Chapter 6: Boyle's Jealousy
POV: Charles Boyle
Charles Boyle sat at his desk, pretending to review witness statements while actually watching Jake laugh at something Detective Martinez had said. The sound hit his chest like physical pain—genuine amusement, the kind of surprised delight that Jake usually reserved for Charles's most successful attempts at humor.
He's replacing me.
The thought burned through Charles like acid, irrational but undeniable. Three days. Martinez had been at the Nine-Nine for three days, and already Jake was treating him like a trusted partner instead of a suspicious newcomer. Shared jokes, easy conversation, the kind of professional chemistry that Charles had spent two years building with careful attention to Jake's moods and preferences.
I need to document this.
Charles opened a new file on his personal laptop, fingers flying across keys as he began cataloging observations about Detective Martinez's behavior. If Jake was being manipulated by a smooth-talking transfer with unclear motivations, then Charles would damn well figure out how and why.
DETECTIVE MARTINEZ - BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS Day 1: Arrived precisely on time (suspicious punctuality) Day 1: Navigated to supply closet without directions (impossible knowledge) Day 1: Completed cold case review in record time (superhuman speed) Day 2: Memorized entire case file in single read-through (definitely not normal) Day 3: Executed complex parkour during pursuit (where did he learn that?)
Charles paused, reviewing his notes with the satisfaction of someone who'd identified patterns others had missed. Each observation was technically explainable through conventional means, but the cumulative effect painted a picture of competence that bordered on supernatural.
Nobody's this good at everything.
He pulled out his phone and started documenting Martinez's current activities with covert photography. The new detective sat at his temporary desk, reviewing files with the kind of focused attention that suggested either deep concentration or deliberate performance for unknown observers.
Click.
Click.
Click.
"Charles," Amy's voice carried the particular tone of someone who'd been watching troubling behavior and finally decided to intervene. "Are you taking pictures of Martinez?"
Shit.
"Just... documenting squad dynamics for future reference," Charles said, lowering his phone with what he hoped was casual nonchalance.
Amy's expression suggested she found this explanation roughly as convincing as a weather forecast delivered by a psychic octopus.
"Charles. Are you investigating our new detective?"
"I'm conducting preliminary background assessment to ensure squad cohesion and optimal partnership configurations," Charles said, falling back on bureaucratic language when honest explanations felt too revealing.
"You're jealous."
The accusation hit home with surgical precision. Charles felt his face flush, but denial seemed pointless when faced with Amy's analytical capabilities.
"Jake is my partner," he said quietly. "We work well together. I don't want that to change."
Amy's expression softened slightly, professional concern replacing administrative irritation.
"Jake can have work relationships with other people without it affecting your partnership, Charles. This isn't a zero-sum game."
Easy for her to say. She's not watching her best friend bond with someone who might be a criminal mastermind in disguise.
"There's something wrong with Martinez," Charles insisted. "His background doesn't add up, his skills are too perfect, he knows things he shouldn't know. Jake's being manipulated."
"Or," Amy suggested gently, "you're being paranoid because you're afraid of losing your place on the team."
Both things can be true.
Before Charles could formulate a response that didn't sound completely unhinged, Captain Holt emerged from his office with the expression of someone distributing assignments that would test everyone's professional capabilities.
"Boyle, Martinez—you're partnered on the Castellanos restaurant investigation. Food poisoning incident with potential criminal implications."
Partnered. With the potential threat to my partnership with Jake.
"Sir," Charles began, but Holt's raised eyebrow suggested that questioning assignment decisions was inadvisable unless accompanied by compelling justification.
"Is there a problem, Detective Boyle?"
Yes. The problem is that I think Martinez is either a criminal mastermind or an alien replacement designed to infiltrate our squad and steal my best friend.
"No problem, sir."
Martinez approached with professional courtesy, but Charles caught micro-expressions of wariness beneath the neutral facade. The new detective had noticed Charles's surveillance and was proceeding with appropriate caution.
Good. Criminals should be nervous around law enforcement.
"The Castellanos investigation," Martinez said, settling into the passenger seat as Charles drove toward Little Italy. "What's the background?"
