#just laying on a couch in the breakroom and staring at the ceiling

[nerdpoe]

There was a slight miscommunication.

Danny says "Get souped!" or variations of it when he soups a rogue.

In a different dimension, the few recordings that the Justice League was able to get their hands on of the High King of the Infinite Realms didn't really have a lot of sound coming through, just static.

They need to summon him to wrangle a threat from his home dimension, but they can't hear what he wants.

But Batman can read lips.

Clearly, the best offering to summon the Ghost King is soup.

"I'll have Agent A make soup," he says, completely neutrally.

"I think we'll need the best soup, though. How about I go get my Ma to make some?" Says Superman, side eyeing Batman.

"I believe my mother knows of a fantastic recipe only found in Themyscira," says Wonder Woman, checking her nails.

"My dad left me a recipe for the best fish stew I've ever had," says Aquaman, already halfway out the door to get groceries.

"My pop makes a real good chicken noodle; you can't beat the classics," says Static, already texting his father.

"I have managed to make the most accurate approximation that I can to a very widely enjoyed Martian stew," says Martian Manhunter, staring Superman down.

All of the Heroes assembled glare at each other.

"...How about we let the King decide?" Asks Constantine, shrinking in on himself when the attention gets turned on him.

The High King get's summoned to a row of Superheroes glaring at him, with different soups laid before him.

They're all encouraging him to eat the best one, but he knows a trap when he sees it. He's a Midwesterner, and they fight their social battles with recipes.

Daniel Fenton forces himself to eat it all.

When asked which was the best?

"Oh, they were all so good I just can't bring myself to choose one over the other."

@simplestoryteller

[revenant-dumpster-fire]

Sore (Revenant x Reader)

Theme: Revenant comforts (in his weird way) and helps a reader who is tired and sore from a lot of strenuous work and activity, coming down from a manic high. Part of a series.

Warnings: Mentions of mania, threats of violence, bodily pain.

Reader Notes: Revenant (Apex Legends) x Reader, reader is non-gendered this chapter, this can be read in the context of romance or not.

Writing Notes: Reject leg damage, ascend to Octane. I guess this is a series because I have no chill.

Navigation:

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"Ah, little skinsuit, you're back." Revenant seems genuinely surprised by your appearance in his doorway. You had wearily limped all the way back to his private room from the volunteer breakroom on other side of the Apex compound. He had, indeed, mentioned something about being willing to help you again previously, but just in case, you had an excuse for showing up.

"I brought you a water." You hold up a water bottle, your arm shaking from exhaustion. A lot of the Legends would have volunteers run water, drinks, and snacks to their rooms from the kitchen and cafeteria, so it was decent cover in case he didn't actually mean it before. After all, you were right at the start of a manic episode then and weren't thinking straight last time. I mean, you asked a killing machine for help, outright, with no thoughts of what that might lead to. But you lived! And he was oddly nice, despite your brazen request.

"When was the last time you slept?" there is something a bit off about his vocals. Genuine concern, perhaps? Or maybe you are imagining it. "You know I don't drink water, right? It's tasteless and I don't need it, so there's no point in me drinking it."

Your gut sinks. You never even considered that, but when you think about it, the only runs you ever made to his room were for various alcohols, usually hard liquors. You should have just brought something from his prior requests, but you were so confident in water as something everyone enjoyed...

"Sit down. You're not answering me quickly enough to be reassuring." He motions to a small bench in his room with cushions situated in front of the television, which was broadcasting some of the highlights from the last match. You want to walk over, but you're too busy rubbing your eyes at the moment trying to fight back the fatigue. The water bottle slips out of your hands as they rub into your eyes for a moment, and as you jolt to try to catch it, you feel the soreness in your legs lock them... causing you to fall on right your face.

"So... I take it that it's been a while." He seems bemused, but you are too tired to be bothered by it. You just lay there, face down for a moment, absolutely and utterly exhausted. The water bottle steadily and slowly rolls away from you and towards where Revenant is sitting: at a computer desk to the right of the room, pushed up against the far wall.

He audibly sighs, and you hear nothing for a moment. Then you feel a single, metallic arm scoop under your belly and hoist you up like cattle. You feel the weight of your torso balance against the weight of your legs, sufficiently winding you as your hang by your diaphragm on his forearm. You stare blankly at the floor, blurring from your weary vision. He carries you to the cushioned bench, and places you down on it surprisingly gently. The cushions help keep the bench from being wholly uncomfortable as you slowly find yourself splayed out on it. You stay limp, letting your limbs fall where they will. He's right. You haven't slept in a while.

"Sorry..." You utter as he sits next to your pretend corpse non-chalantly. He's hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, looking over you with notable interest. Your last manic episode was only just beginning to wear off, and you managed to hurt both your legs running around at full speed during it. Even worse, the mania kept you from sleeping last night, only getting in an hour and a half at best, which is always somehow worse than not sleeping at all. You were already drifting to sleep as your thoughts wander.

"Hey." You wake back up with a jolt at the feeling of a cool hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "Seriously, what kind of ship are they running in this place? Why are you so desperate as to come to me for help--twice?"

You move to sit up, and his hand drifts away. You should apologize and leave with the water. That would be best, right?

"I'm sorry for the disturbance." You say as you hobble to your feet.

