#god i've been writing for b99 for a Really Long Time

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

As promised - here's my final thoughts on The Golden Girls, my way of honouring this show that has kept me such good company in the past few months. Before I begin, I'd like to thank all the people who have liked/reblogged my rants about this series: I've appreciated each and every one of you, and while we might be few, it's been nice knowing I wasn't alone shouting into the void. I hope you had as much fun as I did.

Be advised: this is long and rather messy, but if you're interested, here you go - under the cut!

Let me preface by saying that I knew basically next to nothing about TGG before I started watching, last September. I had seen the couple of very famous posts about it circling around tumblr, which gave me the idea that it was an old but relatively progressive and very good show, and I knew that Betty White, beloved American actress, starred in it - so, in general, I had a favourable disposition, but being both non-American and born in the late 90s I had literally no idea what I might be getting into.

To be honest, I knew I wanted to watch it eventually, but I would have waited even more if not for a certain occurrence - that is, I read the Good Omens book. It is mentioned a couple times in there that Crowley considers TGG one of his favourite sitcoms (there's even a scene in which hell communicates with him via Rose). I was at the time (and still am...) completely obsessed with GO S2, and in need of something to distract myself: I took the bait, expecting it to be a good way to spend some time.

I did not expect to like it this much.

Some stuff you probably already know - it's really very progressive, especially for its time, and it's certainly got an original premise: how many shows do you know in which the main characters are all middle-aged and old women? And, of course, you probably know that it's a funny comedy show. Here's the thing, if you've never watched it: it is way, way funnier than you think. Yes, funnier than that. My God, is this show hilarious. I am, in general, an emotive person when watching stuff, but I've never watched a show that had me laughing so much, so loudly and so consistently during its whole airtime (B99 got close, but nowhere on this level). The writing is (almost always) great, the jokes and gags are delightful, the characters all have amazing chemistry, and the actresses are EXCEPTIONAL. Rue McClanahan, Bea Arthur, Betty White and Estelle Getty deserved all the praise and awards they got for this series, and even more. It's almost miraculous how so much talent - in the cast and crew alike - managed to end up in the right place at the right time like this.

Let's delve into a little more detail, shall we? So - the writing. As I mentioned, the premise is already original in and of itself - a show about four ageing ladies living as roommates in Miami would be groundbreaking even now, let alone in 1985. Not only that: it's a show in which four ageing ladies live as roommates with very full, enjoyable lives, fulfilling hobbies and platonic relationships, romances and sexual relations; it's a show in which four ageing ladies deal with life, death, old age, health problems (especially "feminine" ones: that episode about menopause was scandalous!), family, love, sexuality and a plethora of other subjects, while at the same time embarking on shenanigans and incredible adventures.

I always say that, while the opposite is not always true, great comedy actors are also great dramatic actors, and this is true for the writing as well: the same actresses and writers that make you laugh until you wheeze one second will have you a sobbing mess in the next one. The girls face together a lot of heavy subjects and events (Blanche's relationship with her estranged children, Dorothy's first marriage and divorce, Phil's death, Rose's childhood in the orphanage and the identity of her parents, and so, so much more), which creates the space for some truly moving performances by all actresses. Hell, there's a scene in S7 that lasts less than a couple minutes, in which Rose talks to a dog, that still makes me tearful when I think about it.

Not only that: this show delves into a lot of themes that are still controversial today, and while a few jokes here and there might be outdated by today's standards (although there's much, much less of these than I expected), you can always tell they treated these issues with love, care, and genuine respect for all the people involved. The episode dealing with AIDS has already reached tumblr fame, but just off the top of my head I remember episodes about the life of immigrants, queer identities (both in terms of sexuality and gender identity), artificial insemination, racism, poverty, homelessness, ageism & the treatment of people in nursing homes, assisted suicide (yes, you read that right). Compare this with sitcoms aired years later (I'm looking at you, F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and The Big Bang Theory), and then tell me this isn't a Very Special show.

