Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone’s shouting Jake’s name.

He’s got two beers in his hands, three arms around him, and the kind of glow only white-hot attention can give a man like Jake Peralta. The bar’s erupting with noise. Cheering. Toasts. High-fives and slow claps and loud, sloppy retellings of the final courtroom moments.

Boyle has recounted Jake’s post-verdict punch of a water fountain three times. Terry brought cake. Holt even ordered a round for the table, his version of a confetti cannon.

Amy’s smiling. Laughing when she should. But her eyes keep drifting across the room.

To Rosa.

Who hasn’t said much since they got to Shaw’s.

She’s been holding the same whiskey for an hour. Leaning against the far wall like she always does — arms folded, back straight, expression unreadable.

Everyone thinks she’s fine.
Of course they do. She’s Rosa.
The one who didn’t cry during root canals. The one who once rode a motorcycle through a wall and didn’t blink.

Jake came home giddy. Rosa came home silent.

And people assumed silence meant strength.

⸻

Earlier that day, when the courtroom finally erupted in relieved disbelief, Amy reached for Rosa’s hand and felt it trembling. Just for a second. Just long enough to know Rosa was barely keeping it together.

But in the precinct?
Rosa had smirked. Said, “Told you I’m too scary to stay in jail.”

And everyone let themselves believe that.

Everyone except Amy.

⸻

The noise in Shaw’s ratchets up again as Jake launches into his “prison spaghetti” bit. Rosa flinches as a glass crashes to the floor behind the bar. Her jaw locks. She downs the rest of her drink.

Amy watches her. Watches her eyes flicker toward the door.

Then she’s gone.

Not with fanfare. Not even with a goodbye.

She slips through the back exit like a whisper.

Amy excuses herself quietly, says something about needing air. No one notices. Not even Jake.

⸻

Rosa’s on her knees in the alley. One hand gripping the brick wall, the other pressed flat to the pavement like she might fall off the earth if she lets go.

She’s trying to breathe.

But she can’t.

She can’t.

She’s still there — in the cell with the flickering light, the peeling cement, the stench of ammonia. She’s back in Bedford Hills. Back with the CO who pressed his hand to her collarbone and smiled like he owned her.

“You don’t talk,” he’d said. “You’re one of the smart ones. You stay quiet, you get by.”

And Rosa had stayed quiet.

Because there was no other choice.

⸻

Amy finds her crouched beside a dumpster, fingers white-knuckled on the concrete, eyes wild and vacant.

“Oh, baby,” Amy breathes, already moving toward her. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Rosa doesn’t answer.

Amy crouches low, hands out like approaching a spooked animal. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Still nothing.

So Amy does what she knows Rosa will hear: “Can I touch you?”

Rosa nods once. Barely.

Amy reaches out and presses a hand to the back of Rosa’s neck — grounding, warm, careful.

That’s when Rosa exhales. A long, trembling breath like a dam breaking. Her body folds into Amy’s, and she begins to shake.

It’s the kind of shaking that doesn’t stop. The kind that comes from holding too much for too long.

Amy wraps her arms around her and says nothing. Just holds her like something sacred. Like a person who matters.

Because Rosa does matter.
Even if no one else seems to remember that tonight.

⸻

“I can’t go back in there,” Rosa whispers eventually. Her voice is hoarse. Broken.

“You don’t have to.”

“They’re all so loud. And Jake—everyone’s focused on Jake.”

“I know,” Amy says softly.

“They think I’m fine. Because I didn’t make jokes. Because I didn’t cry in court.”

Amy swallows the lump in her throat. “You don’t have to perform pain to deserve care, Rosa.”

“They think I’m a badass,” Rosa snaps. “So I must be okay.”

Amy brushes Rosa’s hair behind her ear, gently. “You are a badass. But that doesn’t mean nothing hurt you.”

A silence stretches. Rosa doesn’t meet her eyes.

Then, in a voice barely audible, she says, “I was assaulted.”

Amy freezes. Her arms tighten.

