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Terry’s been a father for a total of three days, and he’s scared.
He’s been told to expect some “normal” nervousness, of course—the “will I be a good dad?” and the “will I know how to deal with babies?” thoughts that every father (supposedly) feels.
And then there’s the other thing.
You know, the “my kids refuse to sleep unless their mom is rocking them and refuse to eat unless their mom is holding their bottle for them” thing.
The “they wake up the second I pick them up, and the rocking-chair that Sharon’s parents bought doesn’t fit in our bedroom, so the twins are sleeping in the living room on their first night home” thing.
The “they took one look at me and started crying and I know that newborns cry for no reason sometimes but maybe children are just naturally afraid of me” thing.
So basically, Terry is terrified of screwing something up, and he’s absolutely certain that it will happen under his care. But after the girls finally fell asleep—Cagney, first, then Lacey—for the third time, Sharon went straight to bed herself, leaving Terry alone with his tiny babies.
At least the bedroom in their apartment opens directly into the living room; otherwise, he would be freaking out a lot more than he already is.
He’s not the least bit sleepy, so he decides to watch some TV. Unfortunately for him, though, as soon as the The West Wing theme song starts playing, Cagney stirs and lets out a feeble cry.
Mistake Number One, Terry chides himself. I should have realized that the noise would disturb them. Quickly, he scoops her out of her crib and settles into the rocking-chair, praying that she calms down before his wife and other daughter wake up.
Cagney’s head is heavy in his lap, which feels strange considering how small it is. Her face is scrunched up tightly, making her resemble a fragile naked mole-rat, but to Terry, she’s the cutest thing in the world. Even her fingers are adorable, tightened around his hoodie-string.
Wait a minute. Her fingers. One of her hands still has a mitten on it, but the other one very clearly does not. Terry had read somewhere that newborns are extremely sensitive to temperature changes–the sudden loss of warmth was probably why she woke up. It may have not been his TV at all.
Terry stands and paces around the room trying to locate the offending mitten, carefully balancing his daughter against his shoulder. However, after two laps around the perimeter, Cagney’s cries have become significantly louder and he still hasn’t found it. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, we’ll get you another one,” Terry whispers.
Cagney hiccups, and in the brief silence that follows, he catches a flurry of color by the edge of her empty crib out of the corner of his eye. He breathes a sigh of relief and quickly pulls the mitten out from under the mattress with one hand before making his way back to the rocking chair. As he sits down again, Cagney abruptly stops crying and looks at him.
“Hey, you managed to pull this off all by yourself, huh,” Terry tells her. She blinks back at him.
“That was very advanced of you, but don’t do that again, otherwise you’ll be too cold to fall asleep,” Terry says, carefully slipping the mitten back over her hand. “Alright, you’re all set,” he says when he’s finished. She gives him another blink.
Smiling now, Terry slowly starts rocking her. A strangely calming feeling settles over him as he holds her, the dialogue on the TV and the creaking of his chair the only sounds keeping him company. Within minutes, she’s back to sleep, but Terry doesn’t notice.
Suddenly, Sharon appears in the living room entrance, rubbing her eyes. “Terry, come to bed. The girls will be fine,” she says.
“I will, in a bit. Terry wants to spend a little extra time with his girls, isn’t that right?” he coos, gently tickling Cagney under her chin.
“Okay, well, I’m going back to sleep. You should soon, too. It’s been a long day.”
Terry looks down at the sleeping baby in his arms. He is a little tired himself, now, but in order to join his wife inside, he needs to first deposit Cagney back in her crib without waking her up, a feat he tried (and failed) to do twice already. But then again, he did manage to make her fall back asleep all by himself, so maybe it wouldn’t be quite as hard as he’s assuming.
Ever-so-slowly, Terry stands up. He steps carefully to the cribs, taking care to move his arms as little as possible. Cagney stirs slightly, sending Terry’s heart into overdrive, but thankfully, nothing else happens. Unfortunately, though, as he puts her down, he bumps into Lacey’s crib with his elbow, and his other daughter’s eyes shoot open. Oh, no.
“Hey, there,” Terry says quietly, peering over her crib, getting ready to pick her up if she starts crying. To his surprise, though, Lacey simply raises a tiny hand towards him, and Terry’s heart melts as he gives his daughter his finger to hold.
Terry looks up. On the TV in front of him, Toby Ziegler is looking at his own newborn twins, and for the first time, Terry understands – really, truly, understands—everything that is happening in that scene, and exactly what it means to be a father for the first time.
“I didn’t realize babies come with hats,” Terry reads from the subtitles on the screen. He looks down at his children, one sleeping soundly and one staring up at him.
“You probably have no idea what’s going on right now, and you don’t understand what I’m saying. You can’t crawl, and you can’t even eat unless your mom’s holding your bottle for you,” he says to them.
“Your sister, here,” Terry tells Lacey, “even managed to pull her own mitten off, and you woke up in the middle of the night for no reason.” Lacey wriggles slightly, and Terry grins.