"Bit late for that. Also, those legs aren't going to hold you up for long, your muscles are already quivering like a violin string against a bow." You loosely see him point to your legs through your blurry vision. He is right. They hurt really badly. They had been given a moment of rest and they are screaming to be given a longer reprieve.

"Sit."

"I'm sorry, I'll just be--"

"SIT." His growling command is absolute. You collapse onto the bench with no further protests. Your legs are still sore, whimpering in pain, but much better now that they aren't supporting any weight. You sit upright, but you feel your posture faltering rapidly as you begin to drift towards sleep.

Revenant stands up off the bench while picking up the runaway water bottle in a single, sweeping motion.

"This is fairly cold, was it originally frozen?" He towers over you intimidatingly.

"Yes, most Legends like cold water, so we are constantly defrosting frozen bottles throughout the day." You answer blankly.

"Good. So where are the frozen bottles?"

"In the mess hall kitchen, walk-in freezer B, on the left." His questions give you just enough mental focus to break through the fuzz of exhaustion for a moment. "Would you like me to retrieve you a frozen one instead?"

"No, it's fine, I'll go." He starts to turn to leave, but you speak up.

"Actually, only volunteers and staff are supposed to enter the kitchen area--"

"I go wherever the hell I want." He turns back to shoot you a glare. "Now get up, and lie down in that bed." He points to the surprisingly large bed immediately behind the bench, perched at perfect viewing angle from the droning television. "I don't sleep. Haven't touched it. Won't touch it. You might as well use it."

"Wait, I can't just--"

"You don't have a choice anymore. Now go." He turns and slides out the door, letting the hatch close behind him, but not before giving you one last dirty look for questioning his request.

You consider that it is technically a part of your volunteer duties to do as the Legends ask. Sure, you are allowed to deny any obviously bad faith requests, but nobody said you had to deny them. Plus, Revenant is probably the most mysterious, concerningly foreboding, and terrifyingly powerful Legend in the Games. Nobody would blame you for doing as he asks the moment he asks it, especially when every word he speaks oozes with a threatening aura. Most volunteers wouldn't even come to his room. You were just happy to take all their requests and deliver them yourself to get to see him for a few moments. Sure, you had to trade away a couple Fuze requests and Wraith requests to prioritize him, but everyone seemed intimidated enough that they came to you to trade well before even considering just making the delivery. You were known as the only volunteer who actually liked delivering Revenant's many requests, even when some of them required going above and beyond the normal snack or drink runs.

You manage to hobble yourself onto both legs, which are once again screaming for relief from your weight. With a couple of well placed limps, you make it to the edge of the bed. He really hasn't touched it. Not a single wrinkle in the cloth. Nothing is out of place. Pillows are fully fluffed and without craters from a resting head. You hesitate to ruin it, but you know you must.

You crawl into it, collapsing only a few inches from the edge you started on. It's so soft. They really spared no expense for the Legends' beds, apparently. You remember them getting remodeled and finding the bench to be an odd choice over a nice couch, but you didn't know they were outfitted with beds made of clouds. You wonder, what does Revenant do all night if he doesn't sleep? How boring must that be? Does he charge his chassis? Does he shut down? You think about what it must be like to shut down. Shutting down must be nice. Peaceful. Just being able to rest. Similar to sleep. If only...

• • •

You suddenly regain awareness of your surroundings. How long were you out? Are you still in bed? Why is it so dark? You lift your head a little and tilt it towards a skylight window on the ceiling. Your back is newly sore, and your neck protests being bent. It's night now. You've been asleep for at least five hours for it to be this dark. You begin to scan the surroundings just to be startled by the hulking mass sitting on the bed next to you. His eyes glow dimly, locked on to yours.

"Feel any better?" His vocalizations are a bit more hushed than usual. He may not be sure if you're fully conscious yet. To be fair, you're not sure you're fully conscious either. You want to answer, but you're paralyzed like a deer, staring into his optic LEDs. After a moment of uncertain silence, he reaches out and touches your shoulder lightly, bringing your mind back in focus.

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to--!"

"Shut it. You slept like a corpse. Probably one of least entertaining sleepers I've met." Wait, he watches people sleep? "Although, to be fair, you might be much more restless on a normal night. Maybe this is like one of those pilot episodes that is just not up to the quality of the rest of the series." You noticeably shudder and pull away as you sit up to face him. "See, more of that would be better." You hold the sheet in front of you defensively, not that it would stop anything larger than an insect. "Cute." He pulls the sheet from your hand and it falls back to the mattress.

You can't help but feel a bit bothered by his inquisitive stare, now knowing it's been collecting data for hours without your knowledge. You lean away as you think about it, continuing to shudder, deciding that perhaps this Legend is still planning to dissect you at some point after all.

He relishes in your fear for a moment, but then swiftly moves to get up and walk to the kitchenette. He opens the freezer, unleashing a powerful light into the room for a moment, before pulling out a bottle and closing the door, taking the light with it.

"What hurts?" He grabs a towel from atop the freezer, wrapping the frozen water bottle completely.

