End Racism in the OTW | Farm-to-Table, Non-GMO, Responsibly Sourced
by imp

End Racism in the OTW | Farm-to-Table, Non-GMO, Responsibly Sourced

imp

Summary

What's the best way to catch some radical socialist maple syrup thieves? Go undercover as a couple with a twee Brooklyn store, of course.

Notes

None

Chapter One

"Maple syrup heist," Rosa said flatly.

"Wow," Jake said. "Shouldn't the Vermont PD be taking that, though?"

"The Burlington police are busy," Holt said, "and while they have a dedicated task force, we have reason to believe the thieves have fled to Brooklyn."

"There are a lot of artisan bottling companies these days," Terry said. "And some not so artisan. The bean-to-bar chocolate business -"

Holt held up a hand. "As informative as this promises to be, time is of the essence. The syrup won't stay good without processing for longer than a few weeks."

"So we've got a felony and some major mold potential? What a sticky situation." Jake turned to Amy for a high-five.

She gave it, of course. She wasn't made of stone. Holt's glare felt like the hammer of disapproval, her own private nickname for her sixth grade English teacher's "A-" rubber stamp. "Sorry, sir."

"Santiago, Diaz, you'll be going undercover to recover the stolen goods."

Undercover! "Of course! Happy to do it. Are we sisters who own a bakery? Potential buyers? Members of the Mafia?"

"You'd never pass as a member of the Mafia," said Rosa. Who definitely would. Not that Amy tended to notice, obviously. But Rosa practically advertised "I will totally kill you", so who wouldn't notice on occasion?

"You'll be a couple," Holt said. "Owners of an olive oil and artisan syrup shop called Sweet Dreams."

"A couple?" Amy slammed her teeth together. "I mean - of course, sir."

"Fine. Whatever." Rosa barely even glanced at her, which frankly, was insulting. "Any suspects?"

"You'll receive a briefing this afternoon. Gina's preparing it."

"Uh, sir," Gina said, "I'm still working on prep, actually. The Sopranos is a long show."

He'd really gotten used to them, Amy thought. He didn't even glance at Gina. "Dismissed!"

Amy's caseload was at a good stopping point, which she supposed was part of why the Captain had chosen her as one half of the infiltration duo - along with, she could only assume, her excellent recall memory and quick thinking on her feet. And, of course, her dedication to the cause. If she had to pretend to be a gay, olive oil and artisan syrup loving entrepreneur - well, she could do that. She started by sitting down at her desk and Googling "olive oil syrup Brooklyn".

"Three hundred ninety-nine thousand results?" she said in disbelief.

"Mmm, it's a saturated market." Charles cocked his hip against her desk.

"Please don't," she said.

He straightened, but he said, "Terry may have his ear to the ground with the paleo-locavore movement, but I keep track of all food trends in New York. You and Hyacinth are going to have trouble differentiating yourselves from the artisan-oil-loving masses."

"Hyacinth?"

"Rosa's alter ego. You're Gertrude."

Amy groaned. "Why can't I just be Amy, different last name?"

"Verisimilitude, and Gina's taking a creative writing class." Charles smiled. "If you want to make sure you sound like an expert when hawking your wares, let me know."

"You know I will," Amy hissed.

Charles pointed to his eyes, then pointed to Amy's. "I've got you."

-

"No," Rosa said two hours later.

"You object to this plan?" Captain Holt said.

"Sir, there's no reason we can't be friends. Or sisters. Why do we have to pretend to be -"

Apparently she couldn't even get the word out. "Married?" Amy said. "I'm sure the Captain has a great reason. And I'm ready to immerse myself in whatever tricky subculture will solve the case."

"Are you saying being gay is a 'tricky subculture', Santiago?"

"No, sir! I don't - I mean, that is -"

"Relax," Gina said from her spot in the corner. "Look, guys, I said you could be sisters, too. Easy peasy, right? Amy already looks like the victim of some serious girl-on-girl bullying."

