pre-season-three, Jake stays obscenely late at the precinct working on a case, partially because it’s an important case and partially because everything’s a little loud and painful and he doesn’t want to go home and sit alone in his bed.
Amy comes in early the next morning, whether by some strange intuition or chance she’s not quite sure. He’s asleep at his desk, hair a mess, clothes rumpled, papers stuck to his cheek. The bullpen is almost empty; shifts are just changing, and it is so, so early.
So Amy sets down her bag carefully and steps over and shakes him awake, gently, and when he blinks up at her, a little bit disoriented, she grabs a napkin from her desk on impulse and wipes at the sleep drool at the corner of Jake’s mouth. There’s this sleep-honest look of …awe, on his face, brown eyes blinking up at her in the electric lighting of the bullpen, and Amy feels a surge of courage and runs her fingers against his hairline
Jake smiles, lopsided and sleepy, against her hand
“You smell pretty, Santiago.”
Amys hand jumps away and she says, “You need coffee. I’ll make you coffee.”
She calls back from the break room that he should go dig up his spare change of clothes, or catch a shower in the locker room before the others arrive, and makes two cups of coffee, just in case he only (likely) got two hours of sleep and the extra caffeine is necessary
(She does not think about how disconcertingly domestic her words are, but her heart is big and full and warm, and her fingers are tingling with the softness of his curly, mussed up fringe)