You stutter for a moment, and then get it out:

"I hurt my legs pretty badly yesterday, as well as my back, apparently." You had just woken up to it sore and aching, unfortunately meaning that all that box lifting had finally caught up with you. You reached behind yourself to try to massage it, but you felt a cool compress push up against it. When did he get behind you? He didn't even make a sound.

"A sore back is the worst." Why was he doing this? Has he really taken some kind of liking to you? "Even Rampart takes pity on me and readjusts my spinal plates when they get misaligned." He rolled the covered, frozen water bottle up and down your spine, helping with the pain a bit. "I haven't met a skinsuit or simulacrum who simply walks off a bad back."

You felt bad. He shouldn't be helping you. Why was he even bothering with you? What compelled him to do or say any of this?

"Hey, don't hunch forward like that, it'll get worse." You snap to attention.

"S-sorry!" You let slip out of your mouth as his spare claw wraps around your left shoulder and pull you back against the bottle and into the correct posture.

"Anyways, I was about to ask... Where do they get off working you to the bone like this?"

"It's actually my fault. I haven't stopped working since the third season, the more you work the more interaction with the Legends you get, I wanted to make sure I got the best positions and shifts." You pause. "I should have taken time off the moment I started to get fidgety. I should have known I would do something stupid and inappropriate..." You trail off, realizing you're speaking things out loud that are better kept in your internal monologue.

"Well, you're not dead so far, but you're really damn close to Death now." Your spine was starting to relax and decompress, finally. "So, if you're working that hard, that means you definitely are a huge fan of one of these skinsuits... so, who is it? Season 3 you said, right?" He paused as you started to turn flush without his notice. "Octane doesn't suit you, you're slow and clumsy. Although, perhaps that's something to aspire to. It couldn't be Crypto, he's unimaginably boring. Wattson, though, I have noticed she has a lot of fans..." He was simply mumbling on. It didn't really matter why you started anymore, you already had a new favorite. "So, which one? I'll add 'em to my list of high priority targets, just for you." He pauses, awaiting an answer.

"You..." You say, as softly as you can.

"Repeat that. Louder." Did he hear you?

"You." You say it just loud enough to know he heard it this time. "You were my favorite the moment you joined," you pause, deciding if you should confess this, "especially after that stunt you pulled on live TV." You hated Forge like all the other volunteers after word spread around about how he treated Bangalore. He may have put on a decent façade for the camera, but clearly was a predator behind the scenes. When an abuser is backed by big money like Hammond Robotics had, they could freely abuse anyone without consequences. Money tends to shut people up, despite the victims. Your gut told you all you needed to know about Forge the moment you first saw him. Thankfully, it was also the last time you saw him. Even though the just side of you knew that Forge deserved some kind of trial, the more primal part of you was happy to see him gone. The justice system would have been rigged in his favor anyway.

Revenant was silent as you pondered. Shock? Disgust? Or just nothing to say? He wasn't one to be speechless.

"Well, not sure what kind of a psychopath you are, but your wanton lack of self-preservation is my favorite thing about you." Was he offended at your answer? He sounded humored. You panic a little and start to pull away, but get pulled backwards--all the way into his enveloping grapple.

His entire frame practically swallows yours. You peer up just to catch a glimpse of his face staring down menacingly at you. You instinctively start to ball up defensively, but he snags one of your legs before you can tuck it away behind your arms. He's strong. Disturbingly strong. Even for a mechanical amalgamation, his grip is unfetterable. You couldn't free your leg, and you knew there was no way you could squirm out of it.

"This hurts too, you said?" The bottle was pressed to your calf, and he applied steady pressure to the muscle to relieve the nerves and cramping. Why was he doing this? Didn't he just make a thinly veiled threat to kill you? "You should consider giving me the other leg too. Unless you're afraid I'm not going to give this one back." He mocks you, but honestly you aren't sure he is truly joking about taking your leg or not. He could, if he wanted. He's huge, strong, and apparently he can make blades from his mechanical hands. You shudder a bit at the thought that those same lethal hands are currently prodding at your calf muscle... He is actually fairly adept at relieving pain, oddly enough. You feel the pressure ebb away the soreness as it reaches relief. You knew a little about simulacrums, enough to know they were once human. Did he hurt himself a lot back then? How else would he know how to do this?

"Hey, I'll trade you." He releases your one leg, it actually feels a lot better. Just a bit of pressure in the right areas really calmed it down. He motions for the other, but you cower for a moment too long. "Give me your damn leg." You immediately relinquish it, carefully pulling back the newly relieved leg into your defensive ball stance, per the trade agreement. He proceeds to perform the same relief on the other leg as well.

"You know, normally when I'm asked for help, I get to kill something." His gaze remains locked on your leg. "Instead, you just tempt me and expect me not to. Now why would you do that, little skinsuit?" You lock on to his eyes, but they never meet yours. "You've got a death wish, as far as I can tell. I'll confess, I like that about you." You keep perfectly still and silent, trying to stay as small as possible. "You're playing a risky game. Can't say I get to play these games often, so I'm going to make the most of it." He gently releases your leg, now feeling better and relaxed. You pull it into your ball, finally completing the pathetic stance. His giant, clawed hand comes down to pet you on the head a little roughly. He could crush your whole skull, if he wanted. That is the primary message, laced with the subtle message that he won't do that, yet. A chill runs up your spine.

