TWO / DETECTIVE MORALES

❛ your stare was holdin
ripped jeans, skin was showin ❜

The briefing room of the Nine-Nine was a world unto itself, alive with the hum of morning energy. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, bathing the room in a pale, unforgiving glow that highlighted every scuff on the linoleum floor and every coffee stain on the long, battered table at the center. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee-a side effect of the ancient machine in the corner that had been churning out subpar caffeine since the dawn of time-and of Boyle's cologne, an aggressively sweet scent that was already starting to mingle unpleasantly with Rosa's faint but distinct leather-and-smoke aura.

Rosa sat slouched in her usual spot near the back, arms crossed, one boot propped on the edge of her chair. She stared at her phone with a stony intensity, her lips pressed into a thin line that warned against interruption. The faint tapping of her nail against the screen was the only sound she made, a slow, deliberate rhythm like the ticking of a bomb. Beside her, Amy Santiago stood rigidly by the whiteboard, her posture so straight it was practically an act of defiance against gravity. Her brow furrowed as she arranged a series of crime scene photos with obsessive precision, pausing every few seconds to adjust the angle of a pushpin by the tiniest fraction of an inch.

Boyle, as usual, was already seated, his notebook open in front of him. The pages were crowded with notes written in his small, careful handwriting, interspersed with tiny, intricate doodles of various gourmet dishes. He tapped his pen against the table, glancing eagerly at Terry every few seconds like a golden retriever waiting for permission to fetch. Terry stood near the podium, his broad shoulders back and his arms crossed, surveying the room with the quiet authority of a man who could snap a desk in half but would rather just ask you politely to do your job.

The only thing missing was Jake.

The door burst open with a sudden, theatrical flourish, and Jake Peralta strode in, holding an absurdly oversized Slurpee in one hand and a paper bag in the other. The Slurpee was neon blue, the kind of color that didn't exist in nature, and condensation dripped from the cup onto the floor as Jake took a long, exaggerated sip through the equally oversized straw.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and Amy," Jake declared, pausing just long enough to flash his signature grin. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a nightmare, and by traffic, I mean the line at the Slurpee machine. But don't worry, I brought snacks!" He held up the bag triumphantly, shaking it for emphasis.

Rosa didn't even look up. "If that bag doesn't have coffee in it, I'm going to kill you"

Jake grinned wider. "Better. It's a jelly donut. Singular. But I'm willing to share-by which I mean I'll eat it in front of you while describing how delicious it is." He plopped into his chair, the legs screeching in protest against the floor, and set the bag and Slurpee on the table with a level of care that suggested they were far more important than any murder investigation.

Terry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jake, you're late. Again."

Jake waved a hand dismissively, leaning back in his chair and taking another long sip of his Slurpee. "Don't worry, Sarge. I'm here now, ready to solve all the murders that Amy isn't capable of. What are we working on? A jewel heist? A secret society of assassins? Ooh, is it finally the case of the missing sandwich from the break room? Because I have theories about Scully."

Amy turned from the whiteboard, fixing Jake with a look that was equal parts exasperation and disbelief. "Harry Morgenthau, Jake. He was found shot in his apartment this morning. Luxury food importer? Kind of a big deal?"

Charles frowned "Luxury food importer, you say? Sounds like someone's about to inherit a pantry full of truffle oil and caviar. Lucky bastard." Jake, leaning forward to grab a file from the table, flipped through the file, his brow furrowing slightly. "Okay, so, gunshot wound to the chest, no sign of forced entry... I'm calling it now: murder-suicide, but the second half of the plan went hilariously wrong."

Amy stared at him, her mouth slightly open as if she were debating whether it was worth correcting him. Terry stepped in before she could decide. "Focus, Jake. The victim's cleaning lady found the body. She's already been interviewed."

"Ah, yes, the cleaning lady," Jake said, clicking the remote to bring up a photo of an older woman with a weary expression. "I spoke to her this morning, and using expert detective work, I deduced that she had something super gross on her chin. So, naturally, I took a picture of it."

He clicked again, and the next slide was a close-up of the woman's chin, covered in some kind of beige, gelatinous substance.

Charles leaned forward, squinting at the screen. "I think it's flan."

Jake nodded thoughtfully. "Good call, Boyle. I was leaning toward butterscotch pudding, but flan tracks. Either way, it's definitely evidence of something."

