Disclaimer: Brooklyn Nine-Nine is an American crime comedy created by Dan Goor and Michael Schur, and is produced by them along with David Miner, Phil Lord, and Chris Miller. It is a Fremulon and Dr. Goor production, and airs on FOX. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. The author of this fan fiction, does not, in any way, profit monetarily from the story.

This was Amy's idea, of course. This is absolutely the last place in the world Rosa would go to celebrate bagging the infamous Yarmulke Subway Streaker (Don't ask. It's exactly what it sounds like). For real, Rosa likes stuck-up, hipster cafés filled with people who wear their hair ironically (cue parted afros and handlebar moustaches) about as much as she likes those stupid Starbucks Drake Hands parody videos that keep showing up on her Facebook newsfeed ever since her kid cousin, Melissa, taught their grandmother how to post and "tag" videos. Which reminds her: she has to kill Melissa.

"So, long story short," Amy says, except that this story is sooo not short, "I went into the Captain's office—you know, totally cool and everything—just to check if he had already gotten a piece of birthday cake from the break room..."

If Rosa'd had her way, they'd be back at her place right now, sharing a carton of Red Bulls and watching 80s slasher films until their sides hurt—'cuz those things are hilarious. Even better, she thinks Amy might actually think they're scary.

"Are we still talking about Captain Holt?" Rosa asks.

"Um, yeah?" Amy replies. "Who else do I call Captain?"

"I dunno," Rosa says shrugging, her lips pouty with disinterest. "Just checking." She tuned out minutes ago but has managed to plug back in just in time to confirm that this conversation is going to feature Amy's favorite two topics: Bitching and Moaning. "Bitching," since apparently Amy is planning to make a career out of licking the bottom of Captain Holt's shoes, and "Moaning" because, well, this:

"And see, no one understands that, when you grow up in a household with seven brothers, you have to learn to fight for a place at the table or you will be completely..."

Rosa's heard variations on that particular complaint about 500...million times, and she should be irritated since, you know, patience and empathy aren't exactly her strong points. There's something, though, about Amy that she finds distracting. For example, the way says "place" like puh-lace. It reminds her of Ricky, the guy she used to date in the eighth grade. He was as Cuban as a ham, Swiss and pickle sandwhich on hard bread, and the school assigned her to help him as a transfer student. She doesn't think he learned any English that year, but they both got a lot more practice in kissing while tucked beneath the east stairwell during lunch. Maybe it was his accent, or the way he laughed like a fucking donkey, but she was so attached to that boy that she actually cried when she found out she had been accepted to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic Academy for the following school year. Then, she was so embarrassed about it that, the next day at school, she just punched him in the neck and walked off. She never saw him again. She never has been good with goodbyes.

"...So after I realized that my birthday cake plan had been thwarted by Scully..."

Then there was Jameel, her boyfriend in the twelfth grade. He was the ultimate gentleman and a professional kiss-up to her mom. His eyes were dark brown and his hair was black, wavy, long and way too beautiful to be on a man. They almost looked more like brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend.

"...That's how I knew I only had five minutes left before Holt would be back from his meeting..."

There was another boy, Ryan, the worst cook ever, but damned if he didn't keep trying. He'd invite her over for something gross, like ham and lima bean soup, and as soon as the bowl would hit the table she'd start making barfing noises and would laugh out loud while he squirmed in his chair. For the life of her she couldn't figure out why he didn't just start ordering Chinese delivery, or even throw her ass out, but he never did. He'd just made a cute, awkward, little puppy dog face and, God, she loved that. It made being mean worth it.

"...and, naturally, because the Universe hates me, I accidentally knocked his Coke Zero all over his desk. To be fair, though, how was I supposed to know that clay thing was even a drinking vessel, much less full of soda?"

Then Rosa thinks of Tony from Poughkeepsie, the guy she met at the Police Academy. So competitive, that one. He was never satisfied with his arrest numbers unless they were higher than everyone else's. She cringes when she thinks about it now, but they actually used to talk about getting married. Well, he did anyway. Sometimes, she would have dreams-slash-nightmares about them getting a small place in the Bronx—spending their nights eating greasy falafel sandwiches off of a food cart and passing their days scraping grey matter off of the New York sidewalks in 100-degree summer heat. In fact, she almost went through with it. Then that night happened, the night that started with her running into an old classmate at Pale's Bar. The same drunken night that ended in the a morning with her lying in a strange bed, wearing nothing but a sheet and sensing the taste of something (someone?) she had long forgotten (had tried to forget) in her mouth.

Lydia. Her name was Lydia. The prettiest, raddest, baddest chick in The American Ballet Academy. Kicking ass en pointe. At the end of the day, their relationship ruined ballet school and her engagement, and honestly (outside of bed) the girl was a bitch. But she had taught Rosa something about herself. Something she was learning again. Something she might be ready to give another chance.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Rosa's eyes come into focus, almost as if she's been asleep, and she sees before her a confused Amy. Amy's leaning back, one eyebrow raised, her curved fingers held up in front of her chest, recoiling, and her face contorted into something that shows mild alarm.

Rosa doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know how to answer because she's just now figuring out what the answer even is. The truth is...

The truth is she has a thing for the raddest and the baddest, the dark and wavy-haired, the competitive and the Cuban. She has a thing for police...women. She has a thing for Amy. She's had a thing for Amy for a while.

She just doesn't know how to tell her. She's not even sure she should. Amy's never said anything about liking girls, and if Rosa learned anything in cop school it was to plead the fifth whenever you might incriminate yourself.

"You like 80s slasher films?' Rosa finally asks, dodging the question.

"Um, no," Amy says. "I'm terrified of them, actually. One time I watched Freddy Krueger over my parents' house and I had to end up sleeping with my dad all night just so I wouldn't have nightmares." She pauses, but then speaks again, leaning forward and whispering. "I was 23 years old."

Rosa files that story away for later. Sounds like the perfect date night.

"Whatever," she says, rising. "I don't care what we do, but we have to get the hell out of here."

"Um, okay," Amy says, slowly rising too.

"I'm starving. How does Ethiopian sound?"

Amy doesn't answer at first, just puts on this cute, awkward little puppy dog face, and Rosa thinks her heart might stop, even though you would never know since her face is balled up like she's just eaten a fistful of bullets.

"Actually," Amy finally says, "I was thinking maybe I could cook something. I've been meaning to try a new recipe that I came up with: tuna and carrot casserole with a graham cracker crust." She grins widely, all her teeth showing. "What do you think?"

Rosa thinks it sounds revolting. Fortunately for Amy, however, she loves bad cooks, too.

"Sounds like a laugh," Rosa says, and maybe she's smiling a little more than she wants to be. "Let's go."