“It wasn’t like…” Rosa breathes out through her nose. “Not what people imagine. He didn’t even take his clothes off. He just… he had the keys. And I didn’t. So when he came in and told me to get on my knees, I did.”

Amy’s heart is breaking.

“He wanted power. Not sex. Not really. Just the look in my eyes when I obeyed.”

“Oh my god,” Amy whispers.

Rosa finally looks up. “You’re the only person I could tell.”

Amy’s voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have had to tell me like this. In an alley. After pretending all night.”

Rosa leans her head against Amy’s shoulder. “I wanted to be the strong one.”

“You are strong. But strength isn’t pretending nothing happened. It’s surviving when it did.”

Amy kisses her hair. “Let me take you home.”

Rosa doesn’t answer right away. Then nods.

⸻

Amy helps Rosa to her feet slowly. Keeps an arm around her waist the whole walk to the car. Shields her from the neon signs and the sidewalk stares.

No one from the squad sees them leave.

Jake is still mid-story. Holt is probably timing his drink intake. Boyle is crying again.

⸻

Amy’s apartment is quiet. Warm. Dim.

She puts the kettle on. Draws the curtains. Hands Rosa a change of clothes — soft cotton, not prison-issued polyester. Rosa changes without a word. Leaves the clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor.

Amy finds her on the couch, curled in a blanket.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” Rosa murmurs.

Amy sits beside her. “You told me when you could. That’s all that matters.”

“I kept thinking… I could just power through. That if I didn’t name it, it wouldn’t be real.”

Amy takes her hand. “It’s real. And you’re still here.”

Rosa nods. “Yeah. That’s the part I’m still figuring out.”

Chapter Text

The joke was harmless.
It always is, until it isn’t.

Jake had waited until Rosa stepped into the supply closet. Waited until she was grabbing extra pens, muttering about Boyle’s obsession with sparkly ink. Then he’d crept up behind the door, crouched down, and waited.

The goal was simple: scare the crap out of her. Maybe get a rare scream out of the unflappable Rosa Diaz.

It’s not tasteful. But it’s Jake.

He’s been back three weeks and still riding the high of freedom. He feels weirdly invincible. Rosa came back quiet, but solid, and he figured that meant she was fine.
She’s Rosa.

And Rosa’s always fine.

So he crouches, waits.

When she opens the cabinet and reaches in—

Jake leaps out, arms wide, shouting:
“SURPRISE SHIV ATTACK!”

And then Rosa screams.

Not a startled “screw you” kind of yelp.

It’s the sound of someone being attacked.

A full-bodied, guttural, keening sound — the kind Amy Santiago hasn’t heard since their third week of dating, when Rosa woke up gasping in her sleep and kicked a hole in Amy’s nightstand.

Rosa flings herself backward into the corner, hand at her waistband, eyes darting to every exit.

By the time Amy makes it through the door, Rosa’s on the floor.

Not moving. Not speaking.

Curled tight. Shoulders hunched. Arms wrapped around her stomach. Gasping like she can’t find air.

The noise of the bullpen fades. Amy only hears the rasping panic in Rosa’s throat.

⸻

“Rosa,” Amy breathes, kneeling in front of her. “Hey. Hey. You’re safe.”

Rosa doesn’t react.

Her breath is coming in shallow bursts. Her nails are digging into her sleeves. Her face is pale, damp with sweat. Her whole body is shaking.

Amy gently tucks her hand beneath Rosa’s jaw. “It’s me. It’s Amy.”

Still nothing.

Amy shifts, moving closer — slow, deliberate.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I’m going to talk to you the way we practiced, okay? Just breathe with me.”

She exaggerates an inhale.
One… two… three…

Rosa sucks in a ragged breath. Not quite in sync, but trying.

Amy exhales slow. “Good. You’re doing great.”

Behind her, someone moves.

Amy doesn’t even look. “Do not come closer.”

Silence.

Rosa chokes on another breath.

Amy leans in further. “Rosa. I want to take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Can I do that?”

