Chapter Text
Demigods usually don’t live long enough to get the chance to build a life that doesn’t involve the gods.
Or at least, that’s what they had always believed.
Then came New Rome. And suddenly, demigods were going to college, getting jobs, starting families — all beyond the Camps.
Nico did too.
He enrolled at the academy while Will studied to become a doctor, and eventually, Nico became a beat cop.
It wasn’t the right job for him. Every day, he saw his fellow officers discriminate and arrest people who had done nothing wrong. But he knew that if he ever wanted to become a detective, he had to endure the injustices he couldn’t yet fight.
He didn’t try to make friends — most of the people he worked with were jerks anyway.
One night, while he was working late, Will stopped by to bring him dinner. One of the officers looked at Will with disgust and muttered, “Didn’t peg you for a fag, Di Angelo.”
It took him 0.3 seconds to punch the guy in the face.
Less than that to get suspended. No explanation, no hearing. Not that it would've made a difference.
Will never stepped foot in the precinct again after that.
Nico had promised him — quietly, over reheated leftovers in their too-small kitchen — that he’d do whatever it took to transfer somewhere better. Somewhere safer. Or at least less openly hostile.
So when he finally made detective, the first thing he did was apply for the open spot at the 99th.
--
It was a random Monday morning when Captain Holt gathered the squad in the briefing room.
"What's this about, Captain?" Jake asked, already half-eating a bagel.
"Today, Sergeant Santiago’s replacement will arrive," Holt replied, voice calm as ever.
"Do we really need one? Me and Boyle can handle the caseload," Jake said, gesturing between him and Charles.
"You mean Boyle and I, and no, you cannot," Holt corrected. "Detective Boyle has requested additional time off to spend with his son."
Boyle nodded solemnly, as if he were sending Nikolaj off to war instead of preschool. "I just want to be there for his emotional growth. He’s developing feelings, Jake."
Holt just ignored him.
"The new detective’s name is Nico di Angelo. He's quite brilliant. He does, however, have a single incident of workplace violence on his record — he punched someone. His former captain refused to elaborate on the circumstances."
Rosa crossed her arms. "One punch doesn’t scare me. I want to know who deserved it."
Terry gave her a look. "That’s not the point."
"No, the point is if he’s trouble, I’m not babysitting," Rosa replied, voice flat.
"I expect all of you to treat him with respect and make him feel welcome on this team." Holt added
No one said anything, but the room shifted. It wasn't that they didn’t want Nico there — not exactly. It was just that, after all these years, the squad had a rhythm. A balance. And the idea of someone new walking in and disrupting that was... uncomfortable.
"Did I make myself clear?" Holt asked.
"Yes, sir," they chorused, some more convincingly than others.
"Good. He arrives in fifteen minutes. Dismissed."
------------
"Good morning, Captain," Nico greeted, holding out a hand.
"Good morning, Detective. We're very happy to have you on this team. I'll show you your desk in a moment — it's in front of Detective Peralta's — but first, may I ask you a couple of questions?"
"Of course," Nico replied professionally, hiding his annoyance.
"Why did you leave your old precinct? Your previous precinct had room for another detective. Why transfer?"
"I didn’t agree with some of my coworkers’ beliefs."
"I am familiar with workplace hostility. I spent most of my early career as one of the few openly gay officers in my department."
"I didn’t know you were gay, Captain."
Nico was briefly surprised but regained his composure within seconds.
"May I ask if my new colleagues have any bias I should be aware of?”
"Believe me, Detective, they’re good people. They may appear... unconventional. But they are exceptional at their jobs and dependable as colleagues."
He paused, listening.
"Actually, you might as well talk to them now. I believe they’re standing outside the door, trying to listen in."
He stood up and opened the door, revealing five detectives, a lieutenant, and a sergeant quickly scattering into the room, pretending to look casual.
"Come, please. Meet Detective Nico di Angelo."
"Morning," Nico said, raising a hand in greeting.
"Before going back to work," Holt continued, "you are each allowed one question after stating your name."
No one spoke for a couple of seconds, so Jake decided to step up.
"I'm Detective Jake Peralta — the coolest here — and Sergeant Santiago's husband. Any opinion on kids? 'Cause I have one."
"They’re cool," Nico replied. "I’m not gonna have one, but I like babysitting and stuff. Used to do that for a friend’s sister."
Jake blinked. “That’s... surprisingly wholesome.”
"Detective Rosa Diaz," Rosa said, eyeing him. "Do you carry a weapon on you?"
"Yes, of course. We all do," Nico answered plainly. Then, after a beat: "I also carry two knives."
Rosa gave a slow, approving nod.
"Detective Charles Boyle," Boyle jumped in eagerly. "Favorite cuisine?"
"Italian," Nico said without hesitation. "Also, Puerto Rican food is good."