Charles consulted his notes with the precision of someone who'd prepared thoroughly for this exact scenario.
"Family restaurant, established 1987, excellent reputation until last week when twelve customers required hospitalization for severe food poisoning. Health department's preliminary investigation suggests intentional contamination."
Let's see how much you actually know about food safety protocols, mysterious transfer detective.
"Intentional contamination suggests either employee sabotage or external poisoning attempt," Martinez replied smoothly. "We'll need to interview kitchen staff, review supplier relationships, examine financial records for indicators of targeted harassment."
Textbook response. Exactly what someone would say if they'd memorized investigative procedures without actually understanding them.
"My expertise in culinary arts might be relevant," Charles added pointedly. "I've studied food preparation techniques extensively, understand the chemistry of contamination, know how professional kitchens operate."
Translation: I'm the food expert here, and you can't fake knowledge of something I actually understand.
Martinez nodded respectfully. "That's exactly what this case needs. I'll defer to your expertise on anything food-related."
Wait. That's... not what someone trying to dominate the investigation would say.
Castellanos occupied a corner building that had probably housed restaurants for decades, the kind of family establishment that survived through reputation rather than marketing. The dining room smelled like generations of garlic and tomato sauce, overlaid with the chemical tang of industrial disinfectant.
Maria Castellanos met them at the door, a woman in her fifties whose entire body language spoke of pride under assault. Her restaurant was her identity, her family's legacy, and someone had deliberately poisoned it.
"Detectives," she said, her accent carrying the musical cadence of someone who'd learned English as an adult but mastered it completely. "Thank you for coming. This is killing us—not just the business, but our reputation. My family has served this neighborhood for twenty-six years."
Charles felt immediate empathy for her situation. He understood the relationship between food and identity, the way culinary traditions carried emotional weight that transcended simple nutrition.
"Mrs. Castellanos, we're going to find out who did this," he said with conviction that surprised him. "Can you walk us through what happened?"
She led them into the kitchen, pointing out specific preparation areas while describing the evening when everything went wrong. Charles absorbed every detail, his expertise translating technical descriptions into meaningful patterns.
"The contamination affected multiple dishes," he noted. "Pasta, sauce, bread—different preparation areas, different ingredients. That suggests introduction at a central point in the process."
This is what I'm good at. Food knowledge that actually matters.
Martinez observed quietly, asking clarifying questions that demonstrated he understood the significance of what Maria was describing without claiming expertise he didn't possess.
"The timing," Martinez said thoughtfully. "Twelve customers affected, all from the same seating period. That suggests contamination happened during specific preparation window, not throughout the day."
Good catch. He's not trying to compete with my knowledge, just building on it.
Charles felt his hostility wavering slightly. Martinez wasn't grandstanding or attempting to overshadow Charles's expertise. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested in Charles's insights, treating the food knowledge as valuable rather than irrelevant.
Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe.
They spent the next two hours interviewing kitchen staff, reviewing preparation procedures, examining the physical layout for potential contamination points. Charles found himself explaining culinary concepts to Martinez, who listened with respectful attention and asked intelligent follow-up questions.
He's actually letting me be the expert.
By late afternoon, they'd identified three potential suspects—a recently fired prep cook, a supplier with financial disputes, and a competing restaurant owner with known grudges against the Castellanos family. Standard investigative work, methodical and thorough.
"Surveillance time," Charles announced as they settled into his car across from the suspect prep cook's apartment building. "This is where detective work gets really boring."
He'd packed appropriate sustenance—artisanal sandwiches from a deli that understood the relationship between quality ingredients and human happiness. But as he unpacked the food, he realized he'd only brought enough for one person.
Shit. I was so focused on investigating Martinez that I forgot basic partnership courtesy.
"Sorry," he said, genuinely embarrassed. "I didn't think to bring extra food."
Martinez shrugged. "No problem. I grabbed something earlier."
He's being gracious about my rudeness. Another point against the criminal mastermind theory.
They sat in comfortable silence for twenty minutes, watching pedestrian traffic while Charles wrestled with his preconceptions about Detective Martinez. The man seemed competent without being threatening, professional without being cold. Nothing like the smooth manipulator Charles had imagined.
