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It wasn't about the Shirley Temple.
Jake was sitting at Shaw's Bar, watching absently as the squad chattered around him. He felt oddly detached from everything, except for the drink in his hands.
It was a Shirley Temple — and, admittedly, a rather shitty one. It hadn't even come with a cherry, which everyone knows is the reason you get a Shirley Temple in the first place. Or because you're a kid and you want to look cool ordering something that sounds like it has alcohol in it.
Somehow, though, it was the best thing Jake had ever tasted in his life; he was only on his first glass, but he was making it last, swirling the ice around absentmindedly with the straw and watching the bubbles rise to the surface.
He slid his finger around the rim of it, the coldness almost making him shiver, and then took a sip. It was still the best thing he had ever tasted, just like how the crappy, worn T-shirt and jeans he was wearing were the most comfortable clothes he'd ever put on, and how the first desperate, uncoordinated kiss with Amy had been the best kiss they'd ever had, and how driving to Shaw's had felt like even more freedom than when Gina had first taught him how to drive at age twelve and they had sped around a parking lot doing donuts until it got dark out.
But it really, really wasn't about the crappy clothes, or about the kiss, or about the wind in his hair from the rolled-down window that was letting in the glorious stench of Brooklyn, just like it wasn't about the Shirley Temple.
On any other day, those things would be mundane. Meaningless.
Well — maybe besides the kiss. And the drink, if it had come with a cherry in it.
But Jake had just gotten out of prison, and he had been there for so long that everything had started to mean so much more.
There were no worn, comfortable, familiar clothes in prison; there were only scratchy, awful jumpsuits that were the color of vomit. There were no kisses with Amy in prison; there was only mashed-potato Amy in solitary whose boobs had melted so many times that Jake had given up and eaten them (Caleb would've been proud). There were no cars to drive, because there was no freedom, and there were no Shirley Temples — there wasn't even a can of cheap soda, unless you wanted something that was practically only Red 40 that made your teeth feel like they were falling out and that was sold in a box because inmates weren’t allowed to have anything sharp, so by the time you drank it, it was basically sugar and cardboard.
So, yeah. It wasn't about the Shirley Temple.
It was about how everything, for the first time, meant everything.
(And at risk of sounding far too American, his cherryless Shirly Temple tasted something like freedom.)
Jake let out a shuddering breath that misted over the glass, leaving a thin sheen of fog, and lifted his head tiredly (he was used to the routine of the prison, and it was about two hours past lights-out); across the bar, he caught the eye of Captain Holt, who he hadn’t even exchanged basic formalities with yet, save for fleeting nods. He glanced towards Amy; she was bombarding Rosa with questions about the women’s prison, likely about ways it could be improved, because that was his Amy.
Satisfied that no one would notice his absence given that Charles had passed out a good while ago and had been dragged into a corner, Jake stood and subtly made his way over to the quieter part of the bar where Holt was sitting in the back.
He sat down wordlessly on the barstool beside the captain, staring down into his drink. He swirled his straw around in it (there were no real straws in prison, only flimsy paper ones), listening to the clink of the ice (there was no ice in prison, only lukewarm tap water) against the glass (there was no glass in prison, only gray brick walls with rows and rows and rows of bars).
“Captain,” Jake acknowledged, after a few moments; he thought he might’ve been trembling. He ignored it. In prison, it had gotten easy to ignore things about himself. “It’s . . . good to see you.”
His words were tentative, unsure; uncertainty, at least, was another thing that was familiar. It reminded him of the prison guards, never knowing if they would pick him to start beating on without consequence; it reminded him of Romero, of never knowing what he knew, if he would decide he was done with him and pull out a knife; it reminded him of the sick, sinking feeling of fear that had made a home for itself in his gut, since the moment he had been ushered through those huge metal doors in cuffs.
Holt seemed to regard him for a long moment, unspeaking, and then he nodded.
“You’ve been missed,” he said in his typical formal fashion (no one was formal in prison, Jake thought; everyone was cruel, and harsh, and wanted you dead, and no one was going to be polite about it, so he supposed this was a nice change), and paused for a moment before reaching to place a hand on Jake’s shoulder.
