[Nine-Nine]
The bullpen buzzed with its usual chaos. Phones rang, papers shuffled, and the faint odor of… something terrible drifted through the air.
Scully sat on his desk with his shoe off, sprinkling white powder onto his bare, blotchy foot. Hitchcock sat nearby, fanning the air with a manila folder.
"Oh God," Terry groaned as he stood up with his nose wrinkling. "What is that smell? It's like old cheese and rotten eggs had a baby."
Scully looked offended. "It's not that bad. It's just my foot powder. The doc says I gotta keep my toes dry."
Gina appeared out of nowhere, phone already up to record. "Correction: the doc didn't say keep your toes dry. He said keep your mold farm from infecting the tri-state area." She zoomed in dramatically. "We're looking at Patient Zero, people. Remember this moment when society collapses."
Scully wiggled his toes proudly. "It's improving. Last week they were green."
Amy pinched her nose. "Why—why are you doing this in the middle of the bullpen? We have interrogation rooms. We have bathrooms. We have literally anywhere else that isn't next to the copier."
Holt's office door opened and he stepped out, his usual composure already strained by the smell. His gaze swept the squad room and landed squarely on Scully's powdery foot. "Scully," Holt said flatly. "You are in violation of at least three health codes, two sections of the NYPD workplace hygiene manual, and one basic law of human decency."
Hitchcock shrugged. "He's airing them out. It's fine. We've shared a locker room for over twenty years. You get used to it."
Terry's eyes bulged. "No one should get used to it! I'm filing a complaint with OSHA. And the EPA. And the CDC if I have to."
Scully just grinned. "Thanks, Sarge. That means a lot."
"That wasn't a compliment. Terry hates that smell. Clean it up, now," Terry said, holding a hand over his nose.
"I'm almost done with the left one. Now, time for the right one," Scully said without a care.
Amy slammed a file onto her desk. "Okay, enough! We're supposed to be detectives, not test subjects in a foot-based chemical experiment. Scully, shoe. On. Now."
Scully sighed like a teenager told to clean his room and reluctantly shoved his foot back into his shoe. A puff of powder burst out like smoke from a cheap fireworks display. Everyone coughed.
...
A few hours later, the bullpen had finally aired out. The faint stink of Scully's foot powder still lingered. Amy gathered her neatly stacked papers, the final case report on Andy Lexington and Roxy Lane, and made her way into Captain Holt's office.
Holt was at his desk, carefully refilling his fountain pen. His expression didn't shift when Amy knocked and entered.
"Captain," she said, setting the file down. "The Emma Watson case is wrapped. Lexington and Lane are both arraigned, and Emma's apartment has security posted for the rest of the month. But… what about the second stalker? The one targeting Emma Stone? We only have a few images and circumstantial links. What's our move?"
Holt placed the pen down precisely beside his blotter. "I anticipated you would ask that, Detective Santiago. Yesterday, I contacted Ms. Stone directly to inform her of the potential threat. I explained the circumstances and offered protective detail."
Amy's brow furrowed. "And?"
"She declined."
Amy blinked. "She refused help? Why?"
Holt's tone was flat but his eyes narrowed a fraction. "Ms. Stone cited concerns that filing a complaint or appearing in police reports would draw negative publicity, particularly with the launch of her upcoming film. She believes that a controversy involving her personal safety might overshadow her professional work."
Amy's voice rose in protest. "But Captain, if someone is targeting her and we wait too long—"
"Detective," Holt interrupted, calm but firm. "Without a formal complaint, we are legally limited. We cannot post surveillance, assign protective units, or investigate beyond the preliminary evidence. At present, we have only blurry images and vague patterns. In short, without her cooperation, our hands are tied."
Amy pressed her lips together, frustration flickering across her face. "So we're just supposed to sit here? Knowing there's a stalker out there?"
Holt leaned back in his chair, his posture severe. "Until Ms. Stone chooses to file a complaint, yes. We are effectively sitting ducks. However, I will not allow this precinct to be caught flat-footed. Continue monitoring the data recovered from Carl's memory card. If you uncover actionable evidence that constitutes probable cause, we will move forward. Until then… patience."
Amy nodded reluctantly, clutching her folder to her chest. "Understood, Captain."
Holt gave a single approving nod. "Good. And Detective Santiago?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell Detective Boyle that if he attempts to organize what he referred to yesterday as a 'celebrity decoy operation,' I will transfer him to traffic duty on Staten Island."