"Hey!"

"But, then we got the crime scene details."

"This was a heist committed by the LALFFFCAROA." Holt leaned forward. "That is, the Lesbian Advocacy League For Freedom From Capitalism And Redistribution Of Assets."

"That's a horrible acronym," Rosa said.

"It was decided via committee. Our informant tells us the group almost broke up over inclusion versus exclusion of articles."

Amy frowned. "Excluding articles is the standard -"

"Santiago."

"Sorry, sir."

"As I was saying. This group has taken credit for the crime. Part of their mission statement is redistribution of assets to the LGBT community. In this case, syrup."

"How is that helping the cause?" Amy said. "I mean, obviously it's important, but - syrup, sir?"

"A high-value commodity," Holt said. "Also, there was a vote."

"So we have to be gay. Fine. I don't care. I assume they'll approach us to sell?"

"That's what we're hoping," Captain Holt said. "But this will likely be a two-week assignment, minimum. If either of you is made uncomfortable by this arrangement, please, say so immediately. Peralta and Boyle have agreed to step in if you two would prefer not to."

"It's no one's business who I'm married to," Rosa said. "Or having sex with in a basement fight club three times a week."

Amy could feel her eyes bugging out.

"Santiago?" Captain Holt said.

"I'm fine," she said, too quickly. "I mean - it's different, sir. But it's a case I'm happy to take on. And honored to be chosen."

"In that case, let's get to the particulars," Captain Holt said.

Three hours later, her head was spinning. Being a small business owner in Brooklyn was intense. Plus, they'd had to memorize all thirty names and bios of the top members of the LALFFFCAROA. "Why are there thirty?" Amy had said at one point, to which Gina replied, "Lesbians hate leadership and love flat organizational charts. Again."

Which, really, had probably been kind of homophobic, right? Amy, or Gertrude, would totally object. If she wasn't busy selling her olive oil at complicated markups and trying to make rent every month on the apartment above the store, at least. Amy's uncle was a CPA with his own firm, and even his accounting wasn't this complicated.

It helped, though, to have Rosa prepping with her, in the sense that every time Rosa remembered a name or title better than she did, she got furious and vowed to do better. Over-competitiveness in preparation for a mission was impossible. The goal, Amy knew, was perfection.

"Well," Rosa said the next day, after delivering the ostentatious U-Haul back to the lot, "here we are."

Amy looked around at the shop. Bottles of gleaming oil and syrup, demarcated by signs that Amy was frankly uncertain were clear enough, lined the shelves. Art decorated the walls, flowers and peaceful Mediterranean still lives.

She missed her doilies. But then, Rosa probably missed her knives, or her tasteful-yet-impersonal countertop flourishes.

"I guess the precinct can't guarantee we get customers," Amy said.

"I don't know why we would. Who wants to go to a special store just to buy olive oil?"

The bell over the door tinkled. Amy rushed behind the counter, leaving Rosa on the floor. "Oh my goodness," the woman who'd entered said. "You have virgin first-press Verona gold? This is the best news since the co-op held a referendum on Maggie Gyllenhaal's membership!"

Rosa looked like she wanted to break one of the bottles over the woman's head - or maybe over her own head. Amy couldn't help but agree. But their cover was their cover: Rosa forced a smile and said, "Of course, just over here."

The next eight hours were some of the longest of Amy's entire life. As it turned out, women in Brooklyn who wanted to buy artisan olive oil and/or maple syrup were extremely particular about the provenance of said olive oil and maple syrup, the color of the packaging, the BPA content of said packaging, the fact that BPA wasn't the only thing a mother had to worry about these days, the fact that receipt paper could kill you, and of course, the sugar content of maple syrup. Which Amy told many, many people was pretty high, since it was made of sugar.

"Oh my god," she said as they locked the door at 7:30. "I want...a bath. And to die."