It was . . . reassuring. That thought, in and of itself, was strange.
No touch was reassuring in prison.
Jake startled a little as he heard his name being called, and realized that Holt had been speaking to him. He cleared his throat; his mouth felt dry. It reminded him of soap bars, and the stench of solitary, and the crushing, debilitating feeling of fear clawing through the gaps of his ribs and coiling around his heart.
“Sorry,” he said automatically, “did you say something?”
(He was going to get in trouble, he thought instinctively. He was showing insubordination. Disrespect. Disobedience. He wasn’t listening. He never listened — it was why his dad had hated him, why he had left, and it was why he had gone to prison and gotten thrown in solitary every other day and —)
“It’s quite alright,” Holt said quietly, and Jake nearly flinched at the kindness in his otherwise monotonous voice, because it was unfamiliar. “I was only asking if you were. Alright, I mean.”
“Why, uh, why wouldn’t I be?” Jake’s throat was closing up. It reminded him of a hard, cruel baton, of a guard’s voice hollering in his ears, of his own blood metallic on his tongue. “I’m cool. Cool cool cool cool cool, no doubt.” He stared down into his drink.
The ice had melted slightly. It was warm in the bar.
It was never warm in prison.
“So — so, uh, so cool. For sure.”
“You have been in prison for months, Peralta,” Holt countered, raising an eyebrow that bordered on either judgment or concern, or maybe both. “That is bound to do numbers on anyone. And as such, I feel I must reiterate: are you alright?”
Jake stared at him rather dumbly, his brain trying to compute with the care and compassion he was being shown, because there was no care or compassion in prison.
He tried to speak, but he choked on his words as a heavy sob threatened to well up in his tightened throat, making him feel almost sick.
“S’ cool,” he managed to get out, and then he folded over his middle and crumpled as Holt stood and pulled him into his arms, allowing Jake to hide himself away in his middle and wrap his arms around him, clinging tightly, feeling like the child he had never been allowed to be.
(There was no good touch in prison. There was no care, no compassion, no kindness.
And there was most certainly not anyone to bring you into their arms and comfort you like a father.)
“I, uh,” Jake choked out, “I missed you, sir.” He shook as he felt Holt’s calloused palm gently holding the back of his neck, his other hand rubbing his shoulder reassuringly. Their positioning was awkward — Jake was hunched over himself and leaning halfway off the barstool and into Holt’s chest as the latter remained standing stiff as a board, looming over him, the gentleness of his hands the only sign of emotion.
Even so, Jake thought distantly that he had never felt so protected — so safe.
(When was the last time he had felt that? Was it bad that he couldn’t remember?
There was no protection or safety in prison.)
“Yes.” Holt’s voice was bordering on something other than monotony. “I felt the same sentiment. Your absence, it — and, please, pardon my emotionality —,”
“Dunno if that’s a word,” Jake mumbled, barely audible, “an’, I’m literally covering your shirt in my tears and snot right now, so you aren’t the one who should be apologizing for whatever word you said.”
“Point taken,” Holt conceded, with a very light chuckle that rumbled against Jake’s cheek — almost soothingly, but not enough to lift the weight that had settled onto his chest and was pressing down on his lungs as the captain continued.
“What I meant to say is that your absence caused us all great grief, myself included. It is very good to have you back with us; I only fear that your habit of repression will cause harm to you in the situation at hand.”
His palm was rubbing soothing, rhythmic circles along Jake’s shoulder. There was nothing soothing, Jake thought, about prison.
“Once more I feel I must ask: are you alright?”
All things considered (read: Jake currently covering Holt’s shirt with his tears and snot with extreme emotionality), it was a ridiculous question, but nonetheless, it was one that he had to fight to answer.
“This — this — this doesn’t feel right,” was all he could manage in response even after several long moments of struggling, struggling to even open his mouth. He sniffled, shame burning at his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
There was plenty of shame in prison, though it became somewhat unnoticeable after the third shower.