Maybe I owe him an apology.
"Can I ask you something?" Charles said finally.
"Sure."
"Are you trying to replace me as Jake's partner?"
The question hung in the car like toxic gas, too honest for professional conversation but too important for continued avoidance. Martinez turned to look at him directly, expression shifting from professional courtesy to something more genuine.
"No," he said simply. "I'm not trying to replace anyone."
Charles's lie detection—rudimentary compared to whatever Martinez possessed, but functional enough for basic assessment—read the response as completely truthful.
"Jake needs someone who cares about him as a person, not just as a cop," Martinez continued. "Someone who understands his history, his motivations, his fears. That's you, not me. I could work with Jake for twenty years and never understand him the way you do after two."
That's... actually true.
"But you're good at this job," Charles pointed out. "Really good. Better than most detectives I've worked with."
"Being good at police work doesn't make me good at being Jake's partner. Those are different skills."
Also true.
Charles felt his jealousy deflating like a punctured balloon, replaced by something that might have been respect.
"I've been watching you," he admitted. "Taking pictures, cataloging behaviors, looking for evidence that you're secretly evil."
Martinez laughed—genuine amusement rather than polite humor.
"Find anything interesting?"
"You're either the most competent detective in NYPD history, or you're hiding something significant about your background."
Let's see how he handles direct confrontation.
Martinez was quiet for a moment, considering his response with the care of someone navigating a minefield.
"I'm naturally observant," he said finally. "Good at reading people, remembering details, picking up skills quickly. It's always been that way."
True but incomplete. He's not lying, but he's not telling the whole story either.
"Just natural talent?"
"Some people are good at math. Some people are good at music. I'm good at police work."
Fair enough. Everyone has different strengths.
Charles studied Martinez's profile as the other detective watched their surveillance target's building. Nothing in his posture suggested deception or malice—just careful honesty about abilities he didn't fully understand himself.
Maybe Jake was right to trust him.
"For what it's worth," Charles said quietly, "I think Jake likes working with you because you don't need him to be anything other than himself. A lot of people want something from Jake—approval, validation, reflected glory. You just seem to want to do good police work."
"That's exactly what I want."
Truth again. Simple, complete truth.
Charles opened his laptop and navigated to the file he'd been building about Martinez's suspicious behaviors. With deliberate ceremony, he selected all the content and hit delete.
"What was that?" Martinez asked.
"My paranoid conspiracy theory about your secret evil agenda."
"Had a good run?"
"Surprisingly thorough. I was particularly proud of the section about your impossible parkour skills."
"Jake told you about that?"
"Jake tells me everything. Usually while I'm trying to eat lunch."
They watched their suspect emerge from his building, heading toward a bodega with the casual pace of someone running routine errands. Nothing suspicious about his behavior, but Charles dutifully documented the time and direction for their surveillance log.
This is what partnership feels like. Comfortable conversation, shared responsibility, mutual trust.
"Charles," Martinez said quietly. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For caring enough about Jake to investigate me. For being willing to change your mind when the evidence didn't support your theory. For being the kind of partner who puts friendship before ego."
That's... actually really nice.
Charles felt warmth spreading through his chest, the particular satisfaction that came from being truly seen and appreciated by someone who understood the value of loyalty.
"You're welcome," he said. "And Martinez?"
"Yeah?"
"If you ever do anything to hurt Jake, I will destroy you with the methodical precision of a French chef preparing a sauce reduction."
Martinez smiled. "Understood."
POV: Kole Martinez
That evening, Kole sat in his apartment with Charles's words echoing in his mind. Jake needs someone who cares about him as a person, not just as a cop. The observation was accurate, insightful, and completely devastating.
I care about Jake. But not as a person—as a character.
The distinction felt like swallowing broken glass. He'd spent three years watching Jake Peralta grow and change through episodes of television, developing genuine affection for his humor, his loyalty, his brilliant detective mind. But those feelings were parasocial, one-sided, based on scripted interactions rather than lived experience.