Above all this, though, TGG is a show about four ageing women who become a family - who sometimes fight, sometimes keep secrets from each other, sometimes get involved in absurd circumstances, often bicker, but always, always, always have each other's backs and take care of each other. That's why, while the series finale was touching (once all the circumstances are taken into account: I wouldn't have forgiven such a hurried romance for Dorothy if not for the very strict constraints the writers had to work within), the actual, real finale to me was the next-to-last episode, Home Again, Rose: Part 1&2. Let me explain why.

There's an episode in S4, E22: Sophia's Choice, which deals with the condition of people in nursing homes, and how so many slip through the cracks of the system and live out their old age in horrible situations, alone and without any support. The three younger girls are understandably shaken by this thought: old age is growing closer for all of them - what if they end up slipping through the cracks too? What if they have to live out their days in solitude and abusive conditions? In the end, Rose (met with enthusiasm by her roommates) finds this solution:

I know, girls: let's make a pact that we'll always take care of each other. That we'll never desert each other, no matter what.

and in Home Again, Rose, Dorothy restates this same promise to Rose's daughter, Kirsten:

Honey, we made a pact a few years ago that if anything happened to any one of us, the other three would take care of her. Sort of an extra insurance policy.

She says this after an entire episode where the theme is that of family by blood vs chosen family: an episode in which the girls are barred from seeing Rose, who has to undergo an operation that might leave her dead or unable to take care of herself alone, because they're not her relatives; an episode in which they spend hours upon hours at the hospital anyway, waiting and hoping, and they are ready - they actually suggest the idea - to put themselves in horrible debt to cover Rose's medical expenses, because while they might not be related, they are family. It's just like Blanche states at the end of the very first episode, S1E1 The Engagement:

I was humming. And humming means I'm feeling good. And then I realized, I was feeling good because of you! You made the difference. You're my family, and you make me happy to be alive.

Do you see? They set the scene for how these characters interact in the very first episode, and then spend 7 seasons showing how true it is, up until the very last second. Sure - the girls argue, they bicker, they hurt each other at times, but you never doubt that they love each other deeply (except in the very, very rare occasions when the writing wasn't up to par - and even then, the doubt is very fleeting and quickly resolved). All of them have both blood relatives and romantic relationships (although not all of those are happy), and yet these other bonds are never portrayed as more important or more significant than what they share with each other. This is the very heart of the show, and it's a heart that beats thunderous and warm throughout all seven seasons of it - it's what makes TGG such a beloved, well-remembered sitcom.

(Since this is tumblr, aka the shipping old people site, and since you've all read my comments in the past few months, let me also spend a couple words on the queer romance reading of Blanche/Dorothy/Rose. For my own enjoyment, and because I needed some old woman yuri in my life, I decided in S1E1 that these three were in an open polycule and watched accordingly; can you blame me? They're always touching, they send each other some quite smitten Looks, they have great romantic chemistry, they're committed to each other, and quite a number of scenes are actually explicitly suggestive in that sense, although it's usually as part of a bigger comedic setup. I like to think that maybe, in a different and kinder world, this series would have ended with the three of them staying together as partners - if only for the fact that such a romance would have had incredible comedic potential. In any case, the point stands: these women love each other, whether there's some romance in there or it's all platonic, and that's the beating core of the show.)

Of course, even the best plots won't work if the characters involved fall flat; luckily, all the characters in TGG are spectacular. They're all very distinct, identifiable personalities without ever becoming stereotypes or growing stale; they have incredible chemistry in a comedic setting, but are so well-rounded that they work perfectly in a more somber setting too.