"Alright, I've made my decision." He's out of bed, taking the thawing bottle and towel back to the kitchenette.

"W-What?" You are very uncertain.

"It's fine, I'll have it taken care of. Now sleep. You haven't slept enough." Your spine curls a bit at the prospect of sleeping in the presence of this guy again. You start to get up to leave, but it's slow moving since you're still a bit iffy on your legs.

"It's okay, I have a bunk in the volunteer space I should get back to..." You trail off, meeting his gaze and causing you to freeze right before standing up. His yellow eyes seem brighter and more visceral than before, locking you into a stare down. You blink immediately, that's not a fight worth attempting. "...why?" You can't tell if you're pleading or hoping for a genuine answer. He turns away to look back into the blinding light of the open freezer for a moment.

"Go, if you want, but I'm only giving you five seconds." He doesn't turn to look at you, he just starts counting. "Five..." Should you go? "Four..." Would he come after you? "Three..." You don't want to go, actually. "Two..." You want to see where this goes. "One..." What else do you have to do, anyway? "Zero."

Revenant turns to meet your gaze, his eyes noticeably widening and dimming in the dark when he sees you still there. He probably knew you didn't move, after all he would have heard it, but he still seemed happy to see you there anyway.

"Now, sleep. I'll take care of the rest." You felt a bit uneasy, but you laid back down, uncurling yourself and trying to make yourself comfortable. Revenant didn't linger over you on the bed this time, instead he must have gone from the kitchenette over to the computer desk, because you slowly dozed off to the sounds of the keyboard feedback chirps and pointer clicks as he worked with the heads-up displays. You were more tired than you thought, and dozed off quickly.

• • • •

"... Hah! I knew the pilot episode wasn't a good indicator of quality." You woke up to him looming over you in the bed again, but this time you were not taken by surprise. "You twitch a lot while you sleep; you even murmur absolute nonsense." You sigh. This is fun for him somehow. "I swear you were trying to run or swim at one point... Did you get away? Or did you drown?" You don't know how to answer his questions, you don't remember any dreams. In fact, he probably has more of an idea than you do at this point. You meet his gaze, and it seems to be understood that you have no answers. He sighs, clearly disappointed.

"Shame, well, in the meantime, congratulations on your promotion."

"Wait, what?"

"Here, welcome to the team." He drops a red laminated badge on top of you, and swiftly makes his way out of the bed, just to crawl up the wall, onto the ceiling, and starts to exit through the skylight window. "Sorry I can't spend more time with you, but I have a match today." His voice is nearly drowned out by the sound of aircraft starting up. "Watch for me, I'll make sure I knock out whichever one of those skinsuits used to be your favorite early on." You can hear the sneer in his voice through the overwhelming aircraft engines.

He disappears from view, the window closes, the aircraft noise dampens again, and the television drones on with the pre-match banter between announcers in front of you. You stare up at the morning sky for a moment, wondering what you got yourself into.

You look down at the badge. It is a top clearance badge, meant for direct employees of the Legends. It can get you access to almost anywhere and to almost anything. It has Revenant's personal seal on it, marking you as his. It has all the correct watermarks, and a scannable chip to prove authenticity. You've only seen a few of these, and you heard Mirage once got in huge trouble for selling his as a VIP experience. But it did nearly sell, and it was already bidding for enough money for any sane person to retire off of.

You aren't a volunteer anymore. You're Revenant's subordinate. Notably an important enough one that you can go almost anywhere he can go. The badge shimmers in your hands, sparkling in your eyes. This badge is worth more than anything you've ever held before in your life. You revel in it for a moment, until you notice it: You're now "Little Skinsuit" according to the "Name" field on the badge. He genuinely couldn't resist, could he? You'd be bothered if it wasn't genuinely hilarious. That means somewhere in the security checkpoints, "Little Skinsuit" was now registered at nearly maximum clearance. Amazing.

You sit there for a moment, pondering how you got yourself into this. You had a moment, just a single moment a few days ago, where you felt like you could ask him for help. You just wanted to calm down; you had tripped, bruised your feet, hurt your calves, and even busted a couple bottles of liquor and whisky meant for him because of your manic movements as you ran back and fourth from one side of the complex to the other. Finally, after getting him everything he requested, intact, you lost your inhibition for a mere moment. You asked if he'd help you settle your mania. And for some reason--maybe he had already started to get some kind of drunk at that point--he said yes. That's what started it all.

He said something about helping you again before you left last time. And then you came back yesterday, completely in the fog from no sleep and a continued manic episode, but holding on to that promise. And now you've somehow become his personal errand runner, holding an ID worth more than you could grasp. What the heck is happening anymore?

For now, you stare into the sky, and soak in the sun, and just relax in the moment. You get to watch today's match instead of scrubbing the floors. It'll be a nice day.

[vernonfielding]

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Chapter 11. (AO3!)

Jake walked home in a daze. As he unlocked his front door, he couldn’t recall quite how he’d gotten there, as though his brain had shut off for a while, and his feet had just carried him somewhere safe and familiar.