Amy almost smiled, but caught herself. "I'll… pass that along."
She placed the folder on the desk and turned to leave. Out in the bullpen, Boyle was already sketching something on a whiteboard that suspiciously resembled wigs labeled "Operation Double Emma." Amy groaned under her breath.
She knew Holt was right. Without Emma Stone's cooperation and concrete evidence, they couldn't legally act. Not to mention, both stalkers contacted Carl the same way. Though the interrogation was wrapped up and those creeps confessed their crimes, however, they refused to have anything to do with Emma Stone. So, all the suspicion fell on Carl. It was like a loop.
...
[Hospital – Evening]
Jake sat gingerly on the kind of soft pillow that looked like it belonged on an airplane for people with very specific butt injuries. He winced as he shifted, glaring down at the donut-shaped cushion the doctor had given him.
"My butt will never be the same again," he muttered dramatically. "RIP, old friend. You served me well."
The nurse wheeled him into the hallway and left.
Tonight, for the first time since being shot, Jake had been cleared to take his new wheels for a spin. With his discharge still two days away, he was bored out of his mind.
He spun the chair slightly left, then right, pretending it was the Batmobile. "Yes, Commissioner Gordon, I'm on my way. Villains beware. Gotham has… Detective Jake."
He grinned, but then his brain clicked onto something more interesting. He remembered: Ray was also admitted here.
Jake steered toward the reception desk, ready to charm his way into some intel. "Okay, step one: find Ray. Step two: make awkward jokes about how Rosa is definitely writing his name in her diary with little hearts."
But before he got there, he froze. Down the hall, Rosa was just stepping into a private room. His curiosity kicked in immediately.
"Wait, wait, wait. Rosa? Private room? This feels… juicy."
Jake rolled closer, keeping his squeaky wheels as quiet as possible. He parked outside the door just as it clicked shut behind her.
Inside, muffled sounds floated through. Harsh breaths followed by a low groan. The kind of noises Jake's imagination immediately filed under one category.
His eyebrows shot up. "Ohhhh boy. Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Someone's enjoying their stay. Guess hospital recovery comes with… premium benefits." He smirked to himself, leaning conspiratorially toward the door. "Raymond White, you sly dog. From black ops to… bed ops."
Jake chuckled at his own terrible pun, then tilted his head, listening harder. The noises weren't exactly rhythmic. More like… strained, labored, and almost painful.
The grin faltered a little. "Wait. That's… not…?"
He frowned, gripping the wheels of his chair. His detective instincts whispered that something wasn't quite right behind that door.
His mind raced through two extremely different mental images, both of which he immediately regretted. He whispered to himself, "Okay… option one, Rosa is using a strapon on Ray. Which… bold move, respect, but ow. Option two, Ray is going backdoor. Which… also ow. Either way, lots of ow. And I can't un-hear these sounds."
A scarred grin spread across his face. He started to wheel backward, ready to escape before his brain painted any more pictures he didn't need.
That's when he nearly collided with someone standing right behind him.
"Gah!" Jake yelped, almost flipping out of the wheelchair. "Gina! What the hell?!"
Gina stood there with her phone up, recording like she was directing a Netflix documentary. Her voice was flat, calm, and deeply amused. "Historical evidence. The moment Detective Jake Peralta discovered his coworker's… extracurricular activities."
Jake waved frantically at her phone. "Delete it. Right now. Rosa will murder me. Ray will fold me in half like a bad poker hand. I'll be remembered as the guy who died from 'intense suplex-based injuries.'"
Gina tilted her head. "Counterpoint: this footage is priceless. Imagine the clickbait. 'Detective caught spying on hospital lovers: chaos ensues.' My brand would skyrocket."
Jake hissed. "Gina, please! This is life and death. Their combined rage could level the entire hospital wing. Have mercy!"
Gina smirked. "Relax, Peralta. Worst case, Rosa throws you out a window. Best case, she throws you out a higher window."
Before Jake could protest again, Gina casually reached past him and pushed the door open.
Both of them leaned in, bracing themselves for scandal.
Inside…
Rosa stood with her boot braced against a chair, gripping a steel container that looked suspiciously like a lunch box. Her face was red from effort, her arm muscles flexing as she yanked at the lid. Ray sat up in bed, watching with mild amusement.
Rosa growled through her teeth. "This thing… will… not… open!"
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[24 advance chs] [No double billing.]
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