I've already commented in the past on how great a decision it was to keep Sophia a main character of the show, instead of just a recurring one: her special brand of caustic sarcasm is a crucial part of the dynamic between the main girls, and her one-liners are always iconic. Her bond with Dorothy is so sweet and realistic, and the way she gradually becomes Blanche's and Rose's mom too was delightful to watch. Dorothy herself, of course, is my very first love: the character that left the best impression on me in E1, and the one I resonate with the most. Her stares are iconic, her comebacks are legendary, and her regal poise and steadfast delivery make for a uniquely enjoyable kind of humour that I don't think I'll ever find anywhere else. And this is only her comedic side: her sweet and dramatic moments are equally memorable, and make her a favourite in no time. Rose is a testament to both the genius of the writers and Betty White's one-of-a-kind talent: her gimmicks and traits would have left me bored after a while in any other show, but in this one they just make her endearing. Giving her a heart of gold (on the good side) and an incredibly competitive streak (on the bad side) were clever choices, and they combined with her naivety and absurd anecdotes to make a character that is always, always funny, and always, always lovable. And finally, Blanche - oh, Blanche! I didn't expect to like her this much. I'm guessing this is equal parts due to the amazing character writing and to Rue McClanahan's exceptional ability - it might be because she's wonderfully charming in her usual, confident self, and even more compelling in her rare moments of vulnerability. What I can tell you with certainty is this: at some (early) point while watching I realized that I couldn't get enough of her character, and the feeling never went away, up until the very end.

You really can't help but love them all! The way they interact with each other, they grow with and thanks to each other, they support each other - it all makes for such compelling characters and dynamics that it's impossible not to enjoy. Betty White stated once, during an interview, that these four ladies are nice to visit for a half-hour every week, to see what they're doing, and I agree with the sentiment (although much more than 30 minutes a week would be wonderful!): they feel like real people, with real lives, and you just want to know what they're up to this time and how they're going to power and laugh through it. To misquote what Neil Gaiman once said about Aziraphale and Crowley in Good Omens: you could lock these four in a dark basement for a half hour and you'd have an entertaining show.

There's so much more I'd like to talk about (it's real hyperfixation hour, boys!) - from the amazing work of the costumes department to more character analysis to specific plotlines and themes, I could stay here rambling on for literal hours. However, this post is already long enough - I'll just keep this steam to fuel my creative endeavors.

Just briefly - so, what's next? Technically speaking, there's still The Golden Palace to watch, but I haven't made up my mind about it yet. According to the internet, Bea Arthur left TGG in part because she felt the writing was declining in quality, and I can see why she thought so; although the general level of the show always remained high, I also had my issues with some episodes in S7, and from the few reviews I've read about it it's a decline that's felt in Golden Palace as well. There's also the elephant in the room of Bea Arthur's departure: I think it was once again Betty White who said that Golden Palace felt like a table with a missing leg, without Dorothy there, although I'm sure Don Cheadle and the other actors did their best to compensate for her absence. This being said, I do love Sophia, Blanche and Rose, so I might decide to watch it eventually - although I'll probably opt for something else for a while, now.

If you've gotten this far, thank you so much. Watching this show and sharing my love for it with you all has been a delightful experience, and I'm truly grateful for it. I'll keep interacting with the fandom, of course (I have so many ideas for stories and vignettes!) - and I'll be sure to rewatch an episode here and there anytime I need to wrap myself in laughter and warmth. To you all, to Sophia, to Dorothy, to Rose, to Blanche: Thank you for being a friend!

[elsaclack]

This is really random but I saw a fic of yours about Amy being sick (I think the prompt was "Amy yells at the Vulture") but I can't find the full piece anywhere. Is it on AO3 anywhere? I love your writing and I completely understand if you just didn't want it out anymore. Just thought I'd ask! :)

i thought it was but i just went and searched my entire work history (including all 70+ chapters of those god-forsaken oneshot collections) and i couldn’t find it anywhere!! i guess i forgot to cross-post it back when i first wrote it, and it got lost when i deleted the original elsaclack. but i just scoured my docs list and found it buried in a random folder so i’ll repost it here and add it to the newest one-shot collection on ao3 :)

fun fact: this was written almost exactly 2 years ago!!! meaning that my writing skills have developed considerably since i actually wrote this. aka please don’t judge me if this seems like a sudden regression haha

also i wanna tag @phil-the-stone-art bc we actually developed the concept of The List together so she’s at least 35% responsible for this fic lmao

under the cut!