"Or," Terry said, his tone sharp enough to cut through Jake's nonsense, "we could focus on the murder."

Jake leaned back in his chair, hands raised in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. Cool, cool, cool."

Amy rolled her eyes and turned back to the whiteboard. "The cleaning lady didn't see anything suspicious, but neighbors reported hearing an argument late last night. No one could make out what was being said."

Jake tapped his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. "An argument, you say? My guess: someone was really, really mad about flan."

This time, even Rosa cracked a smile.

The moment was interrupted by the slow creak of the precinct door swinging open, a shift so subtle it shouldn't have been noticeable, but somehow, it was. There was something about the weight of authority entering a room that had a way of commanding attention without a word, something in the way the atmosphere changed, straightened.

Captain Holt.

His entrance was like clockwork, every movement deliberate, every step even, his posture so impeccably upright it looked sculpted. The air seemed to still in his wake, the usual energy of the room subtly recalibrating around him. His uniform, pressed to an almost unnatural level of perfection, caught the light in crisp navy folds, the gleam of his badge stark against the dark fabric. His expression remained unreadable, a mask of disciplined stoicism honed over years of command, his gaze sweeping the room with the sharp, analytical detachment of a man who saw everything and reacted to nothing.

Amy straightened instinctively, her posture snapping into place as if Holt's mere presence had triggered a reflex. Boyle, eager as ever, mirrored her, sitting so rigidly upright he nearly unseated himself. Rosa barely flicked her gaze toward him, the only acknowledgment of his arrival being the slight pause in the rhythmic click of her blade.

"Detectives." Holt's voice cut through the conversation, firm but unhurried. "I'm pausing this fascinating discourse to introduce a new member of our squad."

A ripple of curiosity passed through the room, subtle but undeniable. A new detective. It wasn't unheard of, but it was never insignificant. The Nine-Nine operated on a careful balance of personalities, a chaotic but oddly functional machine that didn't always welcome outside interference. A newcomer meant change, an unknown element that could either blend seamlessly or disrupt everything.

Jake finally sat up properly, his interest piqued despite himself. "New member?" he echoed, eyebrows lifting as he leaned forward, fingers drumming idly against the desk. "Please tell me it's a robot. Or a talking dog. Or-" He snapped his fingers, eyes bright with possibility. "A talking robot dog."

Holt remained unfazed, his expression as impassive as ever. "No, Detective Peralta. It is a person. Try to contain your disappointment."

Jake opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Holt turned slightly, gesturing toward the open doorway.

And then she walked in.

Elevator Robin.

Jake recognized her immediately. It took a second for it to register, but when it did, it hit with the force of a mental car crash. No way. Elevator Robin. The same woman who had stood beside him last morning, watching as he fumbled through what, in retrospect, had been an absolute disaster of an introduction.

She looked different in the light of the precinct, she seemed sharper, more defined. Her posture was rigid but not uncomfortable, like someone who had trained themselves to stand perfectly still, to take up space only in the exact amount necessary. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek, no-nonsense style, a few loose strands framing a face that was both strikingly composed and somehow wary, like someone who had learned to observe before engaging. Her blazer, impeccably tailored, sat neatly over her crisp button-up, her badge clipped securely to her belt, the holster at her hip a quiet but unmistakable extension of her presence.

Her gaze moved through the room in a way that wasn't nervous but calculating, like someone mentally cataloging every person, every potential dynamic, every variable that might require adjustment. She took in the faces-Rosa, Amy, Boyle, Holt-before finally, inevitably, her eyes landed on Jake.

And then, something unexpected happened.

She smiled.

Not just a polite, obligatory smile, but a real one-small, quick, but undeniably there. A flicker of recognition passed through her expression, an almost imperceptible shift in her posture, like she had just solved a minor puzzle that had been bothering her.

Jake barely had time to process this before he felt a nudge against his side. Boyle, practically vibrating with excitement, leaned in, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Jake," he hissed. "Is that Elevator Robin?"

Jake's brain short-circuited. He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. His thoughts were too busy replaying every awkward second of their previous encounter, now viewed through the mortifying lens of hindsight.

Meanwhile, Holt continued as if the unspoken moment hadn't just unfolded. "Detective Morales has an extensive background in Organized Crime. She has been known for her strategic approach to investigations. I expect all of you to work closely with her as she acclimates to our precinct."

