Archive of Our Own

It takes Amy Santiago a while to trust that she's pregnant.

She's waited for those two lines so long, she nearly loses her breath from shock when the second one appears, and when she says the words out loud to Jake, there’s no way to stop the happy tears. Finally, it's their turn. Finally, the universe has given them this, their own little miracle to love and raise. Finally.

The first day is a blur of surprise and elation, both of them trying to wrap their heads around it. They buy a pair of baby pajamas, and she breaks down in tears when Jake says he can't believe their child will wear this. Amy schedules a blood test with the fertility doctor and downloads a pregnancy app, hiding it in a folder in case someone sees her phone. It tells her Baby Peraltiago - the nickname will have to do for now - is the size of an orange seed. She puts her hand to her stomach and tries to imagine something, someone, growing there. It feels absurd.

She's bad at making babies.

The words had initially been an instinctive utterance of her disappointment and bottomless frustration, wondering why her body just couldn't, but she’d been thinking them for a long time. No matter how quick Jake was to say it wasn't her fault, somewhere, she’d already grown certain of it. This was a thing she couldn't control, and Amy Santiago had never been good with lack of control. Awful, in fact. So awful, the universe must have known she wouldn't be able to handle getting pregnant, let alone raising a child. She convinced herself of this and made peace with the fact that she'd need fertility drugs and treatments to have a chance, only to miraculously find out there’s already a tiny embryo growing inside of her.

Amy can’t help but think that somehow, she’ll fuck this up. It’s too good to be true. These kinds of miracles don’t just happen, and definitely not to her.

She smiles along with Jake, pretending she's all happiness and excitement - she is, but only partly - and begins to mentally prepare to lose this baby.

She wakes up early on the morning of the blood test with the need to pee. It's been happening a lot the last few nights - she's aware it's an early pregnancy symptom, but the pessimist in her thinks it might be all the water she's been drinking, trying to cool down from the sweats she still believes is a side effect from the hormones. For all she knows, today’s blood test will show up not pregnant and Amy will be yelled at for wasting their time.

She has to make sure she's not wasting their time.

There's still a carton of two pregnancy tests in their bathroom cabinet. Amy pees on both and puts them down on the chilly floor tiles, sitting down next to them as she watches them develop. One line appears. She presses her nails into her thighs so hard it leaves marks, convincing herself she won't see anything else, and then -

Two lines.

Still pregnant. At least for another day.

Amy puts the used tests back in their carton, making sure to hide it in the same place so Jake won't ask.

She feels dizzy after the blood test, which is unusual. She puts it down to nerves and eats the half-mushed granola bar Jake offers her from his bag, even agreeing to half a bottle of flat orange soda before she's sure she's recovered.

They're separated for the rest of the day, Jake out working a case with Charles (he better not be telling Charles - she told him not to tell Charles) while Amy's busy with patrol schedules. Her heart threatens to pound out of her chest when her phone lights up with a call from the doctor’s office, but she said she’d leave a message, and Amy promised to listen to it with Jake. The hours until their shifts end feel like time dilation, four hours seeming like twelve, but when the clock strikes five, Jake's standing next to her desk and smiling wider than when she told him he could start playing video games again after the temporary ban.

They listen to the message in the car. She holds her breath, gripping her husband’s hand so hard he lets out a little ouch, and then her doctor says Congratulations, Amy, before telling them the hcG numbers that mean she’s most definitely pregnant, and she breaks down into tears.

Jake holds her tight, squeezing her even harder than he did when he first got out of prison, and she can tell he’s crying, too.

“You’re pregnant,” he grins as they eventually pull apart, and for the first time that day, Amy’s able to laugh.

“I’m pregnant.”

“We’re pregnant.”

“We’re really pregnant,” she repeats, finding that the we comes easier than the I. “I can’t believe it.”

It's supposed to sound casual, but Jake frowns. “What do you mean, you can't believe it?”

“I don’t know, it’s… I was scared,” she swallows, trying to wipe away her tears with the stiff material of her uniform jacket, and he nods, slow. “Scared it wasn’t real, I guess.”

“You don’t have to be scared, Ames,” he whispers, thumb swiping across her cheek. “It’s real. As long as we’re together - no matter what, remember?”

“No matter what,” she agrees, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right.”

~

Amy wishes it was that easy, but her anxieties have never been the kind that can be tuned out with the press of the button. They alleviate, and her fear of losing the tiny life that's supposedly growing inside her mitigates for each day they get closer to the magical twelve-week-mark, but they don’t cease. Rather, they shapeshift.