He shrugged off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He sat hard on the end of his bed and brought his hands to his face, digging his palms into his eyes to keep himself from crying. He could feel the tears in his throat and burning behind his eyes and he knew it was only a matter of time, but he was afraid that once he started he wouldn’t know how to stop.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and Jake yanked it out, didn’t even bother to look before turning it off. It could be Amy, or it could be Rosa or Scully or fucking Pembroke telling him he was fired. He didn’t want to talk to any of them – or anyone at all. He tossed the phone onto his couch, then pulled out his keys and threw them hard across the room. They left a satisfying dent in the wall beneath his Die Hard poster.

“Fuck,” he said, under his breath, then yelled out, “Fuck!” He fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

It seemed impossible that he’d been in perhaps the best mood of his life just that morning – less than an hour ago, maybe. He had just bought them breakfast, was thinking about where to stop for coffee on the way back, when he spotted the Bulletin in a newsrack near the bodega entrance. He couldn’t have said what caught his eye first, except that he’d gotten in the habit of glancing at the front page to look for Amy’s name. But the word “vulture” had made him stop in his tracks, right in the doorway. A woman had jostled him and muttered a “fuck you” as she pushed by. He’d barely noticed.

He’d picked up the paper and looked back at the man behind the counter, who knew Jake was a regular. The man had nodded and waved him out, and Jake had left without paying. He’d stopped just outside and read Gina’s column, his heart in his throat the whole way through.

The column had Amy all over it. Everything in there had come from him, had been shared with her over late-night dinners as they pored over documents, or later, while they lay in bed together or cuddled on her sofa or took walks around Fort Greene.

He’d stalked back to her apartment, angrier than he could recently recall. Righteous fury had carried him all the way to her building, but as he’d climbed the stairs to her door it burned down to embers, replaced by something far worse: hurt.

Then seeing her, wide-eyed with worry, still so beautiful to him, he’d deflated. And he’d wanted so badly to believe her when she said she’d done nothing wrong, when she said she would never hurt him like that. Maybe she hadn’t meant to, he reasoned. Maybe she’d said some things she shouldn’t have weeks ago, before they were even dating, and Gina had somehow come up with the rest herself. Or maybe Amy had been drunk and didn’t remember talking. Or maybe she had handed it all to Gina knowingly and regretted it only later, when faced with the consequences. Maybe Jake hadn’t known her at all.

He didn’t really think that, even now. But he didn’t know what to think or who to believe. He just had facts: Gina had written a column that had the potential to destroy his career, and the only person who could have given her that column was Amy. And he’d trusted her. She’d made the short list. She’d maybe even been at the top.

Alone in his apartment, Jake stared at the ceiling until the spidery cracks in the paint began to blur. He didn’t fight the tears when they finally came.

+++

Despite everything, Amy still managed to get to work 10 minutes early. She knew she was looking rough as she flashed the press pass that doubled as her Bulletin ID at Doug behind the security desk. But she was still caught off guard when he said, “Ms. Santiago, are you okay?” Which of course made her immediately tear up again, so after she brushed him off with a quivery “Mondays, am I right?” she spent a good 20 minutes in the ladies’ room getting herself under control.

That was how she actually ended up 10 minutes late, feeling off-balance and shaky and annoyed with herself and angry with everyone else. She took her seat across from Gina, and Gina looked up and did a double-take.

“Damn, girl.”

An image flashed in Amy’s mind, of her launching herself over their two desks and tackling Gina to the floor and strangling her, just a little.

Instead she stood up again and slapped her palms on her desk, hard enough to rattle her keyboard. “What the hell, Gina?”

“Whoa, I was just going to say you looked like you had the best and/or worst night of your life but if you’re going to get all murdery about it-”

“We need to talk.” Amy leaned over their desks and practically growled. “Now.”

She stalked to the break room and didn’t look to make sure Gina was following. (She didn’t honestly think she had intimidated Gina, but she knew Gina would come if only for the drama.)

The day before – and all last night, when she should have been sleeping – Amy’s thoughts had spiraled, twisting and throttling around her brain like a tornado she was powerless to control, much less stop. The confrontation with Jake had played on an endless loop, and sometimes she got to keep talking, keep trying to explain, but it always ended the same – with him walking out. She’d cried off and on all day, until she felt wilted from it, her body and mind spent. A dozen times she’d picked up her phone to call or text him, but she didn’t know what she could, or wanted to, say. She couldn’t apologize, she couldn’t ask forgiveness – she’d done nothing wrong. But what else was there?

In her saner moments, she’d imagined this: talking to Gina. Eventually she’d crafted a speech, in which she firmly but delicately inquired as to how Gina got that column. Technically it was on Amy’s beat after all – she had every right to ask. In a calm, work-appropriate way.

When they got into the breakroom Amy closed the door and yelled, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but I can tell you what I’m thinking right now, which is that you are cray-cray.”

Gina planted her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. Amy took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then she did it three more times. Gina just watched.

“Fine,” Amy said coolly. “I’m talking about your column yesterday. About the 99th Precinct.”

“You’re mad about that?” Gina frowned. “I mean, I know it’s a cop thing and that’s your turf, but it was such a throwaway. I thought that gossipy crap was beneath you.”

“It is,” Amy said, “but you had to know this wasn’t going to look good for Jake. Did you even think about him? About his career?”

“Jake who?”

“Peralta.”

Amy’s slip-up hit her the moment Gina’s face lit up.

“Jake Peralta. Oh my god – Jake is your source?”