Charles gasped. "You have taste."
"Lieutenant Terry Jeffords," Terry said, stepping forward. "Do you work out? Like, regularly?"
"Constantly," Nico replied.
Terry smiled, clearly satisfied.
"Sergeant Amy Santiago," Amy said, not bothering to hide her clipboard. "Have you studied anything before the academy?"
"Not really. But I know a lot of stuff."
Amy blinked intrigued and muttered, “Noted.”
"Hi, I’m Scully," came a voice from the back. "Do you often leave food in the fridge?"
"I don’t eat much."
Scully pouted a bit.
"And I’m Hitchcock," his partner grinned. "Do you have a girlfriend? Like, one of those really hot blonde chicks?"
Nico stiffened at the question, his expression hardening. He remembered what the Captain had told him earlier and kept his composure. Calm. Professional.
"No, I don’t have a hot blonde girlfriend."
Jake cleared his throat, clearly annoyed. "Sorry for Hitchcock. He’s gross. I’ll show you your desk, and then Holt will assign your first cases."
--------
"Di Angelo! We have a case," Jake called out from across the bullpen, already holding two coffees and a manila folder that looked like it had been folded, sat on, and maybe accidentally dipped in mustard.
Nico looked up from his desk, only just starting to settle in.
"Breaking and entering. Looks easy," Jake continued, as if that somehow made it more appealing. "Thought we could check the scene before lunch. You know, classic morning crime-solving."
"Agreed," Nico replied flatly, standing. He didn’t roll his eyes — not outwardly — but something in his expression definitely suggested an inner sigh. That casual tone Jake used — the throwaway ease — reminded him a little too much of certain cops from his old precinct. The kind that missed everything except their egos.
Still, he followed. It was his job now.
The drive over was fast. Jake insisted on blasting 90s alt rock and explaining the case like it was a podcast he was narrating in real time.
"So," Jake said, drumming the steering wheel. "It’s this old store — sells antiques, dusty clocks, weird porcelain dolls that probably move on their own — you know the type. Someone smashed the front window, grabbed a few things, ran off. No cameras, no witnesses, no alarm."
Nico glanced at him. "An antiquarium?"
"Yeah. That. Fancy word for 'old stuff.' Look we’re here."
The shop sat tucked between a dry cleaner and a vape store, looking wildly out of place — like it had been plucked from the alleyways Nico grew up in and dropped in Brooklyn by mistake. Only one window was shattered, and the display inside was still tidy.
Jake crouched near the frame.
"Honestly, we’ve got nothing. They didn’t even leave a footprint. It’s like they floated away."
Nico didn’t answer. He stepped forward, eyes sweeping the scene with eerie calm. He stopped at the display case, staring at three intricately detailed masks behind the cracked glass. Black velvet, gold trim, faintly dusted but untouched.
"Yeah, but I have a question," he said quietly.
"Shoot," Jake replied, standing up and brushing dust off his pants.
"What did they steal?"
"Uh…" Jake flipped open the report. "A necklace, some jewelry, couple old coins. All in, maybe a thousand bucks' worth."
Nico’s gaze didn’t move from the masks.
"Then why leave these?" he murmured. "Three original Venetian carnival masks. Handmade, probably from the 40s. I’d guess around sixty-five hundred each, depending on the maker."
Jake blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Yes. And they’re in perfect condition."
"So, you’re saying this criminal… walked into a goldmine and left with costume jewelry?"
Nico straightened, expression sharpening.
"That’s not a thief looking for money. That’s someone with a motive."
Jake’s eyebrows rose. "You think they knew the owner?"
"I think we should find out."
----
Three hours later, Holt approached Nico, who was sitting at his desk, busy filling out some paperwork.
“Who’s the girl you brought in? I thought you and Peralta were still working on the antiquarium case.”
“Yes, sir. We just closed it,” Nico replied. “I’ll bring the file to your desk as soon as I’m done here. She’s the daughter of the owner.”
Holt raised an eyebrow. “Impressive turnaround. Are you sure she’s guilty?”
“She confessed,” Nico said. “She told us her father wanted to sell an old family heirloom — a necklace from her mother’s side — and she felt she had to stop him. She staged the robbery herself, stealing some jewelry and coins to make it look legitimate, but she didn’t know about the value of the masks.”
“Yeah,” Boyle chimed in enthusiastically, walking over. “Jake mentioned your hunch. I looked up those masks — they’re handmade masterpieces from the 1940s. Real museum-quality stuff. You definitely have a sharp eye.”
“Thanks, Boyle,” Nico smiled. “Being from Venice helped — those designs stood out to me immediately.”
Rosa appeared beside the desk, folding her arms with a smirk. “That’s pretty impressive. We should celebrate your first case. Shaw’s tonight?”
Nico leaned back in his chair, setting his pen down. “Sounds good to me.”