Her first weeks of pregnancy fade into a fog of exhaustion, and most of the time, she’s too tired to be scared. All she’s thinking about is when to take her next nap, and if she’s not thinking about that, she’s crying because she suddenly remembered how beautiful the ending to that book she read two years ago was, or she’s cursing out Hitchcock and Scully for leaving crumbs in their reports even though it’s the textbook definition of a lost cause. The random sweating is exchanged for dizziness and a mild sensation of motion sickness at all times, which is a slow kind of torture, but Amy still worries she’s not feeling her symptoms enough. She still hasn’t thrown up. Should she be throwing up? She’s read about morning sickness as a telltale sign the hormone levels are rising, but hers seem to remain at the same lowkey degree. What if that's a bad sign? What if it means the baby’s not growing like it should be? Jake tells her she’s being ridiculous, but her thoughts won’t calm down until the afternoon she comes home from work to the smell of him cooking bacon, and just a whiff of the smoky, greasy scent has her stomach turning so quickly, it’s pure luck when she makes it to the bathroom.

“I wish it could’ve been something other than bacon,” Jake says when he brings her a glass of water afterwards. “I’m going to miss that.”

“Oh god, don't say the word,” she warns him, trying her hardest to keep from gagging another time. It doesn’t work.

“At least you’ve got one less thing to worry about now,” Jake jokes as he rubs circles between her shoulderblades, making sure her ponytail stays out of the way. “Feeling relieved?”

“Weirdly?” She mutters, still hunched over the toilet. “I am.”

Every night, she stands in front of the wardrobe mirror, trying to find any changes in her body, a piece of physical evidence there’s something happening inside her. There’s no sign of a bump just yet, but Jake gentlemanly points out that her boobs have grown enough to make up for it, and she rolls her eyes before admitting that he’s right.

Bump or no bump, the end of week nine brings their first ultrasound, and any fears or worries are forgotten for a moment when the sonographer points out a grey-and-white jelly bean-shape inside a black space on the screen. Their baby’s heartbeat sounds through the speakers in a quick and even rhythm, and it’s the most beautiful thing Amy’s heard, the most beautiful thing she’s seen to watch proof that their inch-long fetus is alive and well inside of her. Her body's taking care of them, protecting them, and so far, it can’t be doing a completely disastrous job.

~

Then, seemingly from one day to another as she enters her twelfth week of pregnancy, her bump does grow. One morning, Amy’s staring into the mirror as she helplessly tries to do up pants that just won't fit anymore, and when she pulls them down a little and turns to the side, she gasps. What yesterday looked like a bit of bloat is now sticking out into a small rounded shape, not at all huge but definitely notable.

She has a baby bump.

Amy stares at her own reflection for a minute, trying to comprehend the alien changes in it. She wants so bad to love them, especially after how hard they tried, how much she wanted and wants this - but she can’t deny how strange they feel. Her body's started to change, and it's going to keep changing, and it's never going to look the exact same way again. Amy's never been a fan of too much change, and now her body is a vessel of it.

Jake gives her expression a scrutinizing look as he gets out of the shower, wordlessly asking if she's okay. Amy plasters on a smile. She can deal with her body image later. Preferably after breakfast, because she's starving.

She resorts to using a hair tie to fasten the button, hoping the police belt will hide the situation, and makes a note to herself to put in an order for bigger uniform pants.

The next day, they go for their second ultrasound. Amy’s taken by surprise to see how much more human their child looks now - she can make out the head, the body, the legs, the nose - and even more shocked to see how much their baby is moving, flailing their limbs and performing a whole acrobatics number for them. Most of the sonogram pictures come out blurry, but they’re the best thing she’s seen anyway, and as soon as they’re home, she frames them.

“So I haven’t told Charles yet,” Jake says when they’re having dinner that night while Amy shovels pasta in her mouth because god, human-growing takes a lot of energy, and she swears she’s hungry all the time. “Hardest two months of my life, just saying.”

“You went to prison, Jake.”

“Yeah, and I said what I said!” He scrunches his nose and forehead like a toddler who was just given orders to smile. “Fine, maybe not hardest, but - still.”

“I bet it’s been hard for you,” she says. It comes out more poisonous than she meant for it to, and she can see he’s flustered, so she quickly apologizes, shaking her head. “Sorry, babe. I know. It’s been hard for me, too.”

“So…when are we telling people? I know you said not until week twelve, and we’re at thirteen now, so I thought...”

Amy shuffles around a piece of fusilli on her plate, the ravenousness mysteriously gone. “I don’t know. We have to, soon, I guess. I just don’t feel ready yet.”

“Okay,” Jake nods, giving her the comforting smile she swears could solve world poverty and climate change all at once if contained in a bottle and concentrated into an elixir. “You call the shots, babe.”

“It’ll have to be sooner rather than later, though,” she mumbles. “I swear I’m expanding by the day.”

“You can always start carrying case files in front of your stomach,” Jake shrugs, putting another chicken dino bite on his plate. “I’m sure no one would suspect anything.”

