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A Margaret Thatcher Kind of Night

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Amy Santiago is lying on top of him, and Plan Make-Out is officially underway. Well, except that that name is totally lame and he needs a better one, but Charles helps him think of those things, and Charles isn’t here. Because he, Jake Peralta, is making out with Amy Santiago. An hour ago, they were talking about how much they missed Captain Holt and how weird it was that their new captain was dead. Now her legs are wrapped around his waist, and his hands are under her shirt, sliding up toward her black lace bra. Suddenly she’s not just kissing him anymore. Her teeth come down on his bottom lip, and he tightens his arms around her waist, pulling her weight down harder on top of him.

This is probably the right time for some kind of James Bond move, like picking her up and throwing her down on the bed. Except that there’s probably a cereal bowl in the middle of the mattress, so staying on the couch is probably safer.

He says, “Wanna have sex?”

Smooth, Jake. Very smooth.

But Amy sits up on top of him, nodding enthusiastically. She pulls her shirt over her head -- or she tries, anyway. It gets caught on her earrings, which Jake doesn’t notice at first because boobs, right there in front of him.

Then, in a muffled voice, she says, “Little help please, Jake?”

He looks up and her shirt is inside out, dangling off the left side of her head, covering up almost everything except one eye and half her mouth.

“Sexy,” he says, and she rolls her eyes -- well, the eye Jake can see, anyway -- and flicks him in the chest. It’s way more of a turn-on than it should be.

He sits up to help Amy tug the shirt over his head. His fingers slip through her hair, which is thick and impossibly shiny.

“I don’t have any condoms,” she says. Her eyes are all wide and terrified, because Amy Santiago doesn’t do unprepared. “Normally, I would, but it was kind of an impulse when I came here, so I only took the little purse, not the big one, so --”

“It’s sexy when you babble,” Jake says. And we can just have unprotected sex. No, wrong answer. “And I have condoms. Because I am a responsible adult.”

He’s pretty sure he’s bought condoms. Sometime in the last year. The question is where he put them. Not anywhere logical, that’s for sure. So what’s the weirdest place anyone would store condoms? The kitchen, clearly. Problem solved.

He slides Amy off his lap and goes to contemplate the kitchen cupboards, which he mostly never opens. Maybe he put the condoms in the sauce pan? Nope. Utensil drawer? Better choice. He rifles through it frantically, tossing chopsticks and leftover plastic forks on the floor. Not a condom in sight. Because clearly, he’d hidden them behind his box of Lucky Charms.

“Jake? What are you doing?”

Jake turns around with the box of Lucky Charms in his hand, and Amy’s standing next to him holding a massive box of condoms.

“Lucky Charms are part of a balanced breakfast,” he says. “It says so on the commercials.”

“We can talk about your appalling nutritional habits later,” Amy says. “I meant, why are you digging through the pantry when you have a box of one hundred fifty-four condoms in the bathroom?” She frowns at the box. “Why are some of these umami flavored?”

Oh. Charles must have put them there. Don’t say that, Jake.

“Charles must have put them there,” he says. Dammit.

“Oh, ew,” Amy says, dropping the box on the floor.

Okay, this is not a crisis. He thinks he remembers seeing two condoms in the nightstand drawer, but there’s also a copy of Jugs in there, which Amy clearly cannot what’s one other place where he might have a condom? He slides his wallet out of his back pocket, hardly daring to hope, and yes, there is a shiny foil wrapper peeking out from behind a five dollar bill.

“I promise Charles Boyle had nothing to do with this condom,” he says, holding it up triumphantly. It occurs to him that a lot of things have happened in the past five minutes that might not be a turn on. “Do, uh, still want to do this?” he asks. “Because we could...order a pizza. Or eat children’s breakfast cereal.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Amy asks, eying the Lucky Charms skeptically.

Jake shakes his head. “No, not really, but I thought I should give you an out.”

“I really have no idea why the sight of you half naked and holding a box of Lucky Charms turns me on, but yes Jake, I want to have sex with you.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Now.”

And then she grabs him by the hand and pulls him toward the bed.

