Jake: All right, listen up. I think I know how to fix this. All we have to do is figure out who my arch-nemesis is, track him down and get him to admit to Teddy that there's no bomb. We have three hours to save this wedding.
Amy: That's good. I love you so much.
Jake: I love you too. Wait. You're talking to the nicotine, aren't you?
Amy: I can love two things.

Amy: Sir, I'm sure you had your reasons for going to Peralta, but this is exactly the type of job I would love to have.
Captain Holt: Okay, the next time someone threatens to kill me, I'll come straight to you.
Amy: Thank you, sir. I can't wait. I didn't mean- Let's catch this bastard.

Jake: You might wanna stand back for this, sir. It can get pretty intense.
Amy: [YELLING] All right, you mooks, our union health plan has 100% reimbursement for out-of-state ambulance rides. Scully will fake a medical emergency.
Scully: Don't need to fake it. Always having at least one.
Amy: Great. You call an ambulance and have it take us here to Monroe, Louisiana. The ambulance can drive 25 miles over the posted speed limit, so we'll get there by 9:00 p.m. There's a small airport there, mostly servicing crop dusters. Of course, they can't take passengers, but thanks to a loophole in H.R. 377551, police officers are allowed to commandeer any plane in the interest of national security. The crop duster will land at an airstrip outside of Finksburg, Maryland. We'll take a cab to Baltimore, jump on the 6:48 a.m. train to New York, arriving at 9:26. Kevin will meet us at Penn Station with a fresh Captain's uniform. From there, it's a 29-minute cab ride to One Police Plaza. You change on the way, and we should get to your meeting with five minutes to spare. Stop clapping, you idiots! We gotta move, move, move!
Jake: I love her.

Jake: And our second option is surveillance footage of Detective Amy Santiago soliciting drugs using perfect grammar.
Amy: It's not that weird to say, "may I have some cocaine?"
Jake: It is.

Captain Holt: Please be seated. Friends, colleagues, gawking New Yorkers, we are here today to celebrate the marriage of Jake Peralta and Amy Santiago. I've known you both for the last five years. And it has been a true pleasure to watch your distracting childish rivalry evolve into a distracting childish courtship and now into what I'm sure will be a distracting childish marriage. I'm proud of you. And I love you both.
Jake: Permission to say it back?
Captain Holt: Permission granted.
Amy: I love you too, sir.
Jake: Love you, Captain.

Amy: Okay, well. I've been planning this wedding for the last six months. And if you told me yesterday everything that was gonna go wrong, I would have had a panic attack that sent me into the ER. But I'm here, and I've never been happier. Life is unpredictable. Not everything's in our control. But as long as you're with the right people, you can handle anything. And you, Jake Peralta, are the right person for me. But I do have some bad news. There is a bomb at this wedding as well.
Jake: What?
Amy: Your butt. Your butt is the bomb. There will be no survivors.

Charles: No! I was eavesdropping. I'm always eavesdropping.
Jake: I don't like it.
Charles: Look, I didn't spend the last seven years watching your love ripen, only to have it sullied by a city hall wedding. You're getting married right here, right now.