Brooklyn Nine Nine

Chapter 6: Off the Clock

For the first time in weeks, Jake Peralta had no crime scene photos to study, no witness statements to analyze, and no Boyle whispering about fermented goat cheese recipes.

It was his day off, and the silence in his apartment was deafening.

Jake lay sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and a loose Nakatomi Plaza t-shirt, a half-eaten bowl of cereal dangerously close to spilling on his chest. "Is this what peace feels like?" he muttered, remote in hand, flipping through crime documentaries on mute. "Weird."

His phone buzzed.

"Rooftop party in Williamsburg tonight. Come hot. No cop energy. Bring vibes. Not Boyle."

Jake stared at the screen. "No cop energy?" he repeated aloud. "I am the cop energy."

Still, he stared at the message longer than he meant to. He'd spent weeks buried in work — three cases, one murder, no break. Maybe a party night wouldn't be the worst thing.

He tossed the remote onto the couch, stood up, and declared to no one, "Let's get hammered."

The sun had barely finished setting by the time Jake arrived in Williamsburg. Music was already pulsing from above, echoing through the alley between two apartment buildings. He took the industrial metal stairs three at a time, following the lights and laughter to the rooftop.

The moment he stepped onto the roof, he was hit with the scent of smoke, perfume, and overpriced cocktails.

The rooftop was packed. String lights draped between rusted beams, neon signs glowed against brick walls, and a DJ bobbed behind a vintage vending machine turned speaker system. People danced, drank, shouted, and didn't give a damn about anything.

"Jake-y!" Gina screeched from across the roof, her voice piercing through the music like a siren.

Jake turned and saw her — glitter on her eyelids, a metallic jumpsuit, two drinks in hand.

"Gina," he called, approaching. "What am I looking at right now?"

"This," she said, handing him a shot, "is what living looks like. Cheers to freedom and my hair still being perfect after a full headspin on the dance floor."

Jake took the shot.

It burned.

Hard.

"Okay," he wheezed. "What was that?"

"Tequila. Mezcal. And regret," Gina grinned. "Round two?"

The night spiraled beautifully out of control.

It started with karaoke. Someone handed Jake a microphone — mistake number one. Gina grabbed the second mic — mistake number two. And before anyone could stop them, the rooftop was shaking with an off-key, passionate, truly painful rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Jake sang like his soul was on fire. Gina sang like she wanted to summon demons with pure volume. A small group of hipsters nearby looked horrified. One of them actually cried. Whether it was from the emotional weight of the song or the vocals themselves was anyone's guess.

After that, things escalated.

Gina challenged a guy in a bucket hat to a twerking contest near the DJ booth. It wasn't close. She won decisively, then took a celebratory shot while balancing on one leg. Jake, standing nearby with a beer, screamed into the void, "SHE'S NOT HUMAN. SHE'S A TWERK GOD." The crowd cheered. Or booed. Honestly, he couldn't tell anymore.

At some point, a conga line formed. Jake didn't know who started it or where it ended, but he found himself in the middle of it twice — once holding a rubber duck, and the second time wearing a stranger's denim vest.

"Dude, what time is it?" Jake slurred to a woman wearing LED eyelashes.

"It's yesterday," she replied.

Jake blinked. That made sense.

Back by the drinks table, someone brought out a tray of glowing shots. They were blue. Or maybe purple. Jake threw back three without question. Everything started tasting like bubblegum and danger. After that, he tried to show off a backflip from the top of an AC unit — he was very confident. He shouted "For justice!" and jumped. He didn't land. Instead, he crashed into a kiddie pool full of warm beer. The splash was dramatic. The cheering was louder.

Later, he found himself and Gina sitting on mismatched plastic chairs under a flickering neon sign that said "YES QUEEN." They were both out of breath from dancing — or possibly just laughing at nothing.

"I am so glad I didn't bring Boyle," Jake said between deep breaths.

"He would've brought kale chips to the party," Gina mumbled, her eyeliner slightly smudged.

"Monster," Jake whispered.

Then someone passed them more shots.

Jake didn't ask what they were.

He drank them anyway.

Jake woke up with the force of a corpse reanimating. His head was pounding. His mouth felt like it had been scrubbed with chalk. His blanket was... a pizza box?

He sat up slowly.

He was in his apartment, on the floor, next to the couch.

"What the hell…" he croaked.

The TV was playing an infomercial about inflatable hot tubs. The coffee table had two slices of pizza, someone's pink sunglasses, and a half-broken glow stick.

Jake touched his face. There was glitter.

He crawled to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Nothing made sense. A lime floated in a pitcher of Gatorade.

He sat on the floor, leaning against the cabinet, and checked his phone.

Text from Gina:

"I left u in the Uber because you tried to freestyle battle the driver. He won.Also I took your socks. They had stars."

Jake groaned.

He had no idea how he got home. His wallet was still in his pocket. His watch was on the microwave. His dignity? Unclear.

Still… he laughed.

A full, scratchy-throated, genuine laugh.

Later that morning, Jake walked — slowly — into his local coffee shop. Hoodie up. Sunglasses on. The barista handed him a double-shot espresso without a word.

As he sat down, his phone buzzed again.

"I'm interested in the Mustang. Can we meet today?"

Jake smirked and replied with one thumb:

"Bring cash. Bring a tow truck. And don't ask questions."

He sipped his coffee.

Maybe a wild night wasn't productive. Maybe it wasn't responsible. But for one night?

He was just Jake.

And that felt… kind of nice.