Rosa glanced out the window. "There there," she said, and walked towards Amy.

Amy, to her everlasting embarrassment, almost broke character when Rosa touched her neck. "What -"

"Windows," Rosa said, and leaned in to kiss her.

Amy had kissed people before. Obviously. She'd kissed Trey in eighth grade, and Josh in tenth, and like, at least three people in college. And she'd had sex with one, even, too. All men. Okay, she'd kissed men, but there wasn't that big of a difference, was there?

Aside from the boobs and the hair: no. But Rosa was really good at it, and Amy found herself kissing back.

When Rosa pulled away a few seconds later, Amy's heart was racing and her head was spinning. She licked her lips as Rosa said, "Someone was watching us."

Amy wanted to pull Rosa back to her so badly her fingers itched. She felt like she was on fire. And not even in an STD way. "What?"

"Outside, across the street. Right outside the custom puppet store."

"Speaking of nightmare fuel."

Rosa glared at her. "I don't think we act married enough."

"It's been one day!"

"The dossier says we've been married five years. We should be, I don't know, petting our dog at the same time now. Finishing each other's sentences."

"We own a store together, I don't know what more you want."

"Rapport." Rosa leaned closer. "You can't tell me you think this is how marriage would be for real."

Amy felt her cheeks get hot. "What if I do? I'm not - it's fine, we were busy today, and the store is romantic. We're very convincing."

Rosa kept staring. And staring. Amy found herself wondering what Rosa would do if she just grabbed her and went for it.

"It" being, technically, public indecency, given the glass windows.

"Upstairs," Rosa said, like she'd had the same thought.

Amy had to bite back her first response. Instead, she thought it hard as they walked up together: she was following Rosa because she wanted to, not because Rosa had told her to.

The rented bed was queen sized, with an IKEA headboard and a totally uninteresting pair of white sheets. Amy lay down on the far left-hand side and didn't roll over when Rosa slid into bed. She wasn't giving the silent treatment, exactly. She was just being sensible.

She kind of regretted it when, just as she was starting to feel like she might, maybe, be able to fall asleep, Rosa began to snore.

"Oh, come on," she muttered. But Rosa just let another one rip. It sounded like sixty old men crammed into one attractive, extremely deadly body.

She finally managed to get to sleep after an hour of tuning out the snoring. One night of dreamless sleep later, she jolted awake, almost reaching for her gun - and realizing, much too late, that the arm around her waist wasn't a threat, because it belonged to Rosa.

Her fake wife.

Rosa didn't so much as twitch. She went on snoozing in Amy's ear. And, okay, the snoring had stopped, which was nice - but how had she not known Rosa was a cuddler? She'd flung one leg over Amy's and had buried her face in Amy's neck. Her breath whispered over Amy's ear, and her hair tickled Amy's nose. The blankets were tucked firmly around them both, in a way Amy never did on her own, because what if she needed to get up quickly in the middle of the night? What if there was a fire?

Rosa snuggled closer, pressing her chest against Amy's side, her very thin tank top scraping against Amy's own pajama shirt. Apparently, if there was a fire, Rosa was fine with being on the street in her underwear.

Amy closed her eyes and swallowed against the image that gave her. Rosa being hot was not news. She needed to get over it. This was a job.

Rosa's teeth dug into her neck. "Sophie," she muttered.

"Oh my God!"

Rosa went very, very still. "Shit," she said, and rolled away.

Unfortunately, thanks to the blankets, she couldn't roll very far. They were still more or less pressed together head to toe. "Um," Amy said, and tugged at them.

"This. Did not happen," Rosa said. She freed herself from the blankets and stomped off to the bathroom.

Amy's toes tingled and she wanted, with a fierceness she hardly ever experienced, to go after Rosa. Or just touch herself. God, she wished she could.

Well. She probably could. She put a hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her own fingers and thinking about how close Rosa had been to doing exactly this.