“You’ve been alive for only three days, but you two constantly amaze me. You’re so small and helpless, but you’ve got yourself a hat, so everything’s fine.” Gently, he reaches into Cagney’s crib with his free hand and tucks a few stray hairs back under her cap. “By the way, I don’t want to alarm you or anything, but I’m Dad.”
“And, if we’re going to do introductions and everything, you should probably know what we decided to call you,” Terry says. After a glance at the bedroom, just to make sure Sharon’s still asleep, he continues, “First of all, I just want to make it clear that it was your mom’s idea to give you guys stereotypical ‘twin’ names, despite whatever she may tell you later.
“But your mom and I also named you after some pretty brave women, two police officers—Cagney and Lacey. With names like that, you two may just become our nation’s first twin presidents or something.”
Lacey yawns and lets go of his finger, although her eyes are still trained on his.
Terry laughs. Maybe, just maybe, He’s got this, after all.
“Hey, Terry? Um, do you think we could talk for a minute?”
Terry looks up from his paperwork. In front of him stands Jake Peralta, looking far more nervous than Terry has ever seen him. His face is pale, his hands are trembling, and if it weren’t for the fact that he looked fine at lunch half an hour ago, Terry would send him home sick.
“Yes, Peralta, what is it?” Terry asks cautiously.
Wordlessly, Jake just starts walking towards the breakroom, leaving Terry to follow. He collapses onto the couch with his feet tucked under him and squishes himself as close to the armrest as possible. Terry’s quite worried now; this isn’t anything like Jake’s typical behavior at all. Still, he takes the hint and sits on the other end of the couch, and waits patiently for Jake to talk.
“My dad’s thumb’s going to be okay,” Jake says eventually.
“Oh, good, I’m glad.” Terry had assumed so, especially considering the man seems to chop it off every other year.
“Yeah, thanks.” Jake pauses, and for a brief moment, the only sound in the room is his foot jiggling so rapidly that it shakes the couch-cushions.
“Listen, um, when Sharon was pregnant, you were scared, right?”
Oh. That’s where this is going. Amy announced her pregnancy about a week ago, and while Jake spent all of yesterday telling everyone who would listen that he’s going to be a father, Terry knows first-hand about all the mix of emotions he must be feeling right now.
“Yeah, I was. It’s perfectly normal, though, and I’m sure Amy’s pretty nervous too, even if she doesn’t show it. It’s nothing to worry about,” Terry says, trying to reassure him.
Jake’s fingers start drumming against his thigh, and Terry has to resist the urge to reach out and hold them still. “I just—I think I’m worried for all the wrong reasons,” he says finally.
“What do you mean?” Terry asks. “There are no such things as ‘the wrong reasons’ here. I mean, I was completely convinced that my daughters were scared of me until the first night they came home, and you and I both know that’s not true.”
“No, I mean, you never doubted that you would treat them well, right? Like, you knew that they would be the most important things in the world for you?”
Terry nods.
“That’s what I’m nervous about. I was so ready when Amy and I started trying, but yesterday, my dad and grandpa kept insisting there’s a curse on Peralta fathers, and—”
“Wait, you don’t actually believe that, do you?” Terry frowns.
“No. Well, maybe? I didn’t when they first said it, and my dad said I’m different than he was, or whatever, and it makes sense.” Jake pauses and nervously fiddles with the badge hanging around his neck, twisting and untwisting the string around his fingers. “As much as I want to and I’m trying to, I don’t know for sure if I can love them the way you’re supposed to,” he murmurs.
Terry’s eyes widen in surprise, but before he can say anything, Jake’s already standing up.
“Sorry, I’m being dumb. I’m going to go finish that paperwork I was supposed to get done an hour ago.”
“Peralta, sit down,” Terry orders, and Jake immediately plops back onto the couch again, his facial features looking incredulous, but his eyes grateful. “You have nothing to be worried about if that’s what’s bothering you, trust me. Once you hold your child for the first time–”
“That’s the problem!” Jake says, running a hand through his hair. “Everyone keeps saying that, but you know it doesn’t magically kick-in the moment the child is born. Some dads are just not good dads. I grew up with one like that, and I’d hate to do that to—”
“Jake, I’m not talking about other people; I’m talking about you. I’ve seen you with my kids and I saw how excited you were to finally announce your pregnancy. And I’ve met your dad, and you’re nothing like him. Nothing. You have an immense capacity to love.” Terry pauses, and to his relief, Jake visibly relaxes. “It’s guaranteed,” he finishes, somewhat gruffly, but the next thing he knows, Jake is enveloping him in a hug.
Amy knocks out as soon as the nurses wheel their baby to the nursery so the new parents could “get some rest,” but Jake isn’t in the least bit tired. After forty-five minutes have passed—a reasonable amount of time to take a nap for an adult who didn’t just give birth—he walks straight up to the nurses’ station and asks if they could please bring his baby back; he would like some alone-time with him.