Are his hands shaking? Weird. It’s like he’s sixteen and in his bedroom with Allison Wachowski. Then he’d had good reason to be afraid: his mom was on the other side of a cardboard-thin wall, and Allison’s dad was a Navy SEAL. Also he was sixteen and stupid and had never done any of this before. Now he’s an adult and a super genius best detective ever, and this is not a game of spin the bottle that got way out of hand. It’s Amy. Amy who he’s wanted for, oh, as long as he’s known her. Amy who’s brilliant and tough and capable and keeps making him want to be a better person and --

Oh. That’s why he’s nervous. It’s Amy, and having sex is kind of a big deal when you’re not pretending it’s just a drunken hook-up anymore.

“We’re doing this,” he says, and his voice comes out all soft and wondering, which is maybe not a thing that’s ever happened before.

“Yeah,” Amy says with a soft little smile. “We are.”

She pulls the condom wrapper out of his shaking hands, and then she’s rolling the condom down over him, which is good. Amazing, actually. And then she’s actually on top of him and kissing him and her hair is falling down around his face. Her skin is smooth, and when he runs a thumb over a nipple, she makes this incredible noise. There is no question: watching Amy Santiago ride him is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

Shit. This could be over really fast. How does he get less turned on? What is that thing people say? Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day…

Wait, who the hell is Margaret Thatcher?

Suddenly Amy stops moving. “Did you just ask me who Margaret Thatcher is?”

Oh god. Had he said that out loud?

“I…” Jake says, and his mouth goes dry. “Yes, yes, I did.”

“She was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom from May 4, 1979 until November 28, 1990. While she was celebrated for her strong female leadership, the impact of her policies on the poor are controversial even today,” Amy rattles off matter-of-factly. “I played her in MUN several times,” she adds, looking pleased.

Jake leans up to kiss her. “Not sure why that’s a turn-on, but it is,” he says.

For a blissful minute, he thinks he’s going to get away with asking about Margaret Thatcher in the middle of sex. Maybe it’s a thing Amy likes. Maybe he should ask her about more politicians he doesn’t really know. Like Ghandi and Emperor Palpatine and that one Russian dude with the big purple thing on his forehead.

But then Amy frowns. “We’re having sex and you’re thinking about Margaret Thatcher?”

You were too, Jake thinks, but he manages not to say it, so score one for his brain-mouth filter. He can feel his face turning red, and it’s really weird to be feeling so embarrassed and so turned on all at once. He clears his throat. “You know that thing people say. Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day? When they’re trying not to get too excited? I was just...uh...well, you look really hot, and I was afraid I was, uh, not going to last.”

He’s supposed to be good at this, dammit. He was good at it last time. When he was drunk.

But Amy’s face lights up. “You think I’m that hot?” she asks, trailing a finger down his chest.

Jake shivers. “Yeah, pretty much always,” he says, and his voice comes out all weird and strangled.

“So you want me to slow down?” Amy asks. She slides down the length of him agonizingly slowly. He digs his fingers tighter into her hips and arches into the touch.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Amy leans down and trails kisses across his collarbone. On the last one, he feels teeth. And, okay, Amy’s really good at this, but he’s got a few moves too. He wraps an arm around her waist and flips them so that he’s on top, and somehow he even manages to shove this morning’s cereal bowl out of the middle of the mattress. Yeah, Jake Peralta is smooth.

Until the cereal bowl crashes onto the floor and shatters. The spoon manages to rattle around on the floor for a shockingly long time.

“You, uh, might not want to get out of the right side of the bed,” he murmurs into Amy’s hair.

He wants to keep going, pretend like this doesn’t matter, but it does. He eats Lucky Charms in bed and doesn’t know where his condoms are and has the housekeeping skills of an average chimpanzee. Probably a below average chimpanzee. There’s no way this doesn’t end with rejection.

He pulls back with a sigh and forces himself to look at Amy. Be brave, Jake, he thinks. Just stop now.

But Amy shakes her head. “I know you’re a mess, Jake,” she says. She rolls her eyes. “I mean, I’ve only worked with you for four years. But it’s okay.” She pauses. “Well, it’s eight-five percent okay and fifteen percent maddening. But I think that’s what I like.”

“Oh,” Jake says, which is dumb, but somehow I like you the way you are hadn’t figured into his list of possible reactions. If it had, he probably would have done this a lot sooner. Then he smiles. “Whoever’s on top when you come wins?”

Amy smiles back. The muscles in her thighs tense, and a second later, she’s flipped him over so she’s back on top of him. “Challenge accepted,” she says. She slides down on him hard and tugs on his bottom lip with her teeth. “Just so you know, I’m going to win.”