Amy Santiago does not get sick, thank you very much. She prides herself on her meticulous nightly hygienic rituals, on the cabinet full of multivitamins and minerals she takes on a daily basis in her bathroom, on the rigorous workout routine and diet she keeps herself on each week to maintain perfect health. She lives her life by a very tight plan (laid out in checklists and carefully organized in color-coded binders) that simply does not afford her any extra time to be sick.

Which is why, when she wakes up one Tuesday morning with a head stuffed full of cotton and violent shivers rolling down her spine, she gets up to start her usual routine in spite of the fact that she feels like she hasn’t actually slept in three weeks. Jake’s still snoring on the other side of the bed, another hour away from getting up to haphazardly dress in whatever flannel he can find lying on her bedroom floor that doesn’t smell too dirty, and he doesn’t even stir at the sound of her shuffling footsteps or running nose.

She drags herself into the bathroom, shuts the door, and flicks the lights on. Her reflection honestly makes her jump back an inch or two; she’s never seen her skin quite so pale, or bruises beneath her eyes quite so dark, or her lips quite so visibly dry and cracked. She reaches out to grip the edges of her sink and realizes that her arms and hands are trembling, and when she leans a bit more weight onto them she notes that her knees are quaking beneath her.

All in all, not a great start to the day.

She presses on, though, ignoring her running nose and congested head and general exhaustion. The shower helps a little, but not much.

When she shuts the water off, she hears Jake moving around in her bedroom, and her heart skips a beat. She hadn’t even realized she’d been in the shower that long. “Jake?” She calls as she wraps a towel around herself. Her voice is coarse and rough.

“Hey,” he knocks lightly at the door. “You okay?”

“Yeah - yeah, could you, um…there’s a binder out on the dining room table, should say something on the cover about that case I was working on last night -” she clears her throat and winces at the sharp pain that responds “- could you grab it and put it in my bag?”

“Sure,” he’s quiet for a moment and Amy’s left to gently rub at her temples with the heels of her hands. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound awful.”

“I’m…I’m fine.”

But she’s not. Her knees are still quaking and vertigo has suddenly set in and she’s swaying, reaching out to grab the tiled edge of her shower. Her hand slips against the wet surface and she falls forward, shoulder banging painfully into the tiles.

The door swings open and Jake bursts inside in a panic. “Ames? Oh my God!” She suddenly realizes that she’d sunk down to a crouching position upon falling. He kneels next to her, gently pulling her away from the shower and letting her lean heavily into him. Her head falls against his shoulder, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, and she hears him tut. “You’re burning up, babe,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” her voice fails half-way through and she ends up finishing in an unconvincing whisper.

“You’re not going to work today,” he tells her.

“But -”

“You almost fainted just now, Amy. You’re staying home sick today.”

She tries to argue but he pulls her up off the ground, keeping his touch firm and steady should gravity leave her again, and her voice completely dies on the way out of the bathroom. He lets her whisper weak arguments as he steers her gently toward the bed, humming and nodding along as he pulls fresh sweatpants up her legs and eases one of his academy shirts over her head. He pushes back on her good shoulder with just enough force that she lays down and pulls the comforter up to her chin. Her eyelids flutter closed when he presses a kiss against her forehead.

“I’ll tell Captain Holt where you are,” he says quietly. His hand finds hers against the mattress, fingers twisting through hers. “Get some sleep, okay?”

She’s asleep before he even gets out the front door.

A few hours later she’s roused by the sound of her phone vibrating on her bedside table. Sunlight streams in through her window and she squints, disoriented, fumbling around with semi-numb fingers for her phone.

