#not even really fighting just shaking each other around like a plastic bag. CINEMA

[nedlittle]

[alt]

bonus:

[elsaclack]

that i need you because it’s so hard to be who i am

i tried to write something else but it turned into this so i guess i’m a week late lmao but!! here u go

pt. 1 of who knows how many (probably 2 but we’ll see)

title is a line from a song called who i am by nathan perry

Amy empties out her desk about an hour after Vin leaves.

It’s hard, in that moment, to put a name to the sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. Because it’s a happy occasion, it’s a joyful step forward for his bride-to-be, and they spend the half-hour or so that it takes to box everything up giggling and laughing at each momento they find in her drawers. She has a surprisingly large number of non-functional knick-knacks hidden away between her file folders and homemade disinfectant spray, so between neatly packing her stationary and rubber-banding up all of her replacement ink fills for the nice fountain pen her brother got for her on her last birthday, they spend a considerable amount of time trekking down memory lane.

It’s hard not to notice the fact that she only seemed to start collecting things about a year before Captain Holt took over as their commanding officer. She merely blushes when he points this out.

But then it’s 7:30 and the last of her belongings are finally unloaded and carefully placed in and on her new desk and she’s straightening up the last picture of the two of them from the night they got engaged right beside her brand new computer monitor while she talks about what they should order for dinner (she’s been dealing with a hankering for good Chinese food ever since Vin mentioned the authentic Chinese cuisine he ate the last time he was in Tianjin and Jake is definitely not still vaguely jealous of the general lifestyle Vin leads) and Jake’s stomach is hollow, hollow, hollow.

That’s what makes the rumbling so loud, he thinks.

Amy arches an amused brow when his stomach practically wails at the mention of fried rice. “So we’ll double up on the egg rolls, then?”

He grins as he nods, but even he can feel that it’s not quite touching his eyes. “Sounds perfect,” he says honestly.

Her smile softens, edges tinged with concern, but she seems to decide against asking. “Let’s order from the car so the delivery time seems shorter,” she says as she slings her purse over her shoulder.

“I’ve totally rubbed off on you,” he says mock-smugly, and she grins cheekily in return as she rounds her new desk and reaches to take his arm. “Lemme just run back upstairs and grab my bag from my desk.”

She pauses, hand outstretched toward him. “Oh, d’you want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll just meet you at the car?”

Slowly, her hand falls back to her side. She’s got that look on her face again - pensive and curious, like he’s a particularly difficult case she’s on the verge of cracking but she can’t quite find that final missing piece. “Okay,” she says, pacing backwards toward the elevator, seamlessly merging into oncoming beat cop traffic. “Two minutes?”

“Ten-four,” he salutes, and she salutes back, and he waits until the elevator doors have slid shut before releasing a long, slow breath.

This new desk is set up pretty much exactly the way her old desk upstairs is set up, with the exception of the new filing cabinet off to the left hand side and the fact that this new monitor is so slim it takes up about half of the depth that her old one did. It leaves more room for the little knick-knacks she’d hidden away upstairs - like the plastic police-woman figurine, who’s down on one knee with her gun drawn, a little chip of paint missing on the left lens of her dark sunglasses. She’s part of the set Jake has sitting on his own desk - positioned right, and she fits right up against the open door of the squad car, in front of the police-man figurine, whose feet are spread shoulder-width apart so that he can stand over the woman’s bent leg and fire his little plastic gun over her head. He’d had it for ages before he met Amy, and had kept the entire set for a few years after she came to the Nine-Nine. He’d only given her the woman from the set toward the end of a week-long marathon murder case, and that was only because he was so deliriously tired he couldn’t even think straight.

At least, that’s what he’d told himself at the time.

He gingerly plucks the figurine up off of Amy’s desktop and examines it closely. It’s almost exactly the same as he remembers it - though her plastic hair is a bit more orange than red. He runs the pad of his thumb over the smooth surface of the little blue hat - a move he used to pull often when he was anxious and fidgety upstairs - and then carefully replaces it exactly where he found it.

The night crew is still in briefing when Jake makes it upstairs, so his bag is still sitting exactly where he left it - which is to say in the exact center of his desk, fallen to the side, contents just beginning to spill everywhere - but, still, he falters and stops in his tracks.

Amy’s desk is empty.

It’s suddenly very difficult to breathe.

Which is pretty stupid, all things considered. The sight of his partner’s desk empty and barren should be far less striking than it is, especially since he’s seen his own desk just as empty and barren twice now, for far more terrifying reasons than a promotion. He should be happy, then. He should be happy.