I love the fictional version of these people. But I don't actually know them.
Jake's competitiveness hid insecurity about his father's abandonment. Amy's perfectionism masked fear of inadequacy that dated back to childhood dynamics with her brothers. Rosa's intimidating exterior protected vulnerabilities she'd never shared with anyone. Charles's enthusiastic loyalty came from a lifetime of feeling like an outsider who'd finally found his tribe.
Kole knew these things because he'd watched them revealed through seasons of character development. But that knowledge felt stolen, voyeuristic, a form of emotional cheating that made genuine friendship impossible.
How can I be authentic with people when I already know their secrets?
His phone buzzed with a text message, interrupting the spiral of self-recrimination.
"Great work today. You and Charles make a good team. Maybe we should double-date sometime. - Jake"
Double-date. Because Jake assumes I have a romantic life that exists independently of this elaborate deception.
Kole stared at the message, trying to formulate a response that maintained his cover while avoiding additional lies. Every social interaction required careful navigation between appearing normal and maintaining the fiction of Detective Martinez's existence.
I need to be more than just a lie in a borrowed body. These people deserve better than that.
But becoming more than a lie required revealing truths that would destroy everything he'd built. The transmigration, the powers, the impossible circumstances that had brought him here—none of it could be shared without sounding completely insane.
So I'll have to become real through actions instead of revelations.
Charles had accepted him based on observed behavior rather than declared intentions. Jake's growing trust came from demonstrated competence rather than claimed credentials. Maybe authenticity didn't require complete honesty—maybe it just required consistent character.
I can be genuine without being truthful. I can care about them as people, not just as characters.
Kole closed his eyes and let his photographic memory replay the day's events, but instead of cataloging tactical details or procedural elements, he focused on moments of human connection. Charles's initial hostility giving way to grudging respect. The pride in Maria Castellanos's voice when she described her family's restaurant. Jake's easy assumption that partnership extended beyond professional obligations.
These are real people with real lives and real relationships. I want to be part of that reality.
He pulled out his laptop and began typing a response to Jake's text, choosing words that reflected genuine appreciation rather than calculated manipulation.
"Charles is a good partner and a better friend. You're lucky to have him watching your back. Rain check on the double-date until I figure out my social life in Brooklyn."
Truth wrapped in misdirection. The best kind of lie.
His phone buzzed again almost immediately.
"Fair enough. But when you're ready, I know some great places in Brooklyn. Welcome to the family, Martinez."
Family.
The word hit harder than Kole had expected. Not just squad, not just colleagues, but family. The kind of chosen relationships that mattered more than blood, built through shared experiences and mutual trust.
I want that. I want to earn that.
But earning family required becoming someone worth trusting, someone whose presence added value rather than just solving cases through borrowed abilities. It meant becoming Detective Martinez in reality, not just identity theft.
Time to stop being a lie and start being a person.
Kole opened a new document on his laptop and began writing—not surveillance reports or case notes, but personal observations about his new colleagues. Their strengths, their quirks, their obvious affection for each other despite professional stresses and personality conflicts.
This is who they really are. This is what I want to protect.
Charles's scrapbook had been paranoid delusion, but the impulse behind it was genuine care for someone who mattered. Jake's suspicion came from protective instincts rather than personal hostility. Even their investigation of his background reflected love rather than mistrust.
They're trying to protect each other from potential threats. Including me.
The realization was both humbling and terrifying. He'd been so focused on hiding his secrets that he'd missed the deeper truth—the Nine-Nine was a family that had learned to recognize and neutralize dangers to their unity. His abilities made him useful, but his character would determine whether he belonged.
No more hiding behind Martinez's credentials. Time to earn my place here.
Outside his window, Brooklyn settled into evening rhythms—streetlights flickering on, late commuters heading home, the city transitioning from day shift to night shift with the fluid efficiency of an organism that never truly slept.
Tomorrow would bring new cases, new challenges, new opportunities to prove himself worthy of the trust these people were beginning to offer. Not because of supernatural abilities or borrowed competence, but because of choices made and character demonstrated.
I'm going to be the detective they deserve. Whatever that takes.
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