A Few Months After the Selina Kyle Case – 99th Precinct, Bullpen
Monday mornings at the Nine-Nine always felt like an accidental group therapy session—except with less insight and more bagels. This one was no different.
Jake swaggered in with a coffee in one hand and a half-eaten muffin in the other, narrowly avoiding Scully's attempt to snag it mid-air. "Back off, old man. This is a banana-nut fortress, and your cholesterol doesn't live here."
Scully blinked. "I just wanted the wrapper."
Across the room, Rosa leaned against the filing cabinet, scrolling through her phone while Boyle excitedly recounted the complex flavor profile of a Korean BBQ dumpling he'd just discovered.
"You ever just eat food, Boyle?" Rosa asked, deadpan. "Like, without narrating it?"
"Food deserves to be understood," Boyle said solemnly.
Terry walked out of his office, holding a clipboard and wearing the expression of a man who regretted all of his life choices that led him to this moment. "Morning, everyone. Team assignments are up. We're light on active cases this week, so use the time to close out your backlogs."
Amy perked up. "Finally! My paperwork folder is almost down to color-coded subcategories. I can feel the symmetry."
Jake winced. "Symmetry gives me hives."
"You're allergic to effort," she shot back.
Ezra entered from the hallway without ceremony. No trench coat today—just a black button-down and gray slacks. He looked well-rested, if unreadable.
"Ezra," Terry said, nodding. "You're leading the Martinez case follow-up. Shouldn't be more than a few interviews."
Ezra nodded silently and grabbed the file from the corner of the table.
Jake sidled up beside him. "So, what's it like not chasing emotionally charged burglars across rooftops? Peaceful? Soul-crushing?"
Ezra gave a dry look. "Quieter."
"Ah, yes. The sweet sound of unresolved emotional tension."
Amy passed by and gave Jake a look. "Did you just describe Ezra's entire aura?"
Ezra, deadpan: "That, or jazz."
The bullpen settled into a rhythm. Rosa partnered with Boyle—against her will—for a double-check on a cold case. Amy took over an outreach program presentation. Jake tried to wrangle Gina into a bet about how many times Scully would fall asleep before noon (answer: two and a half). Terry fielded calls and muttered about budget cuts.
12:30 p.m. – 99th Precinct, Breakroom
Jake sat on the counter, legs swinging as he ate chips out of a bowl clearly marked "Property of Gina."
"You're stealing from Gina," Amy warned.
Jake shrugged. "She once ate a muffin I'd been saving for four weeks. This is karma. Delicious, salty karma."
Ezra entered, holding a folder.
"Hey," Jake said. "You ever think about, like… life?"
Amy narrowed her eyes. "He's about to say something dumb. I can feel it."
Jake ignored her. "I mean, like, it's weird, right? One minute we're chasing down purse snatchers, the next we're decoding rooftop riddles written by some high-class burglar with a flair for drama. It's like the universe suddenly remembered we needed plot twists."
Ezra blinked. "Are you having an existential crisis over chips?"
"Probably," Jake replied. "You wanna talk about it?"
"No."
"Cool, cool. Classic Ezra. Emotionally stoic with a dark trench of mystery underneath."
Ezra put the folder down. "Martinez is lying. His alibi has a 15-minute window between traffic cameras. I need surveillance pulled from the bodega across Lexington."
Jake stood up. "You had me at 'alibi hole.' I'll drive."
Amy smirked as they left. "Aw. Look at you two. Growing. Bonding. Sharing emotionally stunted traits."
Jake called over his shoulder, "You're just jealous you don't have a brooding crime wizard as a friend."
4:45 p.m. – 99th Precinct, Bullpen
Terry rubbed his eyes, reviewing files while the bullpen dimmed into the late-afternoon lull.
The squad was winding down, chatting, typing, filing. Ezra returned from the Martinez follow-up, dropping the confirmed report on Terry's desk.
"He cracked?" Terry asked.
Ezra nodded. "Slipped on timeline. Surveillance caught him ditching gloves near the alley trash bin. Prints matched a prior from '07."
"Nice work."
Ezra didn't smile, but the quiet satisfaction in his posture said enough.
Jake looked up from his desk. "So. What now?"
Ezra shrugged slightly. "Wait for the next case."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "You know there's rumors, right?"
Ezra looked up.
"About a new captain," Jake said. "Big changes. Someone's coming in to shake things up."
Ezra's voice was quiet. "Let them."
The bullpen buzzed around them—Boyle fussing with snacks, Rosa sharpening a knife (because of course), Amy color-coding the case board. Nothing monumental had happened.
Yet the undercurrent had shifted.
The calm wouldn't last.
But for now, for one more week, the Nine-Nine was whole.