From: Jake PeraltaHow u feelin? Miss u at work. Charles says he’ll bring u goat soup later lol

It hurts to even swallow, and Amy has to work really hard to keep from whining at the splitting headache igniting behind her right eye.

To: Jake PeraltaFeel like garbage. I haev a headache. Im afraid to get out of bed for meds. Miss u too

She waits five minutes for him to respond, and when her phone remains motionless, she closes her eyes and lets it fall against her chest.

Precisely twenty minutes after that, she hears her front door open. It closes again and she hears footsteps crossing her living room and it only just hits her that someone is in her apartment when those footsteps cross the threshold of her bedroom.

“Hey, hey, don’t get out of bed,” Jake says soothingly. Amy falls back against her pillow from her struggling half-sitting up position as Jake drops a plastic grocery bag at the foot of her bed and perches on the edge of the mattress beside her. He replaces her phone back on her bedside table with one hand and smooths his other palm over her forehead (and she only just then realizes that she’s sweating) and grimaces. “You’re still burning up,” he says, running his fingers through her hair just above her forehead.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, and the words slip out between two wet coughs.

He frowns and gently scratches his short nails against her scalp. “I brought Advil,” he says, casting an absent glance over his shoulder at the bag he brought in, “and stuff to make soup. It’s the recipe for Nana’s matzoh ball soup.” She raises her eyebrows beneath his palm and he grins down at her. “Don’t tell Charles, but it’s literally the best soup you’ll ever have and it’ll cure your dumb cold in twenty minutes or less.”

“Promise?”

He leans down and pecks a kiss against her forehead. “Promise,” he says when he leans away. “I’m gonna go make some and bring it in here and you’ll be back on your feet before the end of the day. Peralta Guarantee.” He winks.

She sinks down into the mattress as much as she can when he stands up, opening her eyes only when he comes back in with two Advil tablets and a glass half-full of water. Within minutes she begins hearing pots and pans knock around in her kitchen, and through her cloudy mind she registers that her stomach is rumbling in irritation.

“Alright,” he announces from her doorway. Her eyes split open and he’s carefully balancing the soup bowl on top of her dresser. “I’ll help you sit up, don’t move.”

He pulls her up with one hand and waits until she’s sitting up steadily before hurriedly stacking her pillows up behind her. She breathes a sigh of relief when she leans back, not realizing just how much of a strain sitting up is until that moment. He hurries back to where the soup is still steaming and carefully brings it over to her, the tip of his tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth for how hard he has to concentrate on not spilling any.

He nestles it in her lap, and she smiles, because he looks so proud of himself and he’s really so adorable.

Jake stays with her until she finishes the whole bowl and then he takes her dishes from her and quickly rinses them out in her sink.

“I’ll be back after work to check on you and to finish cleaning that, okay?” He calls from her doorway.

She hums hoarsely and fades out of consciousness.

An hour later, Amy wakes up feeling half-human. Her head and throat still hurt and she still can’t breathe out of her nose, but her brain doesn’t feel quite so fried and her limbs don’t feel quite so weak anymore.

Jake was right - the soup really did help.

Not as much as Nyquil would, but…still.

She kicks the comforter off and moves to sit up, and her phone suddenly falls into her lap from her chest. She pauses, staring at it, trying to remember when it ended up back there. She has no new calls or texts, but when she unlocks the screen, there’s a new note pulled up.

Things i want t odo to jake in bed

Amy feels flames engulf her face that have absolutely nothing to do with her fever. The list has twelve items on it, each one raunchier and riddled with more spelling errors than the last, and by the time she gets to the end of the note she’s covering her face in embarrassment. She’s got just the vaguest memory of typing it (and it’s really more of a dream of a memory than anything else), but none of it will solidify into more than just faint snapshots in her head.

But the more she rereads it, the more heat begins building in her body - heat from the mental images, heat from the germs ravaging her body, heat from the thick comforter still draped over her legs.

