Chapter Text
It takes Santiago longer to return to work than it had Boyle. That irks her a bit, but the fact is that even getting up to use the restroom in her own home leaves her weak, pale and sweating for weeks. She allows herself the time, consoling herself with the fact that she, at least, will not be an insufferable pain in the ass when she finally returns to active duty.
It isn’t as if she is completely cut off, though. Rosa has been by to see her regularly, bringing with her tales of stupidity – her name for office gossip. She showed up the day Amy was sent home, full Key Food paper bags in hand, as if it were a given. Anyone else and Amy would be embarrassed and indignant, but Rosa is Rosa, oh-so practical and matter-of-fact. It wasn’t a thing.
Rosa shows up every few days. Just with fresh groceries at first, but then also to help with laundry and dishes when she finds Amy laid out on the floor after trying to lift her hamper.
When Rosa doesn’t show up for three days running, Amy knows it’s time to go back.
Boyle is so happy to see her, he is practically vibrating. Only a low growl from Diaz stops him from crushing her into a hug. As it is, his enthusiastic patting of her shoulder leaves her dizzy.
“I took the liberty of preparing you a welcome back feast! Nine courses, including sorbet cleansers!” he warbles, cheeks flushed with pride and excitement.
Amy recalls something her college Intro To Writing professor had told her; everyone gets one – and exactly one – exclamation point. In writing, and in life. Boyle has not only used up his own, but that of every acquaintance he has ever made.
Amy smiles tightly at her eager colleague, before excusing herself to her desk. The sound of Rosa slapping the back of Charles’ head makes Amy twitch.
“Ease off, Charles,” Diaz growl-whispers, and Boyle can only whimper ‘but, but, but the food!’ as he is pulled away by his ear.
Peralta is suddenly looming over her desk. “So…” he says in that false offhand way of his. Santiago is in no way ready for his brand of scrutiny – not with the headache that is building between her eyes and the tightening anxiety in her chest – but she grits her teeth and gives him what she hopes is a casual smile.
“So.” She figures echoing him will buy her time.
“So,” Jake says again, frowning a bit, like he hasn’t thought past his opener.
“Awwwwwwwk-ward,” Gina calls, sing-song like a 4th grade bully from across the room, where she blatantly stares at them while eating popcorn, as if this is her favorite show. Amy hates her a little, and spends a moment trying to melt Gina’s fake eyelashes to boiling goop with her mind.
“You’re back,” Jake continues, drawing Amy’s attention back to him. His hand twirls in a strange corkscrew motion, as if he expects her to roll over or play dead.
There are a million things she wants to say, all the words knock at the back of her teeth, but all she manages is, “Yes, I am back.”
“Well, good!” he says, voice high and slightly more nasal than usual. “It’s no fun winning our bet unless you lose by your own, uh, sucking!” He finishes lamely, scratching the back of his head like he doesn’t understand why the words are coming out of his mouth. Amy imagines this is not an unusual state of existence for him. Gina is right; this is awkward.
Santiago’s stomach is churning with anxiety and the silence stretches, becoming almost physically painful. She knows she should respond, that before she would have had a snappy comeback to sling back, but her ears are ringing like they did on that stairwell – ringing with gun shots and paralyzing fear – and she is struck dumb.
“Boy, what is wrong with you?!” Sgt. Jeffords is suddenly there, not in their space, but standing at Peralta’s desk, arms crossed over his chest and shaking his head in disbelief. “Quit harassing Santiago like you don’t have a job to do. She’s been out for a month, and she’s still kicking your ass in closed cases!”
If there was ever a time Amy didn’t love Terry like he hung the moon and stars, she can’t remember it.
“Whatever, I totally have this under control,” Jake grumbles, waving his hand in the air as if his sergeant’s words are smoke. He turns to his fellow detective and points a finger at her, moving it like he is drawing a circle around her body. “It’s like that race, with the rabbit and the turtle. I’m the rabbit, totally leaving you in my dust.” He begins doing what passes for a moonwalk in Peralta-world, back to his desk.
Santiago just stares, amazed that such an intelligent and accomplished detective can be so obtuse sometimes. Jeffords is the picture of incredulity as Peralta backs into his body.
“You mean the tortoise and the hare?” he asks, as Jake spins around so he can see both the Sarge and his partner.
“You do understand that the hare loses, right?” Amy adds, shaking her head.
Jake shrugs, again waving if off.
“Details, details,” he scoffs. “The point is, you are so goin’ down, Santiago.” He points two fingers at his eyes, then at her.