This time, a faint nod.

Amy wraps an arm around her, grounding. Keeps eye contact the whole time.

Rosa clutches at her shirt.

“I’ve got you,” Amy murmurs.

She guides Rosa carefully out of the closet, through the bullpen, her eyes scanning for where to go.

Then she sees his door.

Holt’s office.

Of course.

It’s silent. Dim. Everything aligned in symmetrical precision. Cool lighting. Minimal sound. A single classical record player by the bookshelf. The blinds half drawn. The temperature always a few degrees cooler than the bullpen. Clean lines. No clutter.

It’s perfect.

Holt, somehow already aware, opens the door without a word.

Amy nods once, grateful.

He steps aside.

⸻

She guides Rosa into the chair closest to the window.

Rosa’s legs give slightly. Amy catches her, eases her down.

“Try to focus on what’s here,” Amy says softly. “Feel the chair under you. The weight of your jacket. The air.”

Rosa grips the armrests.

Amy crouches beside her, close but not overwhelming. One hand lightly resting on Rosa’s knee.

“Listen to the sound of the air vent,” she whispers. “Feel how still it is. You’re safe.”

Holt steps quietly into the far corner of the room and turns off the overhead light. The room softens instantly. Only the desk lamp remains, casting a gentle golden glow.

No one speaks.

Amy can feel Rosa’s breath starting to slow.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The silence is thick, but it holds her. Keeps her anchored.

Finally, Rosa lifts her head.

Amy brushes her hair back. “There you are.”

Rosa swallows hard. Her voice is shredded. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Amy says.

A pause.

Then Rosa whispers, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell where I was.”

Amy nods. “You were triggered. But you’re here now. You came back.”

Rosa closes her eyes and leans her forehead against Amy’s.

Amy just breathes with her.

⸻

After a while, Holt speaks. Quiet. Even.

“Detective Diaz,” he says gently. “Would you like some cold water?”

Rosa nods without opening her eyes.

Holt crosses to the corner mini-fridge and returns with a glass. He sets it on the desk near Rosa, but doesn’t hand it to her. Leaves space.

Another small kindness.

Rosa reaches for it slowly. Her hands still shake.

She takes a sip. Then another.

Then sets it down, eyes flicking briefly to Holt. “Thank you.”

He meets her gaze without flinching. “Of course.”

Another silence passes.

Then, unexpectedly, Rosa says, “Your office is quiet. It helps.”

Holt gives a subtle nod. “I’ve found that sensory precision is often calming in moments of dysregulation.”

Amy can almost feel Rosa relax at the word dysregulation — a clinical term, a neutral term. A framing that doesn’t make her feel broken.

Rosa exhales.

Then mutters, “Peralta’s a dumbass.”

Amy smiles. “Objectively true.”

“I know he didn’t mean it,” Rosa adds. “But Jesus. ‘Surprise shiv attack’? Who says that?”

Holt clears his throat. “Peralta.”

Rosa actually laughs. A dry, rasping sound. “Yeah.”

Amy squeezes her knee. “You’re okay.”

Rosa leans back. The trembling has mostly stopped.

She looks at Holt again. “Thank you. For letting me be here.”

He meets her eyes, gentle and direct. “You’re always welcome here, Detective. No explanation necessary.”

Rosa nods once. Then turns back to Amy.

“I want to go home.”

Amy stands immediately. “Okay.”

As she helps Rosa to her feet, Holt speaks one final time.

“I’ll handle the squad.”

Rosa pauses. Looks at him again.

There’s something in her face — gratitude, disbelief, the smallest flicker of trust.

Then she nods.

And they leave.

——

Meanwhile, the bullpen is silent.

Holt clears his throat. “Detective Peralta.”

Jake jumps.

“My office. Now.”

⸻

Jake is already sitting when Holt closes the door.

“I didn’t know,” Jake says immediately. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“I believe you,” Holt says evenly. “And I also believe Detective Diaz is traumatized. Your intent does not erase the impact.”