She has got to go get some Nyquil.

Santiago Determination blazes through her as she drags herself out of bed, shoulders set and jaw clenched as she pulls one of Jake’s hoodies over her frame and slides her feet into her rarely-worn flip-flops. Part of her feels guilty, knowing that if Jake was the one home sick she’d insist on him texting her anything he needs so that he would stay in bed and recover faster, but she brushes it off as she grabs her purse.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

She blames her scattered brain on the matzoh ball soup later. She blames her compromised detective skills and her lack of attention to detail and her general disorientation on the soup. Because under normal circumstances, no matter how sick she truly is, she would definitely have noticed the Vulture browsing the low aisles of the bodega around the corner from her house immediately upon walking through the front doors.

But as it is, she doesn’t, which means that he gets a visual on her before she’s even aware of being spotted.

She’s so busy perusing the medicine section toward the back that she doesn’t notice him stalking around the shelves, doesn’t feel him peeking around the Doctor Scholl’s cardboard display, doesn’t hear him mutter at a mother and daughter to get out of his way as he follows her ambling walk down the aisle. She isn’t aware of the danger until he’s basically on top of her.

“Yo, Santiago,” he says, his voice low and curdling. She winces and turns slowly, and he’s leaned against the shelves to her left, leering down at her. A handcart hangs between them; it’s full of at least thirty boxes of condoms, she realizes when she glances down. Her stomach shifts unpleasantly. “You look homeless.”

“Get out of the way,” she whispers hoarsely.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Peralta got you screaming so hard every night you lost your voice?”

Heat bursts through her cheeks and she glances back, meeting the scandalized look on that same mother’s face with an apologetic grimace. “Shut up.” She snaps as fiercely as she can.

He smirks, because her voice only comes in bursts. “Damn, you really let yourself go, didn’t you?” His eyes rove her body and she’s suddenly very keenly aware of the fact that she’s not wearing any underwear beneath her sweatpants. She can feel her face blossoming.

“Whatever.” She turns away quickly and digs her phone out of her purse, cursing when she hears the Vulture following her down the aisle. She dials Jake’s number quickly, and he answers after just two rings.

“Hey, is everything oka-”

“I need you go come to the bodega by my apartment,” she whispers. She can feel her hand trembling again and she curses whatever part of her thought it would be a good idea to do this on her own.

“Wait, what? Why are you -”

“I thought I could walk over here and get what I needed without you, but -” she winces at the sound of the Vulture’s laugh, loud and obnoxious behind her. “But I ran into someone and I need you to come save me.”

“Santiago, look - they do make extra-small condoms! Should I put a whole box in for you and Peralta or is that too many?”

She hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Is that the Vulture?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do not faint.”

“I’m doing my best, but please hurry.”

Amy starts pacing up and down the aisles, doing her best to block the Vulture out. He trails along behind her, alternating between making lewd sexual innuendos about random items on the shelves they pass (“Everything’s a sex toy if you try hard enough,” while pointing out a plastic broom) and insulting her general appearance (“Y’know, you were much sexier before Peralta dragged you down to his level of ugliness. Just make sure your ass doesn’t get as fat as his”). It’s around the time they make it back to the medicine aisle that he turns to making fun of Jake himself.

“I still can’t believe you’re with that loser,” he laughs as Amy finally swipes a bottle of Nyquil off a lower shelf. She stands up slowly, gripping the shelves above her firmly, as a wave of vertigo hits her once again. “You’re hot as shit usually - not right now, obviously - I bet you could sleep with any guy you want.”

She clenches her jaw and tries to calculate how long it’s been since she hung up with Jake.

“I bet the sex is really boring, too,” the Vulture continues. “I bet it’s all missionary and full of, like, eye-contact and shit. I bet he tells you he loves you because you don’t make fun of his tiny weiner.”