Her eyes almost roll out of her head, and something in her chest loosens a bit, like things could maybe be okay someday.
Terry lifts Jake into the air by his shirtfront with one hand. He gives the smaller man a good shake, like a naughty puppy who has chewed up his work shoes.
“Stop bothering Santiago and get your ass back to work, before I give her permission to tase you.”
“Don’t tase me, bro,” Jake mock-simpers in Amy’s direction. Terry shakes him again, and he wheezes. “Okay, right, sorry sir.” The dangling man salutes as best he can.
Terry lets go, and Jake lands awkwardly on his feet like a wobbly cat. He brushes invisible dust from his shirt, then motions between Amy and his eyes again, flinching when Terry stomps in his direction. Amy is distantly amused by the happenings, but mostly numb.
When Peralta has sauntered away, Jeffords pulls up a chair and sits next to Amy – making sure to leave plenty of space for her to back up or get up should she choose to. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the coddling disguised as a ‘supportive’ speech that she knows is coming.
Instead of speaking, the large man just waits until she meets his eyes. When she does, he places an open, relaxed hand near her own on the desk. She hadn’t noticed that she was clenching hers into a fist. He looks at her, face calm, breaths even and deep. She finds herself watching his chest expand and contract, and suddenly realizes the ache in her own chest is partially from holding her breath.
They stay like that for a while, until she is more centered, breathing more normal.
After she is visibly more relaxed, he stands and nods once.
“I’m here,” is all he says, then turns and walks away.
It takes all of Amy’s considerable willpower not to break into tears.
On her second day back, Amy realizes that Scully – SCULLY – is more prepared for the morning brief than she is. The shame spiral she swirls into is almost a comfort, because she feels more like herself than she has since she woke up in that hospital room.
As the detectives file back into the bullpen, Santiago can feel all their eyes on her. When she reaches her desk, she notices Boyle looking at her with concerned puppy-dog eyes, and Peralta being dragged into the break room by the ear by Diaz. Gina just frowns around her phone from her perch on her desk, though Amy isn’t sure if the assistant is concerned with her, or her progress in her loud and explosively colorful game app.
Rosa reappears alone, and plops herself down at her desk. Amy tries not to look, hating that she hasn’t said two words to the other woman since before she came back to work, but not knowing how to bridge the distance. Their routine was the only thing that got Amy through those first few weeks, and the sudden absence of Rosa in her life has left her off balance.
“Santiago,” the Captain calls from his door. Instead of excitement at being summoned into Holt’s inner sanctum, Amy is filled with a heavy and dark sort of dread. As she stands, Santiago notices her hands are trembling and hides them in her pockets.
Walking by Diaz desk, Santiago feels the other woman’s fingers brush the exposed skin at her wrist. The contact warms her briefly, and it is all she can do to keep walking and not acknowledge the touch. She isn’t sure if Rosa is being discrete to protect Amy’s pride or her own, but she is grateful for even the little connection between them.
The Captain has retreated to his desk when she enters the room.
“Have a seat, please,” he requests, hands folded in front of him.
Amy nods, clearing her throat. “Thank you, sir.”
Holt waits patiently as she struggles with what to do with her hands – leave them in her pockets, sit on them, tape them together – and nods as she settles on interlocking her fingers and resting them on her lap.
They sit in silence for long moments. The Captain’s eyes are heavy on her skin. Amy does her best to keep from fidgeting or folding in on herself.
“I understand that the coming weeks will be a… difficult period of adjustment for you,” Holt begins.
A shadow of Santiago’s former fawning emerges from the numbness, and she quickly interjects.
“Sir, I know that my performance at today’s briefing was not up to standard, but I can assure you that I’m ready and able to jump back on the horse.”
“If there is any of my detectives that can be trusted to be present and prepared, it is you Santiago,” Holt acknowledges, matter-of-fact but not unkind.
A month ago, Amy would have been frothing at the compliment, possibly actually having a stroke. There is a flutter in her chest, something that might have been pride, but she barely manages a smile.
“Thank you, Captain.”
Holt leans back, brow furrowing ever so slightly, but goes on.
“Being a police officer, in my opinion, is not a job or a career, but a calling. I think that is something we have in common, Santiago.”
Amy unconsciously mimics his posture and expression. “Of course, yes, absolutely sir.”
“Being a Captain in the NYPD is as much a part of my identity as being gay, or of color. I take my duties very seriously.”