Jake’s eyes are wide, brimming. “She didn’t say anything. I mean, I knew prison sucked — but Rosa’s Rosa. She never—”

Holt folds his hands. “Detective Diaz was likely masking her trauma. An unfortunately common survival technique — particularly among people with her personality structure.”

Jake nods blankly. “So… that means I’m an idiot?”

“Yes.”

Jake slumps into the chair. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“No one is accusing you of intention. But impact matters. And your actions had one.”

Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you think she’ll forgive me?”

“That’s her choice. Your job now is not to ask for forgiveness. It’s to earn it by changing your behavior.”

Jake frowns. “That sounds hard.”

“It is. That’s why it’s worth doing.”

⸻

In the break room, Boyle is making what he calls “trauma muffins.” They’re oat-based, unsweetened, and somehow infused with kale.

Terry watches him stir silently for a moment, then says, “We should’ve checked in on her more.”

Boyle nods. “We were all so focused on Jake. Because he—he talks about it. The food, the fights, the dreams.”

“And Rosa didn’t,” Terry finishes. “So we assumed she was okay.”

“She’s Rosa. We always assume she’s okay.”

They share a quiet moment.

Then Boyle adds, “You think I should use chia seeds? Or does that feel performative?”

Terry blinks. “Let’s just start with an apology.”

Chapter Text

Amy walks Rosa into the precinct like it’s a war zone.

Not because anything’s wrong.

Not anymore.

But because she knows what kind of battlefield this is: fluorescent lighting, too many eyes, people trying too hard not to stare.

And because it’s been twenty hours since Rosa Diaz sank to the floor of the supply closet in a panic attack so violent it felt like the air had been ripped out of the building. Twenty hours since her chest heaved like it had never known breath, since her eyes went glassy and her voice vanished and she let Amy take her — shaking and silent — to the one quiet place in the precinct that wouldn’t break her further.

Holt’s office.

No one had followed. No one had spoken.

No one had touched her — except Amy.

But now? Everyone knows.

And Amy knows how Rosa feels about pity.

So she walks beside her like a shield — chin up, back straight, careful not to hover. Rosa wouldn’t want hovering. But she watches, closely, every line of her posture. The tension in her jaw. The fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides.

Rosa’s leather jacket creaks faintly as she walks, the only sound in the suddenly still bullpen.

She’s not touching Amy. Not looking at anyone. But her eyes flick from desk to desk like she’s calculating exits, soft spots, danger zones. Like she’s bracing for impact.

The silence gets tighter.

Scully opens his mouth.

Amy doesn’t even look at him. Just shakes her head, once.

Scully closes it.

Rosa walks to her desk. Drops her keys with a thud — sharp, metallic, deliberate.

And then, as if he’s been lying in wait since 7 a.m., Boyle appears with a tray of misshapen muffins. His eyes are wide with emotion. He’s vibrating.

“They’re trauma muffins,” he announces proudly. “Made with flax… and love.”

There is an actual heart drawn in raspberry glaze on the top of each one.

Rosa stares at him.

Then at the muffins.

Then back at him.

“Are you trying to poison me?” she asks, completely deadpan.

Boyle stutters. “No! I—no! I just wanted to say…” He clutches the tray a little tighter. “I’m sorry. For not noticing. For not… asking. For assuming you were okay because you weren’t crying on my shoulder like Jake was. Not that he cried on my shoulder. Much. It was more like a brolean—weeping—thing—”

“Stop talking,” Rosa says flatly.

Boyle immediately places the tray on her desk and backs away slowly, like she’s a grizzly bear and he’s just made unfortunate eye contact with her cub.

“Trauma muffins,” she mutters. “Jesus.”

Jake appears next. He’s holding a potted plant with both hands, like it’s going to break if he moves too fast.

Rosa narrows her eyes. “What… is that?”

“It’s an olive tree,” Jake says, voice high with nervous energy. “Like, you know, an olive branch. But cooler. Symbolic. And like, still alive. Unlike my dignity.”