Jake barely heard any of it. His mind was still stuck on two facts:
1. This was, indeed, Elevator Robin.
2. Elevator Robin had smiled at him.

He had no idea what that meant, but one thing was certain-this was going to be interesting.

Amy Santiago was the first to react, her spine straightening even further-if that was possible-and her face lighting up with immediate enthusiasm. She leaned forward in her seat, hands clasped together, eyes shining with unfiltered interest, the kind she reserved for precinct politics, Holt's approval, and any subject that promised the tantalizing possibility of structured learning.

"You worked in Organized Crime?" she asked, her voice a careful balance between casual and deeply invested. "I'd love to hear about how you handled high-profile cases, especially when dealing with wealthy suspects. Did you find that financial crimes often intersected with more traditional criminal enterprises? And-" she exhaled sharply, nearly vibrating with curiosity "-what was your approach to interrogations? Did you rely more on psychological tactics, or did you use forensic accounting as leverage? Because personally, I think-"

Holt cleared his throat, a subtle but effective reminder that Amy's enthusiasm often required occasional reining in. She bit the inside of her cheek and settled back slightly, though her expression remained expectant, her gaze fixed on Robin like a student awaiting a particularly exciting lecture.

Robin regarded her for a moment, then offered a small, measured nod. "It depends on the suspect," she said. Her voice was smooth but firm, each word deliberate, as though she had long since learned the value of economy in speech. "Wealth changes the game. You're not just dealing with criminals; you're dealing with people who have power, influence, the ability to make things disappear. They don't crack under pressure the way common criminals do because, for most of their lives, they've been untouchable. You have to know where to apply pressure, what matters to them."

Amy absorbed every word with the kind of intensity usually reserved for Holt's rare moments of praise.

Meanwhile, Boyle had been waiting for his turn, practically bouncing in his seat, his hands folded under his chin as though trying to physically contain his excitement. But the effort proved futile-his admiration spilled out all at once, a stream of breathless enthusiasm that felt almost tangible.

"That sounds amazing," he gushed, eyes wide, his voice a reverent hush, as if Robin had just revealed she once infiltrated an underground crime syndicate disguised as a Michelin-star chef. "High-profile cases, taking down syndicates-that must have been incredible. We should celebrate. I'm thinking something sophisticated but unpretentious, like lobster sliders. No, wait, scratch that-mini duck confit tacos. Or maybe-" He gasped, clapping his hands together. "An international tasting menu! Since you probably dealt with international crime! It's thematically appropriate!"

Robin's lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement flashing across her otherwise composed expression, but she didn't respond. Whether out of restraint or sheer survival instinct, it was impossible to tell.

Rosa, predictably, was far less expressive. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her leather jacket, her dark eyes assessing Robin with a gaze that felt as much like a silent challenge as it did an acknowledgment. She held the moment for a beat longer than necessary, as if testing something unspoken, weighing whether or not the new detective was someone worth tolerating.

Finally, Rosa gave a single nod. "Welcome," she said flatly. "Don't be annoying."

For anyone else, it might have come off as indifferent, even dismissive, but in Rosa's world, it was as close to a stamp of approval as anyone could get on a first day.

Jake, however, had barely spoken.

He had spent the last few minutes mentally recalibrating, caught somewhere between recovering from the shock of recognizing Robin and desperately trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. It was an unfamiliar feeling-being out of step, off his game, thrown by something as simple as an unexpected connection. He didn't like it. It made his brain feel like it was lagging behind reality, processing everything half a second too late.

So, naturally, he defaulted to humor.

"Cool, cool, cool," he said, nodding like that would somehow make everything feel normal again. "Organized Crime. That's a thing. That's... wow. Very intense. Very serious. I mean, hey, if you ever need help with disorganized crime, I'm your guy. I specialize in catching idiots. It's a gift. Some might say a curse. I say-" He gestured vaguely. "You get it."

Robin didn't react immediately. She just looked at him-long enough to make his skin prickle under the weight of her scrutiny. It wasn't judgmental, exactly. More like... assessing. The way a chess player might look at an unfamiliar board.

Then, finally, she cracked another small smile.

"I get it," she said.

Jake felt something strange settle in his chest, something he couldn't quite name. He wasn't sure what had just happened-if he had passed some kind of unspoken test, or if she had just decided to take pity on him. Either way, it didn't feel like a dismissal. If anything, it felt like an opening.