“Clearly.” Amy’s small grin is genuine, and the corners of the Captain’s mouth twitch upward for a moment.
He continues, nodding once. “My squad – as Peralta so eloquently put it in his Thanksgiving speech – is like a family. My detectives are like my children.”
Amy nods. “Some of us more child-like than others,” she quips, smile again forced.
Holt raises an eyebrow and nods. “Indeed. The point I am attempting to get at is that, one of my people was hurt. Badly. Not through any fault of their own, but it happened.”
Santiago wishes that she could summon the fanatical enthusiasm of her former self. She wishes she could be the woman who was responsible for that 8 page Thanksgiving speech, who thought that getting critiques like ‘awk for awkward’ was the best thing that could happen to her. That woman would be sobbing with happiness right now. That woman deserves to hear these words from her Captain.
“Sir, really, I am f-”
“Recovering. You are recovering. Admirably. But, to return to my analogy, like any parent I am torn between sheltering my child from the dangers of the world and letting her stand on her own two feet.”
He stops, taking a deep breath. He looks down for a moment, regards his hands. They are clenched as tightly as hers, nail beds bloodless.
“You are an adult. You are an intelligent, independent woman who is fully capable of taking care of herself. My feelings of… protectiveness have nothing to do with your efficacy. I trust you to know what is best for you.”
“Thank… you?”
The Captain looks up, and for the first time, Santiago can read emotion in his eyes. A touch of fear, and a profound sadness. The air goes out of the room, and Amy’s heart thuds in her chest painfully.
“Out of respect for you, I will ask you this question once, and then never again.” Holt pauses, seeming to steel himself. “Are you able to continue here?”
Shivering now, Amy can only nod, the motion jerky – unnatural. The world feels like it has expanded so much that it has faded into nothing, like total entropy. Like the lights are physical, too bright and cold, and she is naked, exposed.
Holt leans forward. “I do not expect you to be the woman you were before the shooting.” Santiago flinches at the word ‘shooting,’ the ‘t’ sound sharp. “All I expect is that you will be honest about what you are going through – and that, if you need it, you will ask for help.”
Amy’s mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish out of water. She can’t decide if she is grateful for his honesty or insulted at his presumption.
“Take the next few weeks to think about what is best for you. I would like nothing more than for you to stay here, in the Nine Nine and this family. But know that I will be supportive, and… proud, no matter what your decision.”
Diaz is hovering near the Captain’s door when Santiago finally emerges. Well, hovering as much as she can – which is to say standing firmly planted, arms crossed over her chest.
Their eyes meet, and without a word Rosa turns and walks away. Amy follows.
They end up in Babylon. Amy is sobbing before the other woman has a chance to fully shut the door.
Diaz’s arms are strong and warm around her, drawing her close. She says nothing, only holds Amy as she cries herself out. Amy clutches at Rosa’s leather jacket as if the taller woman is the only solid thing in the world.
When Santiago finally pulls back, she winces.
“Your jacket...” she murmurs, trying to wipe away the moisture from the leather. She only succeeds in spreading it around.
“It’ll dry,” Rosa says nonchalantly, like Amy hasn’t spent the last 20 minutes attached to her like a baby howler monkey.
“Listen, Rosa… I’m really sorry.” Amy feels weak and ashamed, and cripplingly shy. She looks down at the ground, jaw tight with the effort it takes to keep from dying of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to, you know, have a meltdown on you.”
“Shut up, dummy.”
Shocked, Amy’s eyes snap up to meet Rosa’s.
“Excuse me?” she says, though it sounds more like an ‘excuse you.’
Rosa rolls her eyes, going to her neutral stance of arms crossed over her chest, hip cocked aggressively.
“You cried. It happens. Everybody does it.” Amy blinks, tilting her head as if Rosa has grown a third eye. “What, you think I don’t cry?”
“Well, I mean…” Amy hesitates, shrugging deep. Her shoulders are so tense that the motion is painful.
“Well I do. I cry. I get scared too.”
Uncrossing her arms, Diaz shrugs off her jacket and unbuttons the top of her blouse. Santiago’s eyes widen, goggling, confused.
“Relax,” Rosa chides. “I’m not going to jump you.”
Rosa’s acknowledgement of the strange tension that has built between them since the shooting is both reassuring and off-putting. Amy again doesn’t know what to do with her hands – what is the appropriate posture for when your partner is undressing in front of you in a secret bathroom oasis? – and again settles for putting them in her pockets, trying to stand at casual-relaxed.
