The bullpen was loud before nine o'clock.
Jake Peralta leaned against his desk, arms spread like a tragic storyteller, relaying his latest humiliation to anyone who would listen. He had a fresh stain on his tie—coffee, by the looks of it—and a scowl that was more petulant than dangerous.
"I'm cursed," he declared. "This isn't just a slump, this is a cosmic vendetta. The universe is targeting me personally, and I won't rest until—"
"Until you solve a case," Amy cut in briskly. She didn't look up from her stack of reports.
"Exactly. Or until I prove the existence of curses. Both equally noble goals."
From his corner, Boyle offered too much sympathy. "Slumps happen, Jake. The great Derek Jeter once went zero for thirty-two. You're basically the Derek Jeter of detectives."
"I don't want to be the Derek Jeter of detectives," Jake shot back. "I want to be the… Derek Jeter of Derek Jeters."
Across the room, Rosa snorted. Terry buried himself in paperwork, trying not to get dragged in. Gina, however, leaned against a filing cabinet with theatrical glee.
"Face it, Jakey. You're washed up. You peaked at twenty-eight. It's all downhill from here."
"Twenty-eight?" Jake yelped. "I'm thirty-two!"
"Exactly." Gina smirked.
The noise rolled like a stormcloud until the bullpen doors swung open.
Detective Ethan Cross strode in, tall frame casting long shadows in the morning light. He was his usual blend of deliberate and unhurried—dark-blonde hair tied back loosely, stubble trimmed close. Today's suit was midnight blue, sharp enough to cut glass, the stitching unmistakably designer. A silver watch glinted at his wrist, understated but precise.
Conversations faltered. Even after a week, the squad still wasn't used to him. Cross never demanded attention, but he always drew it anyway.
He set his coffee on his desk with quiet finality and looked at the squad. "Morning."
"Morning," Amy answered, almost automatically.
Jake muttered something that sounded like "movie star," but Cross ignored it. He waited until the noise thinned, then addressed them all, Holt included.
"I'd like to extend an invitation," he said simply. "When we wrap this next case, I'd like you all to come by my place. Consider it a welcome party, on our day off. Food, music, nothing formal—just a chance to actually know each other outside the precinct."
The room froze.
Jake mouthed, his place? Boyle's eyes widened like a child on Christmas. Rosa tilted her head, intrigued but guarded. Amy's pen stopped mid-scribble. Gina gasped dramatically, already imagining the décor.
And then Holt, who had been standing quietly outside his office, spoke: "Team camaraderie is vital. I'll attend."
That settled it. If Holt was in, they all were.
"Cool, cool, cool," Jake said too quickly, masking curiosity with sarcasm. "We'll be there. And I'll bring… chips. Or beer. Or both. Probably both."
Cross gave the faintest nod, as if he'd expected nothing less. He sat, opened a folder, and left the squad buzzing in his wake.
An hour later, Holt stood at the front of the bullpen, arms clasped neatly behind his back.
"Peralta," he said, tone as flat as concrete. "Your recent performance has been unacceptable. You've had six consecutive cases fall apart."
Jake winced. "Five. Five cases."
"Six," Holt repeated. "You're in a slump."
"Slump!" Gina shouted, delighted to have a catchphrase.
Holt continued unfazed. "To pull you out of it, I'm assigning you a new case. Vandalism and theft at a series of storage units. Handle it properly. No shortcuts."
"Yes, sir," Jake muttered. He tried for bravado but came up short.
Cross, seated nearby, glanced up from his paperwork. His voice was calm, almost offhand. "You're chasing wins, not cases."
Jake blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're too focused on breaking the slump," Cross said, tone measured. "That makes you sloppy. The case is the goal, not your record."
It wasn't cruel, but it cut. Rosa smirked. Amy raised her eyebrows. Even Holt looked faintly approving. Jake sank into his chair, grumbling, "Movie star wisdom. Great."
While Jake stewed, Terry was in crisis. He hunched over his desk, muttering, "Glue sticks… where are the glue sticks?"
Boyle appeared like a summoned genie. "Captain Terry, what's wrong?"
"It's my daughters' art project," Terry groaned. "They need a paper mâché castle by tomorrow. I don't have the supplies, I don't have the time, and I can't let them down."
"I've got you," Boyle said, far too enthusiastically. "We'll build the greatest castle in history."
Cross passed by on his way to the breakroom. He paused, glanced at the mess of paper and paint, then wordlessly picked up a pencil and sketched a layout. His strokes were quick but precise. In under a minute, he'd drawn a castle blueprint so detailed it looked architectural.
Terry blinked. Boyle gasped. Gina swooped in, snatched the sketch, and held it aloft. "He's an artist too?! Add it to the board!"
"The board?" Cross asked mildly, already walking away.
"Noooothing," Gina sang.
The squad exchanged guilty glances. Cross smirked to himself as he poured his coffee.
The day ground on. Jake chased dead ends, interrogated the wrong suspects, and almost lost his badge in a box of evidence. Amy tried to help, Rosa observed with quiet disdain, and Holt watched like a hawk.
Cross didn't interfere—he wasn't assigned to Jake's case—but every so often, he offered a quiet observation. "Check the access logs again." Or: "Don't assume a forced lock means a stranger."
Little nudges. Enough to redirect without stealing the case.
By evening, Jake finally cracked it. The thief wasn't random; it was a storage unit employee running a side hustle. Jake cuffed him with triumph and shouted, "Slump busted!"
The bullpen erupted in cheers and applause. Even Holt allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward.
Jake beamed, sweat-soaked but victorious. "Thank you, thank you. The slump is dead. Long live Detective Jake Peralta."
As the adrenaline faded, Cross leaned against his desk, jacket draped casually over his chair. His voice was even, unhurried.
"Well done," he said. "A slump doesn't define you. Only how you get out of it does."
Jake, caught between gratitude and defensiveness, muttered, "Thanks… I guess."
Holt clapped his hands once. "Excellent work. Peralta, you've restored your standing. And Cross—thank you for your measured assistance."
Cross inclined his head. Then, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, he reminded them: "Don't forget. Tomorrow's our day off. My place. Everyone's invited."
The squad buzzed all over again. Gina immediately began speculating about infinity pools. Boyle whispered about imported cheeses. Amy worried about bringing something appropriate. Rosa said nothing but smirked. Jake muttered, "I bet his stereo system has its own stereo system."
Holt, with absolute finality, said: "We will all attend."
Cross gave a faint smile. "Good. See you then."
And with that, the day ended—Jake redeemed, Holt satisfied, and the Nine-Nine bracing for a glimpse into the mystery of Ethan Cross.