Brooklyn Nine Nine

Chapter 11: Paperwork and Dust Bunnies

99th Precinct, Briefing Room

Jake slouched in his chair, coffee in one hand, chewing on a bagel like it had wronged him. Around him, the usual morning chaos brewed: Boyle showing Rosa photos of a new meat grinder he bought, Gina dramatically applying lip gloss like she was being filmed, and Hitchcock and Scully arguing over who ate the last donut (spoiler: both of them did).

Captain Holt walked in right on time, holding a clipboard.

The room fell silent.

"Good morning," Holt said in his calm, no-nonsense voice. "Couple of important updates."

He adjusted his glasses.

"First," Holt continued, "we are long overdue on submitting arrest reports for last month's major cases. That includes the Devane drug bust, the DUI cases, and several outstanding warrants."

Jake internally winced. His Devane report? Still half-finished. Sitting on his desk. 

"Second," Holt said, glancing down at his clipboard, "the evidence room is, frankly, a disaster zone. There are unlabeled boxes, misfiled items, and what I believe is a colony of ants living near Shelf B."

Hitchcock raised his hand. "That's where I keep my peanut brittle."

Holt stared at him. "You're not supposed to keep food in the evidence room."

Hitchcock shrugged. "What's life without snacks?"

Gina snorted.

Holt pressed on. "Detectives Peralta and Santiago. You're assigned to evidence room cleanup. Effective immediately. I expect it to be organized and inventory-logged by end of shift."

Amy sat up straighter, already pulling out a fresh notebook. "Yes, sir! I'll draft a labeling system and workflow chart—"

Jake groaned. "But Captain… cleaning the evidence room is like… punishment from God."

"Then perhaps it will inspire you to finish your arrest report on time," Holt replied with a raised eyebrow.

Jake blinked. "You… you knew?"

Holt's stare was answer enough.

"Okay. Great. Cool. Love it," Jake mumbled.

"Dismissed," Holt finished, walking out.

The bullpen exploded back into noise as soon as Holt left.

Jake went back and slumped at his desk, staring at his computer screen and the half-completed Devane arrest report. The cursor blinked at him mockingly.

Amy walked over, arms full of organizational binders.

"I'll meet you in the evidence room in ten," she said brightly. "I'm bringing color-coded labels."

"Of course you are," Jake replied with fake enthusiasm.

Gina sauntered past. "Are you two about to go full Marie Kondo down there? Can I watch? Or better yet—supervise?"

"No, Gina," Amy said.

"Yes, Gina," Jake whispered.

Gina winked and walked away.

Boyle plopped into the chair next to Jake's. "You want me to bring snacks while you're cleaning?"

"Yes. All of them."

30 minutes later

The evidence room was somehow worse than Jake remembered.

Dust-covered boxes were stacked at random angles. Shelves overflowed with untagged evidence bags. At one point, Jake found a file marked "Unsolved Sandwich Theft 2014" sitting next to a box of seized machetes.

"This place is a health hazard," he muttered, sneezing.

Amy pulled out a clipboard and pointed at the corner. "You start with that wall. I'll take this side. We'll label, log, and cross-check items against the main evidence index."

Jake made finger guns at her. "Copy that, boss lady."

For the next hour, they worked—Amy diligently cataloging each item while Jake alternated between helping and making sarcastic commentary.

"Oh look," Jake said, holding up an old mannequin head wearing a ski mask. "It's Rosa's happy face."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Focus, Peralta."

They both froze when they heard something rustle behind a pile of boxes.

Jake grabbed a broom like a weapon. "Please tell me that's not a rat."

Amy cautiously peeked over the boxes… and found Hitchcock crouched there, holding an open bag of Doritos.

"What the hell?" Jake yelped.

Hitchcock shrugged, crumbs falling from his shirt. "It's my nap spot."

"Get out!" Amy and Jake both shouted.

Hitchcock waddled out, Doritos in hand, muttering about "privacy invasion."

By mid-afternoon, Jake was back at his desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, racing to finish his Devane arrest report before the 5 PM internal submission deadline.

Boyle appeared with a sandwich.

"Fuel for your final push," Boyle said, setting it down.

"Bless you, Boyle," Jake replied, barely looking up.

Amy walked by with a stack of her finished reports. "You've got 45 minutes."

"Thanks for the reminder, human stopwatch."

Terry walked out of his office, scanning the bullpen like a hawk. "Deadline's at five. I don't want Holt breathing down my neck. Finish your reports!"

Jake powered through. Crime Scene Details. Arresting Officers. Suspect Resistance Notes. Evidence Secured. Medical Clearance.

By 4:52 PM, he slammed the final key and hit Submit.

"Yes!" he shouted, throwing both arms in the air.

The bullpen clapped—led by Boyle, who clapped the loudest.

Amy raised an eyebrow from her desk. "Cutting it close there, Peralta."

Jake leaned back, grinning wide. "I live dangerously."

Holt stepped out of his office just in time to hear that.

"You live… recklessly," Holt corrected. 

Jake smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Holt gave a tiny nod and walked back inside.

As the clock ticked past five, the precinct slowly settled into end-of-day energy. The evidence room was (almost) clean. The paperwork was filed. The ants? Mostly gone.

Jake sat at his desk, sipping from his coffee, staring at his screen saver: a cheesy photo of a sunset with the words: "Progress, Not Perfection."

Boyle nudged him. "So… wings later?"

Jake smirked. "You read my mind."

Gina yelled from across the room, "And bring me something gluten-free! I'm on a new thing."

Jake grinned, grabbed his jacket, and followed Boyle out.

Just another day at the Nine-Nine.