Having completely unbuttoned her shirt, Rosa slips the material open and turns, exposing her side. There is a long, thin scar under her right breast, along her ribs.
“First year in uniform, I had the night shift. Walked the same beat for a long time. About six months in, a strung out crack-head jumped me with a butcher knife.” Rosa stops, taking a deep breath. “I had a vest on, but it was one of those old two piece monsters with the gaps at the sides. We had newer ones, but I was a rookie, and a girl… you know how that goes.”
Amy nods, well versed in the bullshit female police officers have to navigate to in order to even get near base level respect. Before she can stop herself, she is reaching out, tracing the old wound with a shaky finger.
“What, what happened to him?”
“He’s still in prison.”
Rosa begins to button her shirt again, and Amy snatches her hand back, as if burned.
“For months after, I refused to walk by that alley. Then one night, I was across the street, and I saw a woman get mugged there. I froze. Perp got away with her purse. She was okay, but…” Diaz looks down, ashamed of her past self’s behavior.
“Oh, Rosa… I…” Amy can’t think of something adequate to say.
After a moment, again fully dressed, Rosa looks up, expression fierce.
“Who was going to protect those people, clean up that spot if it wasn’t me? Crying doesn’t make you weak, curling up in a little ball and trying to hide does.”
The room begins to fade again, Amy feels herself dissolving.
“How?” she asks through her rapidly closing throat.
“Took time. I was still scared, but when it got bad, I had Jake. He was… like an annoying kid brother. A total ass. Distracting when I needed that.”
Amy pulls a face and shakes her head. “I don’t think I can talk to him about this…”
Rosa shrugs but smiles a little, reaching out and taking Amy’s hand.
“You got me.”
Amy wants nothing more than to smile, to go in for a hug, but something holds her back.
“Everyone’s so… supportive.,” she says instead, looking away in shame. She pulls away from her friend. “Like I'm a ticking time bomb ready to explode any second.”
“Or like you were shot in the chest and almost died.”
Rosa does not pull any punches. It is one of the many things Amy admires about her.
“Look, Santiago – Amy – no one thinks you can’t cut it. We know you’re good.” Amy can’t help but smile a bit. “But no one expects that you’re gonna jump back into it like nothing happened. You’re human.”
“But Boyle…”
“Got shot in the butt. He saved my life, totally deserved that metal, but he was not near death.” Now Rosa looks away, swallowing hard, a haunted look taking hold of her usually stoic face. “I watched you get shot. Your blood was all over the floor. You… you stopped breathing, had to be resuscitated…”
And Santiago is back there, in that stifling stairwell, an elephant on her chest and the ocean roaring in her ears. Rosa is saying something, her hand an agonizing pressure on the hole in Amy’s shoulder.
Amy snaps back, frozen in terror. Rosa has a knowing look in her eyes.
“Eventually you’ll be able to make it an hour without thinking about it. Then two hours. Then a day.” Rosa reaches out and cups Amy’s cheek. The shorter woman flinches, but Rosa doesn’t pull away. “There is nothing weak about what you are feeling right now. Or about asking for help either.”
“Do you think I need help?”
Rosa shrugs. “I think only you get to make that call. Either way, I got your back.”
There is a tangled rush of emotion that starts in Santiago’s stomach and bursts up into her chest and head. It is overwhelming after the strange numbness or paralyzing fear of late. She is kissing Diaz before she understands what she is doing.
It is desperate and sloppy, and not at all like Amy usually kisses. It goes on for a small eternity.
When she pulls back, Amy’s hands are tangled in Rosa’s curls, their bodies flush against each other. She rests her forehead against the taller woman’s shoulder, panting like she’s just run a marathon, lips tingling. Rosa’s hands are around her, holding her close, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her ass. Amy feels safer than she has since she woke up in the hospital bed. Hell, she feels, something other than terror or nothing, which in and of itself seems like a small miracle.
Horror, like a dense fog, rolls over her, filling her, twisting her stomach and tightening her limbs.
“Amy…” Rosa starts, recognizing the expression on her face.
“Oh my God, I am so, so sorry!”
“Amy, relax. It’s okay.”
Rosa tries rubbing small circles on her back, but it only makes it worse.
The arms that were seconds ago a safe haven are now a prison, closing around Amy like a cage. She shoves her way free.
“So sorry, I am so sorry!” she mutters. And before Diaz can react, Santiago is gone.
Rosa sighs, rubbing her forehead and scowling. “Shit.”
tbc