Summary: Why did it always rain in funerals?
Word Count: 1001
Disclaimer: I don't own Brooklyn Nine-Nine or the characters.

Why did it always rain in funerals, he had no idea.

But he noticed that every time it was a day like that, the sky was dark, the clouds were very somber, the people were gloomy. He just hated funerals. Everyone does, but he just hated how it felt.

He remembers his first funeral. It was when he was seven-years-old. His father, Roger Peralta. He was involved in a car accident, just as he left work. Jake remembers his mom telling him what happened, the way she couldn't keep her tears at bay enough time to explain to him what just transpired. He remembers the day it happened just as good as he remembers the funeral.

He recalls waking up to go to school, just like at any other day. His mom gave him a kiss, told him to be good. He walked to his friend's Gina's house, where her mother drove them to school.

Then, after being bored for hours, he was finally allowed to go back home, where he wasn't greeted as usual. His mom didn't come to ask him how his day went, his dad wasn't there to help him with homework.

But Nana was there. Which wasn't something good.

She left to the kitchen as his mom took her tears away. She explained what happened, how it happened. His tears didn't seem to want to appear in his face. He stared at his mom, not really understanding what was going on.

He didn't understand until his dad's funeral.

He woke up, took a bath, put on a suit. He remembers the way the shirt itched his neck, the way the tie was strangling him. No matter how many times everyone told him he looked cute, he just felt uncomfortable.

Not that he was going to tell that to anyone, of course.

He heard 'I'm sorry for your loss' more times than the ones he wanted.

When his father's casket started to drop to the ground, he felt his mom's hand grabbing his, holding it so tight he couldn't feel it. But he didn't complain. Because he now needed to become a man.

And men aren't supposed to complain. At least, that's what his dad used to say. Men don't cry, complain or show any kind of emotions. He now knows that that's stupid, utterly ridiculous actually, but when he was a child h believed it.

The next funeral was years later. Eighteen-year-old Jake Peralta, fresh out of high-school, supposedly no longer a child. Legally, he was now an adult. Mentally, a mix between toddler and teenager. With a tint of adult somewhere in the middle.

He no longer feels his mom's hand tight against his own hand, this time its Gina's hand. Gina, the girl that was his best friend for years, until they changed schools in fifth grade. Once she found out about Nana's death, she immediately showed up in the old apartment she grew up at. Jake opened the door, and even though it had been years since they last spoke, they hug, comforting each other over the situation.

They sat on the couch silent, watching TV without saying a word to each other.

And as she was getting put on the ground, Gina's hand was holding his tight. And he was okay with it.

It made him forget the way his tie was strangling him, the way his shirt itched, and the way his heart was tight. The rain falling from the sky was a way to describe his emotions, although he wasn't crying. He felt the rain on his face, damping his hair and clothes. It was cold, the rain, and it felt good against his warm skin.

And Gina still held his hand.

The next funeral he went to – without counting Dozerman's funeral or any other funeral from any fallen officer or superior officer of his – was harder than all the others.

This time it wasn't his mom's hand, or even Gina's. It was his wife's hand, securely holding his hand tight, the other one trying to make his foot stop trembling. When she looked at him, even though the hard rain falling, she could see his red eyes, sad and desperate, for something.

The whole squad was there, to support him. And as his mom went underground, next to his dad, he feels a warm hand touching his cold skin. He doesn't look to see who it was, he already knew. He smiled, at the touch of his father figure. He remembers watching from his peripheral vision, his wife turned to the captain and smile.

No one bothered to use an umbrella in any of those funerals.

He remembers the funeral that made him cry the most. Sure, his mom's funeral shook him a lot, but that one was the hardest between the two. He remembers having Rosa's hand – of all people! – holding his, but it felt weird. But at that moment, every comfort was nice, no matter how awkward it felt.

And as his second father was underground, he felt a tear slipping off his eye and blend in with the rain. Soon, more fell behind.

But the hardest funeral of all, it was his daughter's hand that was holding his. It was the tightest his hand ever went through – and he was there for three deliveries! – and it was probably the hardest thing he went through. The rain was falling, he could see it, but he couldn't feel it. He was numb, only able to feel his daughter's hand.

After everything they went through, it wasn't supposed to go this way. They were supposed to grow old together, without one leaving the other behind. He didn't cry, then. She went down, six feet under, and he was supposed to continue on with his life. Sure, there weren't many more years ahead of him, but still, he was the oldest. By the order of things, he should've gone first.

But he didn't.

And maybe that was what hurt the most.

The End

I found this story – still unfinished – on my computer, so I decided to end it and publish. Hope you all enjoy it, sorry for everything though :)