The bathroom door banged open. Amy snatched her hand away from her leg, but Rosa didn't even look at her. "Get dressed. We're opening in an hour."

"I know. I set an alarm."

Rosa looked at her then, a non-expression that Amy couldn't interpret for the life of her. "I'm getting breakfast."

She left before Amy could point out it would be better for their cover if they got breakfast together.

-

When Amy was fifteen, her father had sat her down and told her that if she wanted to date girls, that was fine, but if she tried to hide it, her mama's heart would be broken, so don't do that, understand?

Amy had had an enormous crush on Zack from next door and had been so embarrassed she didn't date anyone until senior year. She'd been the virgin sacrifice at seven slumber parties before junior year, when everyone decided slumber parties were immature. It was a bit of a sore point.

So it hadn't really occurred to her that she'd be interested, until she saw Rosa wrapping long fingers around an olive oil bottle while charming a customer.

Olive oil! Into-girls Amy was a pervert. And anyway, Amy thought, standing at the cash register, Rosa didn't exactly look happy right now. The woman talking to her was wearing a fur coat, despite the fact that the October, climate change-y weather in no way required it, and she was looking down her nose at Rosa like she thought Rosa might be lying to her.

Which, okay, technically speaking Rosa was. But she wasn't lying about the olive oil. It really was rosemary infused, organic, cold-press, extra virgin, GMO-free olive oil from Spain - which, Amy would be happy to tell her, was actually a much more reliable producer than Italy.

The woman finally plucked the bottle from Rosa's hands, then took it over to Amy. "Are you the manager here?"

"Um," Amy said. "We're a partnership, actually. Partners. Legally, and you know, emotionally...legally. Business. Wedding. Sorry, what?"

The woman pursed her lips. "The salesgirl over there is extremely disrespectful."

"Well, she's my wife. I love her. Also, that fur coat is incredibly inappropriate for this kind of weather." Amy held out her hand. "That'll be thirty-five fifty, please."

When the woman left, Spanish olive oil in tow, Rosa came over to the counter and said, "She's totally gonna give us one star on Yelp."

"Whatever. She was really rude to you." When Rosa stared at her, Amy said, "Also, this is a fake business. So who cares?"

"You do."

"I do not!"

"You take undercover too seriously," Rosa said. "I'm gonna go on lunch break."

She was gone before Amy could protest - or try to kiss her for the act. Right. Whatever. Rosa had been the one to kiss her. Amy was still the normal one. She was.

-

The Captain had warned them that the hardest part of this assignment would be establishing a cover for long enough for the LALFFFCAROA to approach them. With sixteen million dollars' worth of maple syrup to sell, they couldn't afford to be incredibly cautious, but they wouldn't show up on day two, either.

So Amy knew they had to wait, of course. She did her best to be patient. But two weeks had passed, they'd sold a ton of olive oil and syrup, and no one had approached them yet.

"Are you sure there are ads out?" she said on their rare day off.

Rosa didn't glance up from the kitchen island, where she sat with her laptop. "Positive. The Captain verified it with us."

"I know, I just -"

"You don't think he can do his job?"

"That's not what I mean!" Amy got up a good glare before realizing Rosa was smirking. "Oh. You're joking."

"Yup," Rosa said. "Anyway. I'm impatient too. But they'll show up eventually."

"This seems like a lot of effort on the nine-nine's part for some syrup thieves."

"Sixteen million dollars is a lot of money."

"How'd they even steal it, anyway?"

Rosa shrugged. "That's Burlington's problem. We just have to find them."

"Come on, you're not even a little curious?"

"Like you are? You love the law and you can't even shoplift without having a panic attack."

"Hey! I stole a box of paperclips once, and I was totally smooth about it."

"That was last year, during the Wuntch Budget Lockdown," Rosa said. "And I know that because I caught you crying over them in the break room."