~

Part of Amy wants to shout about their pregnancy from the rooftops. It’s the best news she's ever gotten, better than when she got into the academy or when the love of her life asked her to marry him, but still, there's a fear in her heart that it’s all too good to be true. She’s scared - scared to embrace the joy in case it'll make the potential fall steeper, scared she’ll start planning and realize she can’t do this, scared her child is too good for her and her body will inevitably fail them. She lays awake at night before falling asleep, resting a hand on the bump and letting the thoughts come, first the fear and then the subsequent guilt. She’s meant to be enjoying this. She’s not supposed to be worrying. She’s supposed to walk around in a blissful pink haze and knitting little hats for their baby, or whatever it is women are expected to do when they’re pregnant, Amy’s not completely sure - but she’s not supposed to be feeling like this, and maybe, just maybe, she wonders if it means she’ll be a bad mother.

Maybe she wasn’t meant to do this, after all. Maybe she is bad at making babies.

She starts planning anyway. Amy’s always been good at planning, and it makes her feel better now, too. Binder-making is relaxing, choosing pen colors and washi tapes is like getting little boosts of oxytocin pumped right into her blood. She confirms their place in line for the best pre-schools, debates baby names with Jake, and researches the best baby-carriers. She goes down a rabbit hole of breastfeeding versus formula feeding in a parenting forum discussion thread, emerging none the wiser but with a lessened faith in humanity and people’s abilities to respect the decisions of others. She looks up which parenting books are rated highest and buys them all, creating a color-coded schedule for who should aim to read it and when. She even buys Bruce Willis’ book on parenting for Jake, something she questions has much advice of value in it, but the tearful smile and long kiss he gives her as he unwraps his surprise gift convinces her it was a good choice anyway.

Her body keeps growing, in good ways and in bad - she doesn’t hate the boobs, but the way her face roundens feels weird and unfamiliar. Her new uniform pants arrive just in time, and her at-home outfits are switched out for oversized hoodies with pajama pants or tank tops with workout leggings, loose skirts or dresses if she’s going somewhere. She needs to buy proper maternity wear, but it’s daunting and she has no idea what would look good on her anyway. She needs someone else’s honest opinion, but Jake’s uselessly biased - she loves the man, but she could probably come out with clown pants and a pink fur coat and he’d still tell her she looked stunning - so she has to spread the news first, and she’s still not ready.

The bump grows more obvious, and she resorts to Jake’s case file idea, adding onto it with boxes and newspapers and once in desperation, a hazmat suit. Then she’s hit by another wave of guilt for trying to hide what is meant to be something beautiful, proof of a brand new life taking shape inside her, but as much as she loves the idea, her new body intimidates her.

She confesses it to Jake as they’re getting dressed on a morning when they both have off, him effortlessly throwing on a t-shirt and yesterday’s blue-and-grey flannel while she struggles and eventually gives up on trying to button the last pair of jeans to fail her.

“This bump is ridiculous,” she sighs, pulling off the jeans and practically throwing them in the back of her wardrobe, causing Jake to raise an eyebrow when she doesn’t even stop to fold them first. “It just keeps growing.”

“Isn’t it supposed to?”

“Yes! Obviously! That doesn’t mean I can’t feel weird about it! I’m only sixteen weeks, and somehow, I already feel huge.” She grabs a pair of workout leggings, stretching them over the lower half of her belly and groaning when they slide down slightly. “It’s so inconsiderate.”

“You’re really not huge,” he says, shaking his head. “Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter.”

“It would matter to me! Of course I know my body will change with pregnancy. I’m not stupid, Jake, I just… feel weird, about the whole thing.” She closes the wardrobe door, hiding the mirror. “I’m not used to it changing all the time. Not this quickly. And all the books talk about how you’re supposed to feel amazing in the second trimester, all glowy and beautiful and sexy, but there must be something wrong with me, then, because I don’t feel any of that. At all.”

She grabs the same loose black t-shirt she wore yesterday, pulling it over her head and trying to stretch the seams, making sure it's not too tight around her waist. It hides the bump a little, even if not much.

“Ames…” Jake’s forehead wrinkles, lips pursed as he watches her closely, shaking his head. “You're beautiful, okay? Yeah, you look different than before, and you’ll probably look different in a month from right now, but that's not a bad thing.”

“That's easy for you to say,” she grumbles, sitting down on their bed.

“Maybe, but I’m right. You're magical,” he promises, sitting down next to her and tucking a free stand of hair behind her ear. “And glowy, and beautiful. I promise.”

“You're just saying that because you feel like you have to!”

“I’m really not. You’re sexy as hell,” he assures her, eyes widening as he seems to scan her appearance. “And I’m not just saying that. I’m totally digging this leggings look and there's definitely time before our breakfast reservation, if you want to -”

“No, Jake,” she practically wheezes, and he nods quickly. “See - this is another thing! I read you’re supposed to be like, horny all the time in the second trimester, but I feel like I don't know if I’ll ever want to have sex again.”