“Okay, y’know what?” She snaps, and suddenly her voice is half back. “First of all, there’s nothing wrong with missionary if you do it right. Secondly, you’re full of crap if you really think eye-contact is boring. Third, you’re right, he does tell me he loves me, because he actually loves me, you sexist pig. And fourth, he’s not tiny.”

“Whatever. He’s a joke, just like you, and I bet the sex sucks and you’re both so bad at it that you can’t even tell that it sucks.”

She knows people are staring, but her brain just isn’t functioning right. She yanks her phone out of her purse and quickly scrolls over to her list. “Jake’s the best sex I’ve ever had, okay? In fact, he’s so good that I made a list!” She shoves her phone in his face and scrolls quickly, grinning in manic triumph at the dumbfounded look on his face. “I made a list of all the things I want to do with him because he’s so unbelievably good. You wish you were as good as him.”

He is, for once, speechless. Amy locks her phone and steps back, smug grin on her face. The Vulture’s eyes flicker to something over her shoulder and she sees the spark of recognition in his face; when she turns, she feels her stomach drop down to her toes.

Jake’s standing at the end of the aisle, looking just as dumbstruck as the Vulture. She gasps, and the sound comes out like a ragged squeak. His mouth is hanging open but his brows draw together at the sound.

“Ja- Jake,” she says hoarsely.

This seems to snap him out of his stupor. His mouth snaps closed and he immediately begins striding down the aisle toward her and there’s something new in his eyes - smug and barely-contained glee, maybe - when he throws his arm around her shoulders. “Hi, honey,” he says, laying a kiss against her temple and pulling the bottle of Nyquil from her grasp. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

“Yeah, well, you’re both a couple of losers!” The Vulture shouts after them. Jake twists around and flashes his middle finger at him and grins into Amy’s hair at the sound of his splutters. “I’m buying thirty-five boxes of condoms!”

“You’re amazing.” Jake murmurs once they’re outside of the store. “But next time, just call me instead of trying to go get stuff on your own. I really don’t mind doing it for you. That’s what boyfriends are for.”

She sinks into the passenger’s seat of his car and sighs in relief; her body is already aching from the exertion of just a lap around the bodega. She feels Jake slide in on the driver’s side, feels the engine roar to life beneath her and the air conditioner tickle across her face. The car lurches a little when he puts it in drive and then his free hand finds hers and interlaces their fingers.

“I’m sorry about…that.” She whispers once he’s pulled away from the curb.

“It’s fine, but I really mean it about calling me next time, okay? ‘Specially since you almost fainted this morning and everything, like, what would’ve happened if you’d fallen and hit your head and they took you to the hospital? They would’ve called Manny and it would’ve taken him three hours to get here and -”

“Wait, no, they’d call you,” she interrupts. “Manny’s not my emergency contact anymore. You are.”

He turns his head toward her and stares.

“I changed it two years ago, Peralta. Way before we started dating. I just figured, y’know, since you’re my partner and everything, you’d be able to get there the fastest. And, besides, that’s not even what I was talking about. I meant…the stuff I said to the Vulture. The list.”

“Oh,” he shrugs. “I don’t really care. The guy’s an ass. I could hear him yelling all the way from the front doors. Besides, you weren’t lying.”

He squeezes her hand a few times in quick succession and she snorts. “So you’re…not mad? About any of it?”

“I’m more curious than anything else. Do I get to look at the list, too? Or is that just between you and the Vulture?”

“I can’t stand you.”

She does let him see it once they’re back to her place. He reads each item carefully three times over without ever saying a word, and then stands and grabs his laptop and a notepad off of her dining room table. When she asks what he’s doing, he responds with a muttered “research” and then promptly tells her to finish her soup.

The night passes in a haze that has nothing to do with the cold or the soup or the medicine, and the next morning she wakes to the sounds of Jake’s congested voice explaining through chest-rumbling coughs that neither he nor Amy would be making it into work that day.