“This — you — the squad — everything. Even my damn Shirley Temple. None of it feels right, or — or real.”
“But it is real.” Holt sounded vaguely confused, always one to take things literally. “Your drink is right there. And I am here, with you.”
“I know, I know, but —,” Jake shook his head, pulling back slightly to look up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s not about the Shirley Temple,” he tried to explain, frustrated and angry and upset, all things familiar with prison. “It’s — I —,”
He gritted his teeth, and turned away from Holt, who once more hunched over the bar in his seat wordlessly as if nothing had happened at all — as if he hadn’t just been being held gently in the captain’s arms, the way a father was meant to hold a son.
(There was no family in prison.)
“It’s about everything,” he managed at last, a sob thick in his voice as much as he tried to shove it down. “In prison, there’s — there’s nothing. Nothing but — but fear, and being so scared it hurts, and — and everything is so messed-up and awful, no one cares about you — if you get beat up, if you die, nothing, they don’t care, and there’s nothing, and now — now I have everything, and everyone — I have clothes, I have my stupid drink — I have Amy, Rosa, you — I have everything, now compared to then, and everyone cares, and it doesn’t feel right.”
Jake’s breath was shuddering as he breathed into his palms; Holt’s hand hadn’t left his shoulder, and he stared down at his Shirley Temple, watching the condensation drip down the sides. He was silent, and then Holt spoke.
“I am sorry, Jacob.”
Jake flinched at that, actually flinched (people didn’t apologize in prison), and whipped around so fast to face Holt that he got a crick in his neck.
“Huh?” He spluttered dumbly, blinking rapidly, tears flecking at the corners of his eyes as he flailed for words. “What — what for?”
“I set you and Diaz up to the operation in the first place,” Holt explained, regret palpable in his otherwise emotionless tone. “I am to blame for what came about as a result, from the trial to the sentencing, and I apologize sincerely for the pain I’ve caused you.”
“Sir, you —,” Jake almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he buried his face in his hands, and he almost cried. Almost.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he mumbled at last, voice muffled. “You’re — you’re one of the best parts of my life, sir, one of the things that kept me going in prison, that voice in the back of my mind where everyone else has a conscience, or whatever. That was you. Everything that happened was on Hawkins.”
Surprisingly, insisting that nothing was Holt’s fault was calming Jake down, and he raised his head, looking at the captain with red-rimmed eyes.
“Sir, you’re not at fault for anything, so there’s nothing to apologize for.”
“I see,” Holt surmised, brow just slightly furrowed. “Very well,” he conceded eventually; “even still, it is customary to tell someone you are sorry when something bad occurs to them. So I still would like to apologize for what you went through. This —,”
He gestured to where the squad was mingling, and then to his hand on Jake’s shoulder, and then to the Shirley Temple that was probably watered-down fully by now, the ice having melted completely.
“This shouldn’t feel wrong.”
Jake’s throat was tightening again. He glanced back down, watching condensation dribble down the glass of the drink. “Thank you, sir,” he croaked out, with a tight little smile down at the bar counter. He hesitated, and then, in an effort to keep things from going awkward after so many emotions: “Hey, didja know I almost got recruited by ISIS?”
Holt’s eyebrows raised so high, that if he had had even the slightest of a hairline, they would’ve been hidden in it. “I did not,” he responded, despite the question clearly being rhetorical; “that is certainly . . . an interesting scenario.” The corner of his mouth twitched up; his version of a hearty laugh.
“I suppose this would be the bit where you would say that at least you got some good, movie-worthy stories out of your experiences?”
“Oh, yeah!” Jake brightened slightly, and turned fully to the captain. His Shirley Temple sat on the bar counter, forgotten, gathering a ring of water beneath it, and it would not be thought about for the rest of the night — because it was never about the Shirley Temple, it was about everything, and everything had come to a head when Holt had pulled Jake into his arms and held him like he had needed to be held for so very, very long.
“First of all, my cellmate, Caleb, turned out to be a cannibal, and you’ll never guess what he tried to do when I was saying bye to him —,”
“You know, son, I have a feeling that I just might.”