Jake makes an expression like a sad, mildly offended, puppy.

“It's not about you. It's just all of this,” Amy points demonstratively to her belly, “making me feel weird about myself, and I can't stop thinking.” She sighs, throwing out the words that have been playing on repeat in her head for the last few months. “Jake, what if I wasn't meant to do this?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I wasn't meant to be a mom?”

He goes silent, mouth open but no words coming out. She rarely sees him like that - her husband seems to have a reply to the most pointless of questions - and she looks down at the carpeted floor so she won't have to look right at it.

“Okay, Ames,” he says just as she wonders if she broke him. “That is literally insane.”

“Think of how long we tried! Maybe - maybe I'm not good at this! I don't feel glowy, or domestic, and I love this kid, but it doesn't feel real to think of them existing inside me when I can't feel them yet. And then I think, maybe I’m supposed to be talking to them or reading to them, but I can't do that yet because part of me is still scared we're going to lose them.”

“We’re not,” he says. “And all the other stuff you said - that's okay. Like you said, I'm sure it’ll feel more real once they're kicking, right? That doesn't mean you're not meant to be a mom. Fuck,” he swears, shaking his head in disbelief another time, “you're going to be like, the best mom in the history of moms. If I can be a good dad, then you sure as hell can be the best mom in the whole wide world.”

“I know,” she whispers. “No, I don't. I don't know that. I just want to be good at this, but what if I am bad at making babies?”

“Uh, I think the framed ultrasound pictures we have of our perfectly growing child, with all its important organs in place and who is making cartwheels in there, prove you wrong on that point, honey.” Jake nods to the photos on their dresser, and then to her bump. “Look. You don't have to love every second of this. Honestly, the more you tell me about it, and the more I read in all these books, the more I think it’d be crazy if you did. But you don't need to question whether or not you're going to be a good mom,” he says, voice softening to the level which always seems to melt and heal her heart at the same time. “That's like, the most definite truth there is.”

“Okay.” Amy takes a deep breath before meeting his gaze, trying to let his words crash over the anxious thoughts in her head, rinsing them away like a wave erasing man-made patterns in the sand. For a moment, it feels like it works. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says, factually and adoring at once, and then he looks at her almost-concealed belly again. “Can I -”

She nods, letting his hand stroke over it with so much awe and gentleness before kissing first her lips, then bending down to press a kiss to her bump as well.

“I think it’s the coolest thing ever,” he mumbles. “If that helps.”

“I like it sometimes,” she confesses, blushing as he cups her face with one hand to kiss her again, the other still resting on top of the small protrusion.

She’s lucky, she thinks. When she doesn’t have faith in herself, at least there’s always Jake to trust - biased enough to take her side in just about anything aside from the Halloween Heist, but somehow, so often just the right amount of convincing to make her want to believe him.

(She changes her mind about the sex thing two days after the conversation. God, hormones are a rollercoaster.)

~

They tell the squad a week later. It’s a relief even when it turns out everyone already knew, because finally, the secret is out and Amy can stop hiding behind desks and case files. Charles spends several minutes at Shaw’s that night hugging them both until Amy complains she can’t breathe, Terry talks about the magic of parenthood until she’s certain he’s just repeating himself, and Rosa pulls Amy aside and tells her she already knew before giving her a rare three-second hug.

“You’re pregnant,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s wild, Santiago.”

“Yeah.” Amy takes a sip of her lemon sparkling water. “About that - are you free after lunch tomorrow?”

Amy doesn’t do a whole lot of shopping for new clothes with friends. She buys clothes she knows she’ll keep for a while, and as much as she’s been teased for never changing her style, she’s confident enough in it to know what she likes on her own.

This is different. Maternity wear seems like a jungle to her, the prospect of having to buy a whole new wardrobe making her dizzy with stress, and she needs someone else to help her through this. She could ask Kylie, but Kylie hates shopping even more than Amy and is far too impatient with it to be dragged around stores. Gina isn’t an option - as much as Amy loves her, she’s not in the mood to be gently bullied for two hours straight when she’s insecure enough as it is. By the laws of logic, Rosa becomes the natural choice. She’s honest enough to tell Amy what looks good and what’s terrible, she’s efficient and succinct enough for the mission to render results, and she’s encouraging enough to get Amy to try something new.

“You’re nervous,” she points out as they’re standing outside Old Navy. “Don’t be nervous.”