Rosa gives him a long, dead-eyed stare.

Jake shifts his weight. “I suck.”

“You do,” Rosa says, arms crossed.

“I thought if you weren’t saying anything, it meant nothing happened. Which is… incredibly stupid.”

“Correct.”

Jake exhales hard. “I’m sorry, Rosa. For the prank. For the assumption. For… everything. I thought being quiet meant being okay, but that’s not true, and it was selfish of me not to ask. You didn’t owe me anything, and I should’ve known better.”

He gestures limply with the plant. “I’d let you punch me in the face, but Holt said that was performative.”

From his office, Holt calls out, “It is.”

Rosa sighs. The kind of sigh that comes with years of knowing someone and being too tired to be properly mad.

Jake looks at her for a long moment. “You don’t have to forgive me. I just wanted you to know that I see it now. I see you. Not just the scary leather-clad version. The real one. And I’m sorry I didn’t before.”

The room holds still.

Even Hitchcock seems tense.

Rosa blinks slowly.

Then: “Put the tree on Terry’s desk. I don’t do plant metaphors.”

Jake breaks into a crooked little smile. “You got it.”

He gives her a mock salute, backs away with reverence, and nearly trips over a trash can.

She almost smiles.

Almost.

⸻

In the briefing room, twenty minutes later, the squad sits fidgeting.

Terry’s trying not to look like he’s staring. Scully is half-asleep. Jake keeps glancing between Holt and Rosa like he’s waiting for someone to explode.

Holt clears his throat.

“Before we begin today’s briefing, Detective Diaz has something she’d like to say.”

Rosa stands.

She doesn’t have notes. She doesn’t clear her throat. She doesn’t pace.

She just breathes.

And speaks.

“I’m going to keep this short,” she says, voice low, steady.

“I know what happened yesterday wasn’t easy to watch. I know it was probably confusing. Or uncomfortable. Or — whatever else you felt.”

A pause.

“I was assaulted in prison.”

There’s no drama in her voice. Just fact. Quiet and brutal.

Terry’s expression shifts. Boyle’s eyes well. Jake goes still.

“I didn’t talk about it when I came back,” Rosa continues, “because I didn’t know how. And because it’s easier to pretend — to smirk, to deflect, to make people think you’re fine — than it is to deal with the look they give you when they realize you’re not.”

She scans the room. Her eyes meet Amy’s for just a second.

“I’m not broken,” she says. “I’m surviving.”

A longer pause now.

“I don’t need muffins. Or metaphors. Or coddling. What I do need is for people to stop equating silence with strength. And toughness with immunity.”

She takes a breath. Her shoulders stay high, squared.

“If you want to support me, ask. Listen. Believe me. Then get out of my way.”

She steps back.

Amy watches her heart pound in her chest — not from nerves, but from relief.

From the reclaiming of something.

Rosa meets her gaze again.

Amy’s whole chest aches with pride.

⸻

“Thank you, Detective,” Holt says. His tone is unreadable, but his eyes say everything.

He turns to the board. “Now, this week’s caseload—”

“Wait,” Boyle blurts, raising his hand.

Everyone turns.

“I just want to say…” He clasps his hands over his heart. “…you’re the coolest, strongest, fiercest person I know. And I promise to never, ever bake with flax again unless legally required.”

Rosa narrows her eyes.

Then says, “Deal.”

Terry adds, voice soft but firm, “We got you, Rosa. For real this time.”

Scully raises his hand. “I’m reading a book about trauma now. It’s about a horse.”

Jake leans over. “He means The Body Keeps the Score.”

“Oh,” Rosa mutters. “God help us.”

But her lips twitch.

Just slightly.

She glances at Amy again. Doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

Amy sees it in her eyes.

Thank you.

⸻

That afternoon, Rosa finds a small folded note on her desk.

It’s on crisp white paper. The handwriting is square, precise.

You spoke clearly and without apology. That is power.
– RH

She folds it once.

Tucks it into her wallet.

Keeps it there.