Amy had no rejoinder to that, and even worse, in her head a tiny little spark went: hey, she noticed! Like Rosa had noticed because of Amy, not just because it was a weird thing to do. "Yeah, well...whatever."

Rosa smiled for a second, then jumped a bit, looking back to her laptop. She cleared her throat. "Anyway. It's obvious. Trucks come in to ship the bottle syrup to stores. The syrup that was stolen was across all grades, a day's shipment. Security at the loading docks is crappy. That's how they got in."

Put that way, it sounded boring. "Well," Amy said. "That's...fine, I guess."

"Are you seriously disappointed!"

Yes. "No!"

Rosa snorted. "I should tell the Captain you're siding with them."

"Don't you dare," Amy hissed, suddenly ready to murder Rosa.

Then, of course, Rosa looked at her, and the rage faded, and she remembered that Rosa could kill her with one of the many knives she undoubtedly kept on her person at all times. Right. "I mean, I'm not siding with them. Theft is wrong. Obviously."

"Right." Rosa had moved on to looking constipated, which Amy supposed was only fair. "I'm hungry."

"We have leftovers?"

"That soup is going to stay a leftover," Rosa said. "You know the Sweet Pig?"

"That cupcake/pulled pork place? Doesn't seem like your thing."

"It's not." Rosa closed her laptop. "And if you ever tell anyone I took us there, I will gut you." Without even glancing out the glass windows, she leaned in and kissed Amy, warm and firm, sending jagged sensation down Amy's back.

Then she grabbed Amy's hand and tugged. "Come on."

Amy went. Right then, she'd have probably followed Rosa off a cliff. It wasn't until they were sitting down at their table, each with a very tall cupcake and an even taller sandwich, that she realized how awkward everything was.

Autopilot kicked in. "So, seen any good, uh, movies lately?"

"No. We've been working."

She couldn't have been clearer if she'd actually told Amy this wasn't a date. And she was, of course, very correct. It wasn't a date; Amy would, in fact, have noticed if Rosa had slipped out for some solitary movie time.

So the tiny stab of hurt Amy felt was totally illogical, and should go away as soon as possible. Right.

She'd made it halfway through her Bacon Bourbon Biscuit Cupcake when the woman approached their table. "Hey, ladies. Mind if I pull up a chair?"

"Yes," Rosa said.

The woman smiled. She wore a rough pair of jeans and a bomber jacket. She looked, Amy realized, more than a little like Rosa. Only her hair was short, and she was white.

She couldn't have been more from-Vermont if she tried. This was it.

"Sorry, we were just on a date." Amy reached across the table and put her hand over Rosa's. "First time out since we opened our shop. Do you live around here? We're just around the corner."

Rosa flipped her hand and squeezed Amy's fingers, effectively cutting her off. Whatever, Amy wasn't going to keep talking. She could keep her cool.

"Oh, no, I'm just visiting," the woman said. "But you two own that olive oil shop, right?"

"Olive oil and maple syrup," Rosa said. "Both artisan products."

"Right on, right on." The woman nodded. "How's that working out for you? Reliable suppliers?"

"Don't tell her," Rosa said, still glaring suspiciously at the woman.

Good cop, bad cop. Right. "Sorry," Amy said, with as treacly a smile as she could manage. "We've been so successful, but my partner gets, you know, protective."

"Sure, I get that," the woman said. "You're oversold, huh?"

Amy gasped. "How did you -"

"I've got connections." The woman quirked an eyebrow. "Including connections to some pretty choice maple syrup."

"We're only selling Wisconsin grade A from small producers," Rosa said.

"And that's commendable. But grade B, that's really coming up in the food world. Alton Brown uses it for his homemade maple candy. And Wisconsin? Pshaw. East coast solidarity. The stuff I've got is fresh from Vermont."

"Oh, wow," Amy said. "Getting licensed to distribute here must've been a big deal for you."