“Yep, that’s how it works,” Amy mutters back, going through the note in her phone of what she should be looking for another time. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Maybe it’s Rosa’s company, or maybe she was more capable of this than she thought all along, because Mission Maternity Wardrobe is nothing short of a success. Amy picks out three pairs of maternity jeans in different shades, finds maternity leggings so comfortable she’s reluctant to take them off after trying them on, and gets a few basic t-shirts and tank tops before Rosa demands they try and find something that’s, in her words, actually cute. The so-called actually cute options end up being three floral blouses in twist-front or tie-waist models, a burgundy one because it’s her color, a striped jersey dress for summer and a waist-defined floral one, and somehow Rosa gets Amy to model them all in the changing rooms.

“Now do a spin,” she tells her, and Amy rolls her eyes before turning around slowly. “There. You look great.”

“Yeah,” Amy mumbles, letting her hands run over the waist-defining band. “Maybe.”

It still feels a bit bizarre, looking into the mirror and being met by a body shape so different from what she’s used to, but she’s starting to get used to it; even learning to like it some days. Her body’s making a home for someone, as Jake so dutifully reminded her the other morning, and although it terrifies her at times, she can’t deny that it’s a beautiful thought.

A few days later, she feels her baby move for the first time. It’s just quick little flutters, a gentle bubbling sensation that she would’ve mistaken for gas if she hadn’t been so on edge waiting to feel it, but it’s enough to bring her to tears anyway.

It’s not an instant shift - more like a slow growth, strengthening each time she feels another movement - but slowly, Amy starts thinking of their baby as less of an abstract thing she may or may not meet someday, and more of someone real that’s existing inside her, someone that’s step-by-step taking a stronger grip of her heart.

“I want to find out the sex,” she tells Jake as they’re going to bed the night before their eighteen-week ultrasound. “Of the baby. I know we weren’t planning to,” she says as he raises an eyebrow, “and of course it doesn’t matter what they are, but - I think it would make it seem more real to me, if we could just learn something about them. Even if it doesn’t define who they are.”

“No, yeah, you’re right” he nods. “Absolutely, let’s do that.”

“Any bets, Peralta?”

Jake narrows his eyes, putting a hand on top of the bump through her NYPD shirt. “Boy.”

“Really?”

“You think it’s a girl?”

“No? Yes? I honestly have no idea.” Amy shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out. Maybe we could make a party of it?”

~

She passes the halfway point in her pregnancy, and suddenly, the weeks seem to be flying past. She’s less tired, less irritable, and maybe she’s not quite feeling the glow everyone talks about, but her hair is shinier and her skin is better and she’s in a better mood than she’s been for the last five months or so. She puts some of it down to the kicks and finally being able to feel distinct movements, putting her hand somewhere on her belly when she’s laying in bed in the evenings, feeling a gentle tap, tap against her skin.

She starts talking to her son, reading that he should be able to recognize voices soon, and finds that it comes more naturally than she expected. It’s a little weird, giving her an odd sense of stage fright even though she knows it doesn’t matter what she says, but it does help her feel like they’re growing a connection when she’ll tell him something about her day or how she hopes he’s doing okay in there, that he’s loved and she can’t wait to meet him, and get a kick or a gentle nudge in response.

She’s felt protective of this life since the day she found out about it, but it’s a great and positive change to be able to feel like she’s starting to know the child she’s protecting. She doesn’t know his name, although it keeps being debated, or what he looks like aside from the gray-and-white sonogram pictures, but she knows he’s most awake at night before they go to bed and that he moves like crazy to the sound of Jake humming renditions of his favorite Taylor Swift-tunes to him, and it feels like the most important information she’s ever known about someone.

Maybe she’s okay at making babies, Amy thinks. She’s wholly certain this child is too good for her, is still worried he’ll be taken away at a moment’s notice, but right now he’s here, and he’s making her want to try her best.

~

The weeks continue to pass, and Amy continues to grow, her skin stretching beyond what she thought was possible and leaving a few violet marks behind. She complains to Jake, wondering how they can still appear when she's using the Bio-Oil every morning and night, but he just tells her they look badass and takes extra care to kiss them when he's saying goodnight to their baby each evening. She'd be lying if she said it didn't help.

The kicks get stronger, growing so obvious she can see from the outside when their son appears to be doing dance numbers or playing football in there. It’s entertaining, and for the most part pretty cute, but it's also growing painful - sometimes he’ll aim a foot towards her ribs and press his head against her bladder, neither of which is the slightest bit comfortable. Occasionally, she’ll wake up in the middle of the night to him twisting and turning inside her, and damn it, Amy knows she won't be sleeping after he's here - she’d love to at least get some rest before. But if she's not waking up because of her baby kicking, she's waking up because her back aches and her lungs feel cramped and on top of it all, she gets heartburn lying down, so it seems she's already unwillingly practicing for what's to come.

