silence.

“I guess we saved each other, Cap’n.”

“Don’t say ‘Cap’n.’” Raymond’s response is almost instinctual.

“Aww, he’s back,” croons Peralta gleefully. Yes, Raymond thinks, and smiles. We’re back.