“Was my source,” Amy said. She bit her lip, unsure what else she could say – what she was allowed to say. Gina was Jake’s friend first, but he wasn’t here now. And Amy realized suddenly that she needed someone to know what had happened – and Gina was responsible, after all.

She took a deep breath. “We were dating. But I think we’re maybe broken up now.”

“Okay, wow. Did not see that coming.” Gina sat on the breakroom couch. She stared up at Amy, her brows turned down in bemusement. “We’re talking about the same Jake Peralta, right? Plaid shirts, basically lives off gummy worms and pizza pockets, has maybe only ever seen one movie in his life?”

“Well, technically it’s a franchise, so, like, five movies-” Amy closed her eyes and stopped herself. Then she nodded morosely, and dropped onto the couch beside Gina.

Gina tucked one leg under herself and turned to face her. “How did you even meet?”

“You just said it yourself,” Amy said, rolling her eyes. “He was my source. He works in the Nine-Nine?”

“Oh right – is it weird that I can never remember he’s a cop?”

“It’s very weird,” Amy said. She slumped into the couch, tipping her head back on the cushions and staring up at the ceiling tiles. “Do you have any idea what you did with that column?”

“Yeah, I’m still not following why this is an issue,” Gina said.

“The Vulture is Jake’s boss.”

“And,” Gina said, gesturing for her to go on.

Amy sighed. “And Jake talks to me about him all the time. And the Vulture’s already suspicious about Jake being my source.”

“So, you’re afraid this Vulture dude is going to think that Jake was my source for the column,” Gina said.

Amy hummed a yes, and then added, “And Jake thinks I was your source.”

“He- what?” Gina sat up and gaped at Amy. “He actually said that?”

“He did,” Amy said, the grief hitting her all over again. She blinked hard against the familiar pinpricks in the corners of her eyes.

“God, he’s such an idiot,” Gina said. “Look, I can’t tell you who my source is, because- okay, actually because I don’t know his name.”

“Gina!” Amy stared at her, appalled. It was one thing to use anonymous sources for a story, but reporters at least had to know who they were talking to, even if they never revealed the name publicly. It was too easy to be lied to and misled otherwise.

“It was just gossip,” Gina said, throwing her hands up. “I ran it by a couple of my own sources and they said it was legit, so I went with it.”

“And now Jake thinks I blew his cover all for some dumb gossip column and we’re basically broken up.” Amy groaned and slid onto her side, curling up in a corner of the couch.

There was a brief silence and then Gina said, “Not that I would do it, because I don’t think I care that much – but do you want me to call Jake and explain it wasn’t you?”

Amy thought over the offer for a moment before shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. He either trusts me or he doesn’t. And I guess he doesn’t.”

She felt Gina patting her ankle. It was hesitant and awkward and Amy was deeply moved, and she felt the tears run fresh down her cheeks. They sat quietly for a few minutes, Amy crying into the disgusting couch while Gina almost certainly played on her phone.

Amy was just about ready to get up, wipe her face, and make another attempt at facing the world when Gina said, “Are you sure Jake’s a cop in the Nine-Nine? I feel like I would remember that.”

Amy rolled onto her back and stared at Gina in wonder. “Jake has the weirdest friends.”

+++

Jake realized he was clutching at the arms of his chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and he let go and rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants legs. On the wall across from him was a framed poster of Officer Pepper O’Pigeon, hanging behind the commissioner’s secretary’s desk. For such a goofy mascot it was oddly threatening – Jake thought it had something to do with the shirt sleeves being cut off to accommodate the bird’s arms, or wings. Like it was too buff to be constrained by a normal police uniform. But the long pink legs were also upsetting.

He tore his gaze away and straightened his tie, again, and avoided looking at the man sitting in the chair next to his. Jake couldn’t ignore the staccato of snips, though, as the Vulture trimmed his nails while they waited. The man was truly the most disgusting person Jake knew.

“A tie’s not gonna save your ass, Peralta,” Pembroke said with a cheerful snicker.

Jake just barely stopped himself from telling Pembroke to go fuck himself.

Jake had honestly been surprised when he’d gotten the call that morning to come to the commissioner’s office for a meeting – he’d expected Pembroke to handle the punishment himself, or at worst take it a step or two up the chain of command. That Jake was being hauled down to One Police Plaza meant that the brass were taking Gina’s column more seriously than he’d expected, and also that he could be in seriously deep trouble. 

Sure, in his lowest moments the day and night before he had imagined losing his job and ending up homeless and alone and living off of dog food and cheese puffs for the rest of his life, but he hadn’t really believed that would happen. Now his gut churned with real fear. They could take away his detective badge. He could lose everything.

The secretary’s phone rang and Jake’s anxiety spiked. The secretary picked up the call, hung up without saying a word, and announced, “The commissioner’s ready for you.”

Pembroke brushed off his pants and stood, gesturing for Jake to go before him. When Jake got up and moved toward the office, Pembroke nudged him aside and jumped in front, smirking over his shoulder. The guy was seriously the worst.