There are happy parts, too. Most of them are related to Amy’s favorite thing on Earth; preparation. They put the finishing touches to the nursery Rosa has helped them design, install the car seat in their family-friendly sedan, and get help from Terry with building the crib. They buy more adorable baby clothes, and washing, sorting and folding them into their son’s dresser soon becomes Amy's favorite hobby. All his clothes are so teensy and cute, from the little Harry Potter onesies to the pants with frogs and the white footed pajamas with rainbows, and seeing the items folded after size and kind in the Ikea dresser makes their son’s impending arrival seem that much more real.

She gets even bigger, and even more uncomfortable, but somewhere, she's started to imagine her baby waiting for her on the other side of all this, and so she fights a little bit more. It's a safe and convincing thought, and it keeps her calm - that is, at least until the day it doesn't.

At first, it's a perfectly normal day. She’s on desk duty at work, officially too pregnant to be out in the field anymore, and the workday goes by in a flurry of paperwork and going through applications for who’s going to be her main replacement during maternity leave. When she can’t find anything else to do, she catches up with Rosa in the break room over a cup of tea in the wait for Jake to come back from interviewing suspects for a robbery with Charles, and everything is calm and commonplace until Amy realizes she can’t remember if she’s felt her son move inside her today.

She tries to go back in time. She definitely felt him last night, when Jake spent a good twenty minutes talking to the bump about everything from the case he worked yesterday to the new baby Adidas Superstars he’s bought just so they can match later, and their son responded by aiming a kick almost right at his father’s nose, but she can’t remember anything after that. She slept through the night for once, waking only once or twice to shift position in bed, so she didn’t feel anything then. She rarely feels him move during the mornings, so that’s not unusual, but she usually feels it later in the day.

Except for today. And she’s been still for most of the day - she would have noticed. Nothing comes up when she goes through the day’s actions in her head, and like a tidal wave ready to crash, Amy feels the panic rise in her chest.

She tries to gently poke at her stomach a couple of times, trying to warrant a reaction, but she gets nothing. She presses a little harder, seeing if that’ll help, but is once again met by complete stillness. Rosa raises an eyebrow at her.

“What are you doing, weirdo?”

“Trying to get this kid to move,” Amy mumbles. “He’s not - I can’t feel anything.”

“Couldn’t he just be asleep?”

“I haven’t felt anything for the entire day.”

Rosa narrows her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes! I’m supposed to feel movements every day, and I always do, but I haven't today and I don't know why - fuck, Rosa, what if something’s wrong? We have to call the hospital -”

“Okay, dude, stop spiralling,” Rosa orders her. “Everything's probably fine. Let's google ways to get a baby to kick and go from there.”

They start out simple; eating candy from Jake's desk to cause a sugar high, then a banana. Amy drinks cold water, does jumping jacks until she's out of breath - admittedly, not very long - and tries to lay down and focus, still without being able to feel anything. They even try shining a flashlight and playing music real loud next to the bump, but there's still no reaction, and Amy's panic levels are being elevated by the second. Maybe she should have noticed earlier. Maybe she should already have called the hospital. Maybe something's wrong, deeply wrong, and it's her fault for not being vigilant enough.

Maybe she was right all along about being bad at making babies, and this kid is being taken away from her in order to prove so.

After thirty minutes, Amy's crying. Jake sends her a text that he's being held up and she can go home to wait if she wants, and she leaves him on read because she can't make herself write out the words her head is screaming on repeat; I don't know if our son’s alive, I don't know, I don't know.

“Okay,” Rosa decides when Amy breaks down into another hysterical cry. “That's it. We're calling your doctor. I still think everything’s fine,” she says when Amy gives her a fearful stare, “but you're not going to calm down until you know for sure. Give me your phone. I’ll call Jake, tell him to meet us there.”

The doctor repeats what Rosa’s already told her - probably fine, but best to look up just in case - and not even a full five minutes later, they're driving to the hospital.

It's a silent drive, save from her own sniffling and stuttering breaths as she keeps poking and pressing, desperately trying to annoy her child into moving.

“It's going to be fine, Amy,” Rosa tells her as she lets out another wrecked sob. “Everything's okay.”

“If he dies,” Amy whispers, “if he's already dead - it's my fault for not noticing.”

“Your kid is not going to die, Amy.”

“Stillbirth occurs in one in a hundred pregnancies in the U.S. every year -”

“That's not going to happen.”

“You don't know that.”

“You don't know the opposite,” Rosa says firmly, bringing the conversation to an end while the thoughts in Amy’s head keep racing.

I wasn't meant to do this. I wasn't meant to be a mom. If I can't even keep track of whether my own child is alive, I wasn't meant to do this.