"Hah...yeah," the woman said. But her smile didn't budge. She really was used to doing this, Amy thought; they'd gotten their perps, almost guaranteed.

"I don't know if we're ready to do business with a new supplier right away," Amy said. "I mean, you seem to know your stuff, but before we opened, we traveled to Wisconsin, met with farmers, artisans..."

"How about I make you a deal? I'll deliver a sample to your place, and a contract. All totally above-board. I'm confident the product is good enough to turn your head; I don't need any other guarantees in place."

Because delivering syrup to their store absent a license or production information wasn't sketchy at all. "Sounds great to me," Amy said. "Honey?"

"Can't wait," Rosa said.

"All right. Fuck yeah." The woman raised a fist. Amy did her best to strangle any judgmental faces and fistbumped her. "Tomorrow at two?"

"Tomorrow at two."

"I know where to find you." She winked and left.

"Well." Amy felt pleased as punch, like the time she'd gotten 115 on her civics final in high school. "I think that went well."

"She was flirting with you."

Amy almost said something stupid, like 'why would a criminal flirt with me?', before she realized Rosa was just keeping the cover. They weren't in a super public place, but someone might still be listening. "Oh, sweetie." She took Rosa's hand. "You know you're always going to be my number one."

"That's a cheesy line," Rosa said, but the line of her mouth softened a bit. Score, Amy thought.

She felt even more smug when she kissed Rosa's knuckles and Rosa actually blushed before snatching her hand away. Who was the expert at undercover now?

They spent the rest of the day prepping. The store was officially closed, but Amy swept it for bugs anyway - and then swept it for real, because ugh, people tracked in so much stuff even though they had a sign saying to wipe their feet on your way in.

They went upstairs early. Packing, of course, would have to wait; their aliases would have no reason to have suitcases out. Rosa had already texted the Captain to let him know they'd need backup tomorrow. Everything might change then - probably would change, Amy thought. But right now...

Right now, they just had their small apartment, and nothing particularly pressing to do.

"Stop being maudlin," Rosa said, coming out of the kitchen with two beers.

"I'm not. I'm just thinking."

Rosa pointed at Amy with the beer. "You'll get to go home after this. With your quilts."

"I know." And she did miss them. But... "Don't you just, I don't know, don't you ever think about what things might be like if you weren't a cop?"

Rosa stared at her for a long, profoundly embarrassing moment. Then she took a swig of beer, which Amy took to be a no.

"Right," Amy said, and turned HGTV on.

Two beers later, Rosa said, "I wanted to be an artist for awhile."

Amy just barely managed not to drop her drink. Fighting for casualness, she said, "Oh?"

"Being a cop's a good second, though. I'll have a pension this way."

Amy wasn't going to be deflected so easily. "What kind of artist?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does." The beer made her brave: she turned to face Rosa, looking her in the eye. "Come on, tell me. Please?"

Rosa sighed and rolled her eyes. "I did ballet and sculpture growing up. So, sculpture. And no, I don't have anything you can see. It was a stupid idea." She took another long drink of beer.

Amy should have stopped there, but impulse had taken over, and she leaned in as she said, "It's not stupid! You should get to do what you want!"

"I am," Rosa said. "It's not -"

Amy made a very bad choice: she leaned in and kissed Rosa.

Rosa, having lightning-quick reflexes and no tendency to hesitate, pulled back immediately. "Where are they," she breathed, staring deeply into Amy's eyes in a way Amy would've called romantic if she didn't know better.

"Who?"

"Whoever's watching us." Rosa smiled - a genuine-looking one, that made Amy shiver down to her toes - and touched Amy's face, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. "Give me an angle."

But of course she couldn't. Amy shook her head and leaned back in. To her shock, Rosa let her.

It wasn't, exactly, good kissing. They were both drunk, and Amy's heart kept distracting her with its horrible, insistent pounding. But it felt so good, heady and weirdly important, as Rosa pressed into Amy's space and scraped nails over her neck, pushed a leg between hers and groaned when Amy arched her back and pressed their hips together.