Jake hadn’t been in the commissioner’s office since Wuntch won the job a couple of years before. It looked basically the same as the previous commissioner’s office had, with framed commendations hanging on the walls and a few photos of Wuntch with random politicians and celebrities lined up on the bookcase adjacent to the desk. He paused on a shot of Wuntch with an irritated-looking Michelle Obama; both of their hair was slightly mussed up in the photo.

“Have a seat,” Wuntch said. She was already behind her desk, hands folded on top of a copy of the Bulletin.

Jake put a hand to his chest to keep his badge in place as he sat, feeling suddenly self-conscious in his cargo pants and plaid shirt and leather jacket. Even with the tie he felt sloppy and unprofessional next to two high-ranking cops in full uniform. He wished for a moment that he’d at least picked out a clean shirt for his funeral, but then, he’d had a lot on his mind when he’d gotten dressed that morning.

“Peralta should be fired,” Pembroke said without preamble. Jake felt his heart clench.

“Now, let’s not be hasty,” Wuntch said. She looked between them, narrowing her eyes. “Captain Pembroke – or should I call you Captain Vulture?”

Pembroke sneered at Jake.

“Captain,” Wuntch went on, “you asked for this meeting. It’s my understanding that you believe Detective Peralta is responsible for this rather enlightening article in the Bulletin?”

She pushed the newspaper across her desk, and Pembroke jabbed a finger at the top of the page. Jake was reminded uncomfortably of his own reaction the day before.

“He was Santiago’s source and now he’s obviously started leaking to Linetti,” Pembroke said. “If that’s not cause for dismissal-”

Wuntch held up a hand. “Do you know he was their source?”

“Yeah, I know,” Pembroke said. “Santiago wrote several stories that obviously came from Peralta.”

“But do you have proof?” Wuntch said.

Pembroke bristled. “He was the only person who could have talked to her.”

“That’s circumstantial, Captain. Do you have proof?”

Pembroke opened his mouth, closed it, and finally scowled at the commissioner.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Wuntch said. She turned to Jake. “Did you leak the material in this column to the Bulletin?”

Jake shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“And did you leak any other stories to Ms. Santiago?”

Jake swallowed, and shook his head again. “I don’t even know her.”

“Very well.”

“You’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me,” Pembroke said. “He’s lying.”

“You have no proof that Detective Peralta had anything to do with this,” Wuntch said, tapping the newspaper. “Peralta, thank you for your time. Dismissed.”

Jake sat dazed for a second, then stood and nodded sharply at her. “Thank you, commissioner.”

Pembroke groaned and rose with him, but as they turned to walk out, Wuntch said, “Captain Pembroke, you’ll stay. We need to talk about this Vulture thing…”

If Jake hadn’t been so miserable, he would have been struggling to keep himself from grinning and high-fiving the commissioner’s secretary as he walked out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

As it was, he simply pulled out his cell phone and texted Rosa: “Shaw’s in 30. We’re day drinking. No talking.”

Rosa texted back a thumbs up immediately.

+++

They couldn’t actually drink while they were on duty, so Jake bought them Shirley Temples. They grabbed a table at the back of the bar and he told Rosa what had gone down with the commissioner, and she tapped her glass against his.

“That’s great, man.” She eyed him as he stared into the pink depths of his drink. “Or, it’s not great.”

“Amy and I broke up. I think.”

Rosa blew out a breath, and Jake prepared for the told-you-so. He figured he deserved it. He was even sort of looking forward to it, in a masochistic but weirdly reassuring way. He’d been cycling through so many emotions over the past 24 hours, shifting from anger to grief to fear to guilt, to feelings he couldn’t even identify but made his skin crawl and his stomach hurt.

In the center of them all was Amy, and the question he somehow couldn’t stop asking himself: Did he trust her? Every time he tried to answer it head on, it was like the spin cycle picked up speed, everything a blur until his mind sort of shut down and moved on.

Rosa, though – she knew the answer. She’d warned him.

Rosa was twirling her plastic straw around her drink, creating a small cyclone of her own. “You broke up with her because you think she leaked the Vulture stuff to Gina Linetti.”

Jake nodded, then shrugged. “I guess I left before we broke up, so we’re technically still together? I’m not sure.”

Rosa took a sip of her drink through the straw and scowled. She pushed the glass away, and she looked Jake straight in the eye. Jake braced himself.

“Are you sure she did it? Because it doesn’t really sound like something Amy would do.”

Jake’s stomach dropped to his feet, and he stared at her in disbelief. “You said it was a mistake to trust her. You said she only wanted to sell newspapers and that I’d regret dating her.”

“I did not say that last thing,” Rosa said, pointing a finger at him.

“But the trust part! You said that, like, so many times.”

Rosa leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, but I meant over something important. Like, the mayor is shot and you know who the prime suspect is and you tell Amy after you guys have really great sex, and she’s like, do I betray Jake and write about the guy who tried to kill the mayor? And she decides she has to because she believes people have a right to know or some bullshit. I didn’t mean, like, some dumb gossip column about the fucking Vulture.”

Jake threw his arms up and tried very hard not to yell. “Rosa! You were never that specific!”

“I didn’t think I had to be.” Rosa cocked her head to the side, studying him. “My thoughts on Amy’s trustworthiness had nothing to do with you assuming she betrayed you. That’s not on me, Jake.”

