[James (MC) – POV]
Brooklyn wakes up in layers. First, the subway hum beneath the streets. Then the bakeries opening up, the smell of fresh bread spilling out. Then the shouting—always the shouting—someone cursing at a cab driver or an early-morning delivery gone wrong.
I take it all in as I jog the last block to the precinct. It's not PT, not anymore, but old habits die hard. I don't like starting my day without feeling my blood moving.
The bullpen is already buzzing when I step inside. Jake is leaning back in his chair, feet on his desk, mid-story to Boyle.
"—and that's when I told the perp, 'Wrong move, buddy, this is my house!'"
Boyle gasps like he's watching the finale of a soap opera.
Holt's office door swings open. The Captain steps out, scanning the bullpen until his gaze lands on me.
"Detective Peralta," he says, voice precise as ever.
"Which one?" Jake asks, without moving his feet.
"James," Holt clarifies. He gestures for me to follow.
Inside his office, Holt sits with perfect posture. "Your brother has been assigned the case of a serial tagger defacing public property. I am aware of his… enthusiasm in such matters."
"You mean he's going to blow it out of proportion," I say, sitting across from him.
"I prefer to say he will be overly creative in his approach," Holt replies, a faint edge to his voice. "I would like you to accompany him. Keep him on track. Prevent property damage, injury, or lawsuits. In that order."
Babysitting. Got it.
"Yes, sir."
[Jake – POV]
Babysitting. He's here to babysit me.
"Come on, Holt, I don't need a handler," I protest as James walks out of Holt's office. "I'm a professional. I'm the best detective in this precinct!"
"Then it should be no problem for you to have your brother along," Holt says, and closes his office door before I can argue.
James stops at my desk, coffee in hand, that calm, smug look on his face. "Ready to go, little brother?"
I grab my jacket. "Yeah, but just so you know, you're slowing me down. I operate at a finely tuned speed of awesome, and you're like… stealth mode. All quiet and mysterious. Totally kills my vibe."
He doesn't even respond. Just walks toward the door like he's on some covert op. Which, okay, maybe he's used to that from his CIA days. But still—this is a graffiti case, not Mission: Impossible.
[James – POV]
The first location is a brick wall in a quiet alley, the tag still fresh: a stylized crown in black paint. Jake's already circling it like a shark, throwing out theories.
"Gotta be a kid," he says. "Look at the height, the sloppiness—total amateur hour."
I crouch, running a finger along the paint. Still tacky. "Or someone who wants it to look amateur. Fresh enough that if we canvas nearby shops now, we might catch someone who saw them."
Jake grins. "You and your canvassing. Fine. You do your spy thing, I'll do my fun thing."
"Fun thing?"
He pulls out his phone. "Photographic evidence for my corkboard of justice!"
Two interviews later, Jake's fun thing has produced exactly zero leads, while my quiet questions have gotten us a store clerk who remembers a tall figure in a black hoodie carrying a duffel bag. Not much, but enough to narrow our search.
As we walk back to the car, Jake shoots me a side glance.
"You know, for a guy who's supposedly out of the game, you're still way too good at this."
"I'm just observant."
"Uh-huh. Observant in a 'trained by the CIA and probably knows six ways to kill me with a paperclip' way."
I don't answer. He's not wrong.
[Rosa – POV]
From my desk, I can see them walk back in.
Jake's talking a mile a minute, and James is just listening, not even looking at him, like he's processing three other things at the same time.
Most new detectives try to impress everyone in week one. James doesn't. He moves like he already knows where he fits. Like he's been doing this for years.
Jake calls him "big bro" like it's a joke, but there's something in the way James watches him—measured, like he's making sure Jake doesn't get in over his head. That's not a joke.
Boyle leans over to me. "I think James might be cooler than Jake."
I don't answer. I just keep watching.
[Jake – POV]
We stake out the next likely spot for the tagger to hit—a blank wall across from a bodega. James sits in the passenger seat, eyes scanning, sipping his coffee like he's in a commercial for "World's Calmest Man."
"You ever think maybe you should, I dunno, relax?" I ask.
"I am relaxed."
"James, your version of relaxed is still like… two clicks above Special Ops mode."
He doesn't reply, just points. "Movement. Left side."
Sure enough, a figure in a hoodie darts into the alley. We're out of the car in seconds, Jake-style speed.
[James – POV]
The suspect's fast, but speed isn't everything. He's sloppy—knocks over a trash can, leaves the lid spinning. Rookie mistake. Jake's gaining on him, but I angle around the next corner, cutting him off.
The kid skids to a stop, nearly dropping the spray can. He's younger than I expected—fifteen, maybe sixteen. Wide eyes. I keep my tone calm.
"You don't want to do this," I say.
Jake jogs up behind, cuffs out. "Gotcha!"
The kid mutters under his breath, but doesn't resist. My gut says there's more to the story—this isn't the kind of defacing that comes from random rebellion. But that's for later.
[Holt – POV]
From my office window, I watch James and Jake return with the suspect. Jake is animated, clearly proud of the arrest. James is composed, but there's a flicker of… something in his eyes.
Later, I review James' written report. It's concise, factual, and notes behavioral observations of the suspect that Jake's report does not. Useful, but it suggests James is thinking several moves ahead.
That could be an asset.
Or a problem.
I make a note in his file: Continue observation. Unusual skill set for NYPD. Potential for unconventional methods.
[James – POV]
As the paperwork wraps up, Jake claps me on the shoulder. "See? We make a great team. You keep me from getting distracted, I keep you from getting bored."
I smirk faintly. "Something like that."
Rosa passes by, giving me the briefest nod. It's not much. But I've been around long enough to know respect when I see it—especially from someone like her.
And just like that, day two in the Nine-Nine is done.
For now.