Note: Rosa's bisexual arc is so important and it makes me so so happy that it's finally happening, especially as a wlw, but all the bi talk has got me thinking about Jake's sexuality again and this just... popped into my head. I thought it was a sweet idea so I decided to write it. Not set in any particular time. I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: B99 is not mine.

They're on a park bench, summer sun shining above them, the temperature unnaturally high even for this time of year. Holt can feel beads of sweat gather at his forehead, can feel them drip across the sides of his face, down to his shirt collar. Next to him, Jake has removed every layer but his undershirt, the light grey fabric sticking to his skin, and while Holt can understand the appeal, he could never bring himself to look so improper while on the job. Never mind while out in public.

They're waiting for their guy; white male, thirties, responsible for a string of stranglings in Park Slope. Their intel says he runs the same path along Prospect Park twice a week, and so here they are, waiting to catch sight of him amongst everyone else who'd dared to endure the heat. The whole squad is spread out, Terry and Charles are on one end, Amy and Rosa on another, and Holt and Jake here; sitting under a canopy of trees, the shade doing little to cool them down.

"Twice a week," Jake is saying, something like wonder in his voice. He's bent forward, elbows resting on his knees as he looks down the path, searches the sea of people passing by. "That's impressive."

"Not really," Holt says.

"Well, for me," Jake amends. "You know I nev—"

"Yes," Holt cuts off. "I am aware of how poorly you take care of yourself, Peralta."

Jake turns to grin at him; big, bright, and accomplished, as if his lack of self-care is something to be proud of. He shrugs when all Holt does is stare, turns back to look out for their perp. Time passes like that, spurts of conversation that don't turn into much. Normally, Jake would be pestering him with any number of personal questions, but the heat has worn them all out, has limited their chatter to a minimum.

Or, at least, that's how it is, right up until some guy with a bodybuilder's physique passes them by, and Jake starts out on a ramble of those legs, Captain. Did you see those calves?

Holt turns to look at him, his expression stern, but Jake doesn't quiet. Holt tunes it out, mostly, only then Jake is saying I always wondered what it'd be like to date a dude like that, and Holt's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"You think about dating men?" he asks, unable to stop himself. He shouldn't have—the question is far too personal—but, well. The look on Jake's face intrigues him.

"What?" Jake says, stopping midway through a comparison of Terry. He's sat up, now, back far straighter than it normally is. "No. Yes. No. Only in a hypothetical sense," he fumbles. "Like, you know."

He waves his hand as he says the last part, as if pointing out toward the path in front of them will finish the sentence for him. It doesn't.

"No," Holt says, expression blank. "I don't know."

Jake's usual smile is fading slowly, his eyes widening slightly as the reality of what he's said hits him. He turns away from Holt, fingers tapping a too quick rhythm against his knee. Holt watches, contemplates.

"Do you think you might be bisexual, Peralta?"

Holt is careful to keep his tone light, casual. Serious tends to scare Jake off, and he doesn't want to do that, is actually quite interested in the answer to his question. From the spot next to him, Jake has whipped around to stare at his face again, and the incoherent spluttering that comes from his mouth is answer enough for Holt.

"What?" Jake is saying, voice louder than it had been a moment ago. "What? No. No. No, no, no, no. What? Captain, why would you—what?"

Holt arches his brow as Jake continues, his cheeks heating for reasons other than the temperature as he grows flustered, his words coming out at an increasing rate. "Peralta," Holt tries to say, but Jake doesn't hear him over the sound of his own voice.

"It's just that some dudes are hot," Jake says, shoulders lifting in a shrug, his arms flailing as he speaks. "Anyone can be hot. Do people not think that? I thought that was normal. Wait. Is that not normal? Oh, god. Captain. Is it? Do you find women attractive—wait, no. I shouldn't ask that. But do you? I mean—no. No. I'm not allowed—is that not normal?"

"Peralta."

"Oh, no. I've said—I've complimented—oh, this is horrible. I mean, not horrible, horrible, but. You know, not good. Not bad, but. Shit. I mean—" He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. When he looks at Holt now, his face is lined with traces of panic. "It isn't, is it? Oh, god. I am, aren't I? Am I? Captain, am I?"

"Peralta," Holt says again, louder now, and Jake quiets immediately. There's something desperate about the way Jake looks at him, like he expects Holt to have all the answers. "I cannot define your orientation for you," Holt says, and Jake looks as if he wants to argue, like he wants to ask why not.

"But—"

"Jake."

There's a loud huff, a long exhale. Holt watches as Jake breathes deeply, his fingers clutching the curve of his knees. "I'm confused," he says eventually, looking almost upset. Holt sighs softly.

"That's okay," he says, and part of him can't quite believe he's having this conversation with Jake Peralta, and another part can't believe it's taken this long. "Most people are at first."

"Are they?" Jake asks, voice unnaturally high. "I thought we were meant to know. Everyone always says—"

"People lie," Holt cuts off. "And even if they don't, one experience is hardly ever universal."

Jake nods, as if to say that makes sense, but he still doesn't look convinced, not completely. Holt sighs again.

"You don't have to have it figured out," he says. It's awkward, bordering on uncomfortable, but he needs to say it. Needs Jake to know. He gets the impression that Jake won't have this conversation with anyone else, that there isn't anyone else to have it with, and it's important, Holt thinks. He knows he definitely could have used one back in the day.

"Don't I?" Jake asks, softer. His brow is furrowed, his gaze fixed on a spot of gravel. "I'm—old. I should have—don't you think—" He cuts off, wipes a hand across his face. "I try not to think about it," he mumbles, barely intelligible. "I didn't want..."

"It's okay," Holt tells him. "It's okay if you are, Peralta." He's completely serious now, and Jake nods, his lips pressed together; a look Holt recognises as Jake trying to keep his emotions at bay.

"What if..." he starts, stops, sighs again. "What will happen—if I, you know. Do you think—"

"The squad," Holt supplies, and Jake nods. Holt gets the to urge to reach out, and he does, places his hand along the curve of Jake's shoulder. "If or when you are ready to bring it up, the Nine-Nine will be there," he says quietly. "Never doubt that."

Jake sniffs, looks away, and Holt half thinks he's starting to cry. He watches Jake, waits for the ill-timed joke to come, for his attempt to alleviate the serious nature of their conversation, but it doesn't; almost as if he's too deep in his own head to think of something to say.

That, really, is more worrying than anything.

"Peralta," Holt starts again, but just as Jake turns back to him, there's a murmur of static, is Amy's voice coming through the radio, calling out that they've seen their guy.

It shatters the solemn atmosphere in an instant, has them both slipping back into professional mode. Jake stands before Amy has so much as finished her sentence, mouth twisting back to a grin, and Holt pretends not to notice that it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Come on, Captain," Jake calls, taking off down the path. "You can invite me for a threesome later, right now we've got a killer to catch!"

Trailing after him, Holt chooses not to dignify that with a response.