And that? That was interesting.

The energy in the room slowly began to shift back to its usual rhythm, the initial tension of meeting a new person beginning to dissipate, replaced by something else-curiosity, intrigue, the unspoken promise of new dynamics unfolding.

Captain Holt stood at the head of the room, posture straight, hands folded neatly behind his back, the edges of his uniform crisp enough to cut glass.

"Peralta. Morales." His voice, steady and measured, barely rose above the ambient noise, but it carried the weight of finality. "You're both assigned to the Montague murder case."

Jake felt his stomach twist. A mix of dread and something annoyingly close to curiosity settled in his chest. He stole a quick glance at Robin Morales, who sat beside him with a posture so effortlessly poised it made him feel like a slouching teenager in comparison. She was focused, expression neutral but sharp, already flipping through the case file with methodical precision.

Great. Just great.

His mind spiraled. On one hand, sure, Robin seemed like a competent detective. On the other hand, she was new, she was cool in that quietly intimidating way, and-worst of all-she was smart. Smart enough to make him feel off-balance, like he had to prove himself. Which, frankly, was a nightmare.

He tried to recover by leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, aiming for a casual, unaffected air. "Cool, cool, cool, cool. No doubt, no doubt. Love being assigned partners without warning. It's my favorite way to start a murder investigation. Right up there with, uh, stumbling onto a crime scene without my badge or accidentally interrogating the wrong twin."

Robin didn't react immediately. She simply turned a page in the file, scanning the details with unnerving focus. Then, without looking up, she cracked a small, knowing smile. "Sounds like a fun track record."

Jake blinked. Okay. That was unexpected.

She was amused-but not in a condescending way. More like she was in on the joke, rather than standing above it. That tiny shift in expression threw him off just enough to make him forget whatever sarcastic remark he had lined up next.

"Detectives," Holt cut in, bringing Jake back to the present. "I expect you to approach this case with professionalism and diligence. Peralta..." Holt turned to Jake, leveling him with a pointed stare. "Try not to let your... enthusiasm get in the way of actual police work."

Jake grinned. "Copy that, Captain. No enthusiasm whatsoever. In fact, I'll be the least enthusiastic detective you've ever seen. A human beige wall. Just two eyes and a badge." Holt sighed. Amy, seated across from them, leaned forward, eager. Jake pushed himself up from his chair. "Alright, partner. Guess we better get started before Terry decides we need mandatory team bonding exercises or something equally horrifying."

Robin rose smoothly, tucking the case file under her arm. "Yeah, wouldn't want that."

As they walked out of the briefing room and into the bullpen, Jake stole another glance at her. She moved with a quiet confidence-head high, strides purposeful, like someone used to being in control of a situation. But there was something else too, something subtler.

She didn't look stiff or guarded the way some new transfers did, but she wasn't overly relaxed either. Her eyes flickered around the bullpen, taking everything in-the desks, the people, the controlled chaos of the Nine-Nine. The smallest furrow of her brow suggested she was cataloging it all, figuring out where she fit into the larger picture.

Jake knew that feeling. That first-day weight of wanting to make a mark without making a scene. He'd been there once.

He cleared his throat. "So, uh. How does it feel? First day in a new precinct. Excited? Terrified? Secretly plotting our downfall?"

Robin glanced at him, considering. "Mostly just figuring everyone out."

"Cool, cool. Any preliminary thoughts?"

She tilted her head slightly, lips curving in the barest hint of a smirk. "I think Charles is going to try to adopt me. Amy's going to give me a quiz on legal procedures by the end of the day. Holt is impossible to read, and you... well. You overcompensate when you're trying to impress someone."

Jake felt his brain short-circuit for a second. "Excuse me. I do not overcompensate. I am effortlessly impressive."

Robin raised an eyebrow, the smirk widening just a fraction.

Jake threw up his hands. "Okay, fine. Maybe I compensate a little bit. But in a cool, mysterious way."

Robin just kept walking, already flipping open the case file again, completely unbothered.

Jake exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

Great. She was smart. She was composed. And she was already seeing right through him.

This was going to be so much fun.

author's note !!!

A SHORT CHAPTER !!! ANYWAY I HOPE YOU'LL LIKE IT 🩷🩷🩷🩷 tell me what you think by leaving a comment and a star ⭐️!!!!

thank you for the attention 🩷