Jake groaned and folded himself over the table, knocking his forehead against the hard surface. He picked his head up and hit it again, with a little more force. The table top was sticky. He felt Rosa awkwardly pat his shoulder a couple of times and then they said nothing for a while.

“I’m just saying, maybe you should call her,” Rosa said.

Jake moaned into the table. “I liked you better when we went for drinks and didn’t talk.”

“Same.” Rosa rapped him on the back of the head with her knuckles. “Now sit up and drink your Shirley Temple in silence like a woman.”

+++

Pembroke was still gone when they got back to the precinct an hour later. Jake sat at his desk and tugged off his tie, preparing to embrace an afternoon of apathy-slash-despondency, perhaps first by putting his head down and just ignoring the world for a while.

He frowned when three post-it notes stuck to his computer monitor caught his attention. They were all phone messages taken by the admin assistant (because Jake had never set up his office voicemail, because voicemail was annoying and people shouldn’t be encouraged to use it).

The first message was from his CI.

“Fuck,” Jake said under his breath, as he tore off the note. He’d completely forgotten that Leo had arranged for a meet that morning. Jake pulled out his cell phone and yes – there was a text too, from over an hour ago.

The second post-it note was another message from his CI. The third was from Kings County Hospital. Jake plucked off that note and stared at the neatly printed letters for a beat, then picked up his desk phone and called.

He was on hold for a while, which gave him plenty of time to beat himself up for flaking on Leo. He’d never skipped out on a CI, not once since becoming a detective and building up a loose network of informants. What if Leo had been calling for help, and was now in the morgue?

And as he kept waiting, Jake wondered if maybe the call from the hospital wasn’t about his CI at all. What if it was Amy? She could have been hit by a bus or fallen through a rusted manhole cover or been mauled by a pack of aggressive pigeons or rats. Would anyone even think to call him? What if he never saw her again?

“Hello, Detective Peralta?”

“Yes!” Jake’s voice was about three pitches higher than usual. He closed his eyes briefly and coughed. “Yes, speaking.”

“Okay, um- I’m Officer Robbins.” There was a flapping sound, of papers being flipped around. “Right, here we go. We picked up a Leo James about an hour ago.”

Jake breathed out slowly, hating himself a little for the weight that lifted off his shoulders. “Is he okay?”

“He’s going to be. He got beat up pretty bad, and he was overdosing when we found him.”

Jake frowned. Leo was a fringe associate with one of the rougher drug rings in Brooklyn, but he wasn’t really a user himself. Or he hadn’t been. “But you got him in time?”

“Yeah, gave him two hits of Narcan and he came around,” Robbins said. “We followed him over to the hospital, thought we’d see if we could get anything out of him about the beating. But he said he’d only talk to you.”

“Right, okay. Thanks.” Jake sank back in his chair and ran a hand over his face, hit by a new wave of fatigue.

“It’s actually pretty lucky we were able to revive him,” Robbins was going on. “I’ve heard Narcan doesn’t always work well with that new drug, what’s it called-?”

“Jazzy Pants?” Jake sat up straight, on instinct reaching for a notepad and a pen.

“Yeah, dumbass name for a fucked-up drug.”

“Are you sure it was Jazzy Pants?” Jake said.

“That’s what your guy told us when we got him back.”

Jake thanked Robbins again and hung up, frowning to himself. That was two of his CIs overdosing on the new drug in a couple of months. It could be entirely coincidental – overdoses were hardly uncommon among informants – but something felt off, and he’d learned to not ignore certain instincts.

He picked up the phone again to call the Seven-Eight. He didn’t actually have many good contacts over there, so when the admin picked up he asked for the first person who came to mind.

“Peralta,” said Manny Santiago. The cheer in his voice was not exactly unexpected, but it still caught Jake off guard.

“Hey, Manny, look-”

“We missed you at Thanksgiving, man.” Manny rolled right over him. “Dad had a binder on you, you know. He was not impressed with your credit score but your closure rates are fantastic. His words, not mine.”

“I- that’s weird but good?” Jake shook his head, tried to focus on why he had called and not the highs and lows of having pleased and disappointed the father of his maybe-ex-girlfriend. “Manny-”

“Oh man, what was up with that column in Amy’s paper yesterday? I’ve heard stories about Pembroke – or Captain Vul-”

“Manny!” Jake interrupted sharply. “As much as I’d love to rehash the column, and trust me, I would not, I’m actually working a case.”

“Oh sure, sorry,” Manny said. “What can I do for you?”

“I just needed to talk to someone on your Jazzy Pants task force,” Jake said. “One of my CIs OD’d today and I want to know how the investigation’s playing out, maybe there’s something we can do out of the Nine-Nine-”

“Jazzy Pants task force?” Manny said.

“Yeah, Pembroke said you guys are running it.”

“Hold on.” Jake heard muffled voices, the thump of the phone headset being set down, then finally Manny came back on. “Yeah, we don’t have a task force.”

Jake felt a weird chill, and he pressed the phone a little harder to his ear.

“Peralta?”

“I’ve gotta go,” Jake said. “Thanks, Manny.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply. Jake got up and crossed to Rosa’s desk. She was typing, but her fingers stopped when she glanced up and saw his face.

“We need to go talk to someone at Kings County,” he said.

Rosa grabbed her gun and her badge. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 12