Jake leans against the wall and waits impatiently for someone to wheel his baby to their hospital room. A nurse wheels another mom and newborn past the room and Jake smiles when he sees the father (juggling two bags and a balloon) struggling to keep up with his family—that is, until he realizes that he’s going to be in a similar position within a few days. He eyes the giant overnight bag in the corner of the room wearily, but before he can think about the issue further, the door swings open and Jake’s heart immediately thumps into overdrive.
Gently, he walks over and peers at his son, who is sleeping soundly (as newborns do), dressed in a sleeper crocheted by Camila and hat knitted by his mom. “Hi, kiddo,” Jake whispers. “I don’t know if you can hear or understand me right now, but I’m your dad. It’s so nice to finally meet you, one-on-one.” Mac does nothing in response, and Jake decides to take that as a good sign and keep talking.
“You met me and your mom for the first time a little earlier, and you looked pretty much the same way you do now, except slightly more red and wrinkly. Ames got to hold you for longer than I did, though, which isn’t exactly fair. So I brought you back again while she’s sleeping.” Jake grimaces slightly at his own words, then clarifies, “She worked really, really hard today. I’m so proud of her. You’ll love her; I know it. Well, you kind of have to, because she’s your mom, but it’s hard not to. She’s smart and kind and funny and she’s not the best of cooks but that’s okay because she’s amazing at basically everything else. And she loves you so, so much.”
Jake pauses, just staring at his kid—seven-pounds, eight-ounces; nineteen inches long; black, curly hair (“A perfect mix of me and you!” Jake had exclaimed to Amy when he saw it); dark-brown eyes. Ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, two ears, and one (newly-formed) belly-button. Absolutely, completely, one-hundred percent perfect. I helped make that, he thinks in awe.
Jake kneels on the floor, folds his arms across the top of the bassinet, and rests his chin where they meet. “So, what do I do? Well, Amy’s already got your doctor and dentist and even preschool lined up, but you’re also going to want food and clothes and toys, and maybe a bedtime story every night, so I’ll help take care of all of that. And I’ll be doing a lot of other things, too–”
Just then, his son starts drooling a little, and Jake smiles. He grabs a tissue from Amy’s bedside table and gently wipes it off, continuing, “Stuff like this, at least for the first few months. But don’t be embarrassed by it or anything, because I’m a grown-up and I still drool in my sleep. Looks like you and I have a lot in common, huh?”
Mac breathes out a small sigh, and Jake can almost feel the eye-roll he inevitably would have gotten had he been awake and able to understand that. “You think that’s funny?” he asks, and Mac sighs again.
And then Jake’s off, talking about his work (“I solve detective cases, and I’m the best at it. Your mom would beg to differ, though”), his friends (“Well, there’s your Aunt Gina and Tía Rosa and Uncle Terry and Uncle Charles and Grandpa Holt, and I know that’s a lot of people, but you’ll meet all of them soon”), his interests (“Ames says you’re too young for Die Hard—even though you’re named after the best character—but we can watch Disney movies together, play football in the park, and make brownies in the kitchen”), and a million other things besides. At some point, Mac wakes up, but he still doesn’t do much except stare and drool occasionally. Jake doesn’t mind.
He’s in the middle of teaching him how to play rock-paper-scissors when Amy stirs behind them. “Babe? Is everything okay? Why is he in here? Does he need to eat?” she asks groggily.
“You were sleeping, and I was a little bored. But it’s all good, Ames, we’re okay over here. Just having a little conversation.”
Amy smiles, nods, and closes her eyes again. Jake grins fondly.
“So, where were we?” Jake asks, turning back to the bassinet. He’s about to resume explaining the intricacies of the game, but he gets distracted by his son’s hands—they’re no longer clenched into fists like they were previously, but open and moving slightly in the air.
“Hmm, let me try something,” Jake murmurs. He gently presses a finger into an open palm, which immediately closes around it. Woah.
He removes his finger and does it again, and once more, a tiny hand clasps tightly around his. Jake makes a mental note to tell Amy about this phenomenon the next time she wakes up properly.
“Hey, are you holding my finger? You’re holding my hand. Look at that. You’re so smart already.” ac kicks a little, and Jake laughs.
Instantly, something inside of him shifts. When he looks down at the infant currently gripping onto his finger just because, a weight on his mind that he didn’t even know was there disappears immediately.
There’s a special kind of emotion that all parents are said to hold for their children, a connection so deep and intense that it cannot be described in words, and at this moment, it washes over Jake in one powerful wave. He may make mistakes along the way, but he is ready and willing to do anything for his child.
Suddenly, Mac makes a little squeaking noise, and Jake realizes that he accidentally moved his wrist and jostled the bassinet. Gently, he repositions himself to where he was, and the grip on his finger tightens.
“You can hold on for however long you want to, because I’m always going to be here. I’m not going anywhere,” Jake says, rubbing his thumb softly over his son’s hand.
He pauses, then continues, “This isn’t going to mean anything to you, but Terry was right. Terry was right.”