6:15 p.m. – Outside the 99th Precinct
The sun hung low, staining Brooklyn in gold. Ezra stood on the steps of the precinct, sipping lukewarm coffee from a paper cup, watching the world move without urgency. He rarely lingered after hours. But lately, he found himself pausing more—less like a habit, more like instinct.
"Staring wistfully into the sunset?" Rosa asked, appearing beside him like a ghost with a leather jacket.
"Staring," he said. "Not wistfully."
She lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, then exhaled without breaking eye contact. "You miss the noise."
Ezra didn't answer, but she nodded anyway. "Thought so."
Behind them, the precinct's door swung open and Jake stepped out, one hand adjusting his jacket, the other carrying what looked suspiciously like a bag of half-stolen vending machine snacks.
"There you are," Jake said. "Terry was about to go full Dad Mode on you."
"I was off duty," Ezra replied.
"Yeah, well, you also left your evaluation forms on your desk, which Amy found, which led to a fifteen-minute speech about the sanctity of procedural paperwork and the tragedy of smudged highlighter lines."
Ezra sipped his coffee. "Sounds like a personal journey."
Jake fell in beside them, squinting toward the street. "You think things'll be different with the new captain?"
Rosa shrugged. "Depends who it is."
"I'm betting they'll either be terrifying, mildly eccentric, or both," Jake said. "Like a shark with reading glasses."
Ezra gave a soft huff—barely a laugh, but close enough that Rosa tilted her head. "Wow. Did you just chuckle?"
"It was the coffee."
Jake grinned. "Nope. That was a laugh. You're softening, Kael. Soon you'll be joining us for trivia nights and letting Boyle hug you."
"Unlikely."
"Not even for themed trivia? Next week is 'Die Hard or Dickens?'"
Ezra paused. "…I'm listening."
The three of them stood there for a while, letting the quiet settle. The kind of quiet that only came between storms. Ezra felt it in his bones. Something was ending. Or maybe beginning.
A beat later, Terry opened the door.
"There's pizza in the breakroom if anyone's still here."
Jake lit up. "Bless you, muscle dad."
Rosa flicked her cigarette. "You buying, Jeffords?"
Terry gave her a look. "It's leftover. From a meeting. I'm not a billionaire."
Ezra lingered a moment longer on the steps, letting the voices fade inside. A pigeon fluttered down to the curb. A siren howled faintly in the distance. Brooklyn breathed.
The calm wouldn't last.
But for now, it would do.
7:45 a.m. – 99th Precinct, Bullpen
Morning light poured into the precinct, bouncing off desk clutter and half-empty coffee cups. Ezra stood by the copy machine, casually dodging the paper jam it had become famous for.
"You're charming the printer now?" Amy asked as she passed, raising a brow.
"It responds better to finesse than force," Ezra replied, smoothly clearing the jam and handing her the printed page without missing a beat.
Jake slid into the bullpen holding two coffees and a paper bag. "Okay, people! I have arrived. And I brought sustenance. Amy, your latte with exactly one pump of sugar-fascism. Ezra, a cortado with the kind of espresso shot that says, 'I brood, but make it functional.'"
Ezra accepted the drink with a nod. "Appreciated."
Jake squinted. "That's it? No witty comeback? No smoldering mystery line?"
Ezra took a sip. "I reserve those for high-value targets."
"Aw, man. He just negged me with elegance. That's advanced level."
Terry poked his head out of his office. "Heads up, squad. Big news coming soon. New captain's arriving by the end of the week. Could be as early as Friday."
Amy perked up like a Meerkat with a label maker. "Do we know who it is?"
"Nope. But word is, they've got a reputation. Discipline. Order. Clean desks."
Rosa groaned. "Sounds like hell."
Jake leaned back in his chair. "Or a reboot. Maybe this captain's the Die Hard of captains. Rough around the edges, hates shoes, but ultimately a hero."
Amy gave him a look. "You're confusing reality with your fan fiction again."
Jake whispered to himself, "That fan fiction won an award."
Terry cleared his throat. "I want everyone on their best behavior. No weird bets, no Jimmy Jab sequels, no explosions—intentional or otherwise."
Jake raised his hand. "What if the explosion is emotional? Like a heart blooming with new friendship?"
"Still no."
As Terry walked back into his office, the bullpen buzzed with speculation. Rosa texted someone under the desk. Boyle whispered to Gina, who whispered back louder. Amy started reorganizing her files with the intensity of a bomb defuser.
Ezra sat at his desk, quietly sipping the cortado Jake had brought. He watched them all—Jake's antics, Amy's precision, Rosa's silence, Boyle's oddball loyalty. A strange peace hung in the air.
For now.
The winds were changing.
And Ezra Kael, behind his easy charm and unreadable gaze, was already preparing to meet the storm.