It's a blur when they get to the hospital. They meet up with Jake, who looks about as distraught as she feels with red, puffy eyes and a broken, bleeding lip he keeps picking on. She wonders how on Earth he managed to drive there. They shake hands with a red-headed nurse in glasses who tells Amy and Jake to follow her into an examination room, letting them know they're just going to perform a quick non-stress test in order to monitor the heartbeat. Amy wonders if she's going to throw up from anxiety, but there's no time to reflect, because soon she's being asked to lie down on an examination bed and having her shirt pulled up so they can strap monitors to her stomach. Jake's squeezing her hand so tight, she thinks it might break, and then -

There's a kick, strong and obvious right against one of the monitors, making Amy flinch.

“He moved,” she confesses, a little sheepish, and the nurse laughs.

“I saw. They often do once we start the monitors, like they can feel they're being watched.”

“God,” she blushes, feeling another kick, then a third. “I'm sorry I took your time -”

“You did the right thing,” the nurse assures her. “I can assure you, this is all very common. Babies will move less as they grow and get more cramped in there, but if you're worried, it's always best to call.”

“Okay.” Amy exhales. “So do we just... go home?”

“We’ll monitor you for about an hour, make sure everything’s good. But it's looking just fine,” she says, pointing to the graph on the screen that shows the baby’s heartbeat. “So you can relax. Baby’s doing perfectly.”

“Of course he is,” Jake mumbles from the chair next to her. She closes her eyes, nodding, and focuses on the feeling of their baby trying to stretch his legs in there, suddenly more than happy to perform his usual performances. Not dead.

The nurse leaves the room after a while, leaving Jake and Amy to themselves.

“So you look like a mess,” Jake tells her as soon as they're alone, causing her to roll her eyes.

“So do you.”

He grimaces. “Yeah, I was pretty worried.”

“Yeah, well, I thought he was dead and it was all my fault for not noticing, so.”

“Oh, Ames.” Jake shakes his head. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

“I mean,” he laughs. “It is kind of a Peralta move. How many times have you thought I’m in serious danger just because I haven't answered my phone for a couple of hours?”

“How many times have you actually been in serious danger only for me to find out after? I rest my case.”

“Tough but fair.” Jake grins. “I love you. And I’m happy our son’s okay.”

“Me too,” she says, watching the heart rate on the monitor screens. “So happy.”

He leans down, lips trying to meet hers despite the impractical angle, and in right that second, the door opens. They break apart, Jake blushing as they look up at Rosa.

“I was just going to tell you I’m leaving,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And I, uh, got you terrible hospital coffee.” She hands them both a brown paper cup each. “One’s decaf. You’re all okay, right?”

“Okay times three,” Amy nods, and a shadow of relief flickers across Rosa’s face together with the hint of a smile.

“Great. I’ll see you guys, then.”

“She should be the godmother,” Amy whispers when they’re alone again. “I think she’s earned it.”

“I was just going to say the same thing.”

~

Amy's always been bad with boredom. She needs projects, challenges, mental stimulation - whatever the opposite of staying home and resting is. It so follows that when she does go on maternity leave a mere two weeks before her due date, it's with a heavy dose of reluctance, outweighed only by her inability to ignore a superior’s orders. She fails to understand the argumentation of needing to relax for the sake of the baby when frankly, she's more relaxed doing paperwork at the precinct than she is waiting around at home, but an order is an order. Amy stays at home.

She does not, however, relax at home. With two weeks left until their son's expected arrival, her and Jake have checked each and every box off of the previously miles-long to-do-list, leading Amy to start freelancing with her projects. Suddenly, she’s googling recipes, trying to make homemade chili to freeze so they can have meals already prepared when they come home from the hospital, and then she's painting a copy of an ultrasound picture in watercolor that can go in a frame above their son's crib. When she fails to come up with any more ideas, she revisits the previous checklist points, rearranging the books in her son's bookshelf perfectly after color and making sure she's truly considered all possible nicknames for their most likely name candidates.

On one hand, the wait and final preparations are boundlessly exciting. It’s only a matter of days, although it’s driving her crazy not knowing how many, until she gets to meet and hold the person she’s waited for so long now, kiss the sweet little cheeks she's seen on ultrasounds and tell him she loves him to his face. In a matter of days, she can mark pregnancy down as something she's done, something she's capable of, and she’ll have a physical human to prove her fears wrong; she's not bad at making babies, she just needed some time. She’s so ready to not be pregnant anymore - it was a cool experience, but she’s pretty over it after thirty-eight weeks - and the thought that her and Jake will be a family with their son any day now makes her want to speed up time until the moment he’s born. It’s so, so, close, and every morning, she feels like she’s waking up on her birthday knowing today could be the day.

On the other hand, waiting around at home is driving her certifiably crazy. She's too tired and achy to run errands outside on her own, and the mere thought of exercising or taking a walk is grueling, so most of the day, she's stuck in the apartment with her thoughts as only company and plenty of time for reflection. There's barely anything to think about but baby stuff, either - not when her child starts kicking the second Amy as much as tries to open a book, and every inch of their home seems filled with baby things. On her third day on leave, she breaks down.