When Rosa unbuttoned Amy's jeans, Amy felt like she stood on the precipice of something huge. She'd never been good at this moment, the we're-doing-this moment. She had, in fact, totally panicked at it before. She'd prefer a gentle easing into things, maybe with some kind of contract, or at least a bullet pointed list of guidelines.

She'd always hidden it in the past, but Rosa must've noticed, because she said, "I don't care if you're weird."

Somehow, that was enough. Amy nodded and fumbled with her pants, pushing them down, shaking with the feel of it when Rosa pressed her fingers against Amy's underwear. And then those were gone too, and God, Rosa was so good at this, stroking and pressing, fucking, making it build and build and -

She came, gasping, feeling herself flutter around Rosa's fingers, clinging to Rosa's shoulders. Rosa kissed her, pushing her own jeans down, pulling Amy's hand in so she could practically ride it. It shouldn't have been hot, it probably was actually ridiculous, but here, now, Amy couldn't stop watching. When it finally occurred to her to curl her fingers, she did it, slipping inside Rosa's underwear, pressing fingers into her as Rosa rubbed herself.

Rosa. She was beautiful, Amy thought, scary and wonderful as she came against Amy's hand.

Fortunately, they were both too drunk to make it awkward right away. They stumbled into bed and fell asleep together, after Amy sought more than one kiss.

Sometime in the night, Rosa moved away. When Amy woke up with a headache and more than a little embarrassment, Rosa was already downstairs. As if by mutual agreement, they didn't talk about it at all.

This group of criminals was apparently punctual: at exactly 2PM, after Amy had ushered out confused customers, the woman from yesterday showed up with two other similarly dressed women.

"Hey, guys," she said. "I realized I never gave you my name. It's Oak. Funny, right?"

Funny and very, very fake. "Oh, sure," Amy said, faking a smile. "Ha ha. So, um, you said you'd be bringing a sample?"

"Sure," Oak said. "Think fast." She tossed Rosa a bottle.

"Watch it!" Rosa snapped - but she caught it perfectly. "The floors!"

"You've got a mop," Oak said. "Sorry, though."

She didn't sound sorry. In fact, Amy thought, she sounded...off. Edgier.

But a shopkeeper probably wouldn't notice. "What do you think, honey - uh, bear?" She turned to Rosa. "Does it meet our standards?"

"Sure does," Rosa said. "With one exception." She capped the bottle. "We label everything with origin and tap date. It's a particular pride of ours."

"That's a tall order for a shop that's been open just a couple weeks," Oak said.

Rosa's expression didn't budge. "I don't compromise on my dreams."

"Soooo," Amy said. "Let me taste it, huh?"

Rosa shook her head. "I'm thinking you guys don't want to tell us, because you know that heist in Vermont has been all over the trade news. And we're experts. Am I right?"

Amy wasn't the only one who sharply inhaled.

"I'm thinking," Rosa said, "that this bottle isn't just Grade B Vermont syrup of indeterminate origin. I'm thinking it's evidence."

And then all hell broke loose.

It wasn't Oak, or whoever she was, who pulled the gun. That was one of the others, white, tall and even more badass-looking than Rosa. Amy pulled her own gun out, and Rosa yelled, "Freeze! You are under arrest for -"

"Backup!" Peralta yelled, kicking their front door in. "Backup's here!"

The thief aimed at Rosa and made to fire. Amy didn't think - couldn't think. She yelled, maybe. She definitely jumped.

Searing pain hit her shoulder, then her temple. Shots rang out. Peralta yelled, "Get down, get down!"

Amy blacked out.

-

She knew she was in the hospital before she opened her eyes. There were machines beeping, and weird smells. She said, "Ugh," and then opened her eyes.