But her desk is empty and someone else is going to sit there eventually and they won’t know him. They won’t immediately know how to play finish the lyrics with him when it’s slow and he’s bored, they won’t know that only he is allowed to sing along to the Backstreet Boys when their songs come up on shuffle, they won’t be able to tell what mood he’s in by what flavor of Pringles he’s eating or even that Die Hard is the best movie in the history of cinema. They won’t try to huck jelly beans at his head when he’s not paying attention or do wild dances in the middle of the bullpen floor when they solve a grueling case at 3 AM or walk around in those big clunky sensible heels or know what he means when he says he feels fizzy and Amy’s desk is empty.

He clenches his shaking hands into fists down at his sides.

He’s not sure how long he just stands there staring at it, but eventually the briefing room doors swing open and the bullpen is full of the din of beat cops chatting and over the noise, he hears a familiar voice calling his name. Amy’s skirting around the beat cops, fighting against the flow of traffic to get to where he’s rooted to the spot. As he watches a few of the beat cops seem to recognize her; a few of them point, a few wave, one even breaks away from the crowd to shake her hand. She greets them all with a polite - and completely thrilled - smile on her face that only fades when she’s standing in front of him and his body mostly blocks her from view. “Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

There’s a little crease in her brow, more prominent on the left brow than on the right, and when Jake blinks a thousand images flash behind his eyelids of this expression, framed by a thousand different hairstyles and a thousand different circumstances. He feels her hand on his arm and nearly shivers at her touch - surely whoever sits at her desk won’t ever draw this kind of reaction out of him. No one will ever be able to read him as easily and fluently as Amy does, and just how the hell is he supposed to rely on someone else out in the field when the best partner he’s ever had now sits an entire world away from him?

“Your desk,” is all he manages to get out before the words seem to grind to a halt right there in his throat. A brief spark of confusion ignites in her eyes before understanding snuffs it out; she glances over her shoulder at that long stretch of flawless, sparkling faux-wood-grain surface in question, and her grip around his arm grows tighter.

“I’m just gonna be downstairs,” she says softly as she turns back to face him. “Plus, we live together. We’ll still see each other every day -”

“I don’t care about - I mean, I mean I do care about that, but that’s not what’s - I’m just -” he stops and tilts his head back, releasing a loud breath, focusing on the way her thumb rubs against his bicep through his flannel in a slow and soothing motion and not on the fact that his ribs feel like they’re clattering together in an earthquake. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had,” he finally manages to croak. Her thumb goes still. “You’re my best friend and my fiancée, and I really am so happy and so proud of you, but...but your desk is empty and I don’t know who’s gonna sit there next and that kinda freaks me out.”

His confession hangs between them for all of three seconds before her hands are on his back and her head is against his chest and the earthquake dies down at once. He pulls her in closer, forgetting her rules about workplace-appropriate behavior and no-PDA the moment the scent of her achingly familiar strawberry shampoo drowns out the stale coffee and gunpowder that seems to cling to the very air here. He buries his nose in her hair and breathes deep, and the ache of her empty desk isn’t quite so stinging anymore. He still closes his eyes to block out the sight of it when he turns his head to kiss her temple, though.

“Jake,” she says softly when she pulls away a few moments later. “You know that you and I got insanely lucky, right? I mean, most partners don’t end up falling in love or getting married. Just because you fell in love with your last partner doesn’t mean you’re destined to hate your next one. And, who knows? Maybe Holt will move Rosa or Charles into that desk. Or maybe you can steal it and finally have that mega-desk you always used to talk about.”

He snorts, and runs his hands down her arms until her hands catch in his. “Yeah, maybe. But a mega-desk won’t make me a better detective, and neither will Charles or Rosa. I got better because of you. I guess I’m just...sad to be losing that.”

Her eyes flick down to his lips as she smiles, and then her hands are framing his face and she’s up on the balls of her feet to kiss him. The taste of her spearmint toothpaste has mostly faded from her post-lunch brush, leaving room for that taste he’s yet to put an actual name to - comfort, joy, home, her - and every cell in his body seems to go peacefully still at the gentle pressure of her lips against his.

Slowly, they break apart, and Jake’s suddenly aware of the fact that his hands are on her hips, skimming lightly along her back, beneath her blazer, just above the waistband of her slacks. “You’re not losing anything, Jake,” she murmurs, curling her fingers against his cheek at such an angle that the edges of her engagement ring barely catch against the scant amount of stubble he’s grown over the course of the day.

He tilts his head up to press a slow kiss to her forehead, lingering until his heart doesn’t feel quite so close to the edge of bursting.

“C’mon,” she says as she turns back toward his desk. “I’m starving and I already ordered the food, and I’m really not in the mood to chase some delivery guy down if we’re not home when he gets there.”

He chuckles as he quickly shovels his belongings back into his bag and slings it over his shoulder. She’s already started toward the elevator but her hand is outstretched toward him; this time, he only spares a single glance backwards at her old desk before hurrying toward her and taking her hand.

It’s just a desk, after all.