Her uncle sat in the chair next to the bed. It hadn't occurred to Amy to hope to see Rosa there until her stomach swooped in disappointment.

And then it swooped again, in shame. "Uncle Jimmy."

"You gave us quite the scare, kiddo," he said. "What were you doing, jumping in front of those bullets? Diaz told me she had a vest on."

"So did I." She tried to sit up, and failed; her shoulder felt like it was on fire.

"Not tight enough, you didn't." He shook his head. "At least you'll get the medical deductions."

She half-laughed at that. "Like I can think about that now."

"Admit it, it cheers you up a little."

It totally did. "Maybe a bit."

"There you go." He patted her non-shot shoulder.

"...told you, I'm her wife. And a cop. Let me in!"

"Ma'am -"

"We're done here." The door opened, and Rosa - of course it was Rosa - strode through.

"Miss Santiago," said the nurse following her, "is this -"

"It's fine," Amy said quickly. She held her hand out to Rosa. "Sweetie. Thanks for coming."

"You know, I think I'm done here," her uncle said.

"Uncle Jimmy!"

"Ah-ah, no, you're on your own. I've got an audit to help with." He looked at Rosa. "You take care of her."

Rosa, Amy realized with a sinking stomach, was definitely the type of person to think she could take Uncle Jimmy in a fight.

"Sure," Rosa said, her tone of voice a challenge all on its own.

But Uncle Jimmy just left, shutting the door behind him, leaving Amy holding Rosa's hand.

She let go immediately, of course. "Thanks for coming." Ugh, her voice came out all weird, needy and soft.

If Rosa noticed, she didn't give any indication. "Sure," she said, sitting in the newly empty chair. "I'm...sorry."

Amy blinked. "About what? Lying to the nurse?"

"No."

"That's not really responsible, but I mean, I forgive you - oh."

"Not responsible? Who cares? You got shot for me, they should've let me in."

"What if you'd been lying?"

"What if I'd been telling the truth?"

It was probably, Amy thought, just the drugs. No, it was definitely just the drugs. The drugs were what made her picture it for a second: Rosa as her wife, sharing an apartment. Kissing. Sharing a bed, for real this time.

God, it was a nice thought. She shoved it away. "Well," Amy said. "Anyway. You don't have to be sorry."

"We could've handled that op better."

Amy didn't know what to say. She wasn't the person who could just shrug and say "it happens". "We'll be better next time," she said finally.

Rosa nodded. "But. Still." She reached out, touching Amy's shoulder before drawing back and making a face. "I want more. With you. That's what I'm apologizing over. Because it's personal."

A firework went off in Amy's stomach. Metaphorically. Physically, it felt a little like she was going to barf. "Oh."

Rosa's face contorted still further. "I should go."

"Wait!" Amy grabbed her hand. "I'm on painkillers, I just - I want - ow ow ow ow ow."

And then they were kissing, because Amy had hauled herself upright and tangled a hand in Rosa's hair to make it happen. They kissed, and kissed, and it was even better than when they'd been drunk, even if it wouldn't go as far this time.

"Ahem," said the Captain from the doorway.

Amy leaped away from Rosa, slamming against the bed. "Ow! Mother - son of - ah, Captain. Hello."

"Santiago. Diaz."

"Sir," Diaz said.

"I'm overjoyed for you both," Holt said, utterly impassive. "Santiago, I wanted to let you know in person that you'll be receiving a commendation for your work on this case. I put a word in for you myself."

The Captain said nice things about her. To other people. The Captain endorsed her. The Captain put his trust in her to represent the best his precinct had to offer.

"You probably should've waited till she was off the Vicodin," Rosa said.

Amy fainted dead away.

-

When she got her commendation, her brothers humiliated her by yelling so loudly they were almost asked to leave, and she tripped over her feet on the way down the stage, and then Rosa humiliated her by dipping her in an expressionless, extremely public kiss on the way back down the stage.

It was the best day of her career. So far.