Jake teases her she's sobbed her way through this pregnancy, and he’s not entirely wrong. Amy's not too proud to admit she's cried at everything from seeing a particularly nice lamp she wishes she'd bought, to their Polish takeout order missing a pierogi. This time, she’s brought to tears by the sight of all the baby clothes neatly folded in their drawers, but it's not an immediate reaction. Rather, it happens like this; she sees the drawers, she opens the drawers, she marvels for a second over how cute everything is, and then she starts to question herself.

Maybe she's sorted everything the wrong way. Right now, onesies are in the top drawer, pajamas in the second and pants and socks in the third, with the fourth one reserved for swaddle blankets and sleeping bags. Maybe she should have done it differently. She's tried to sort the items in categories, but maybe she should do it by color, too. Maybe she should make sure everything's perfectly easy to match, so she won't end up dressing their son in horribly mismatched outfits that he’ll see pictures of when he's older and hate her for. Maybe the pants and socks shouldn't be so low; what if she forgets to prepare a change of clothes ahead, and her son will get cold in the extra time it'll take her to reach down and grab them? For all she knows, an event like that could traumatize him, and he’ll be thirty-two years old in therapy talking about how his trust issues all started when his mother left him freezing on the changing table for a half minute as an infant. Amy can't risk it. She throws out every item on the rug, ready to figure out a new and improved system. She needs to do this right.

She needs a notepad, she realizes. She needs to draw up a proper guide with categories and color-coding, so she goes to her desk in the bedroom to get one. Opening it to the last used page, she finds that she's copied one of many lists she's read on what items to buy for your baby, marking a green check by the things they’ve bought and a red line by the things she decided they wouldn't need. One item on it catches her attention - a bottle warmer, marked as unnecessary since she figured a bowl with warm water has the same effect, but now, Amy gets stuck on it. What if she’ll serve her son milk that is one degree too cold, and he’ll hate it and spit it out and go on hunger strike and starve? She takes up her phone, quickly looks up one she researched briefly before, and puts it in her cart on Amazon. It’s expensive. She hovers with her thumb over the button for a second, doubting, but then she pictures her son refusing to eat because she was too cheap to buy one, and orders it. She can't make any mistakes.

She realizes there are tears in her eyes when she returns to the mess in the nursery, but she doesn't stop to dry them. She has to fix this new system - fix her mistakes, solve every error, before it’s too late. She makes a sketch for a new sorting system. It looks confusing. She rips out the paper and throws it against the door. She draws a new one, trying to come up with a good way to combine sorting the clothes by color and occasion. She can’t come up with anything. She rips out the paper, throwing that against the door, too. She tries to draw another one, but her eyes are too flooded with tears to see clearly, so the drawing ends up messy and she throws the whole notepad away, letting it bounce against the door before falling.

Maybe, Amy thinks, she can’t do this. Maybe the clothes and the bottle warmer are just examples of the many parts about motherhood she won’t be able to handle. She’s always wanted kids, always wanted to build a safe and loving family without the rigid pressure she herself grew up with, but what’s to guarantee she’ll actually make a good mother? She’s never done it before. Maybe she’s permanently tainted by her own childhood and will unconsciously carry forth the same self-judgement and anxiety onto her kids. Maybe she’s too much of a rule-stickler to be able to raise children, or maybe she’s too anxious and will be forever unable to let her kids try anything because of her own fear. Maybe she’ll do everything, each little detailed plausible micro-decision out there, wrong. Maybe her son won’t like her. Maybe he’ll hate her.

Maybe she wasn’t meant to do this, and she was right all along about being bad at making babies.

She picks up a onesie at random and unfolds it. It’s one that Jake bought on what he claimed counted as her first Mother’s Day, with an illustration of two pandas with the writing I love my mommy beary much!. She cried when she first got it, and she cries when she sees it now, quickly folding it again and putting it down so she can’t see it.

“Ames? What’s happening?”

She looks up. Jake’s standing in the doorway, trained detective-eyes scanning the scene and looking from the pile of clothes on the floor to Amy’s wrecked expression and red-blotchy face. She must’ve been too distracted to even hear him come in, she realizes, giving her no time to collect herself and pretend like she’s not in the middle of a grand chaotic meltdown.

“Hi,” she sniffles, drying her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. “I’m, uh - just folding some clothes.”

“While crying like someone just told you they made binders illegal?” Jake asks with a skeptic half-smile, taking off his messenger bag and sitting down in front of her. “Something’s up. Wanna tell me the cause of… this?” He nods to the clothes surrounding them.

“What if our son’s going to hate me?” She blurts out before she can change her mind. “What if I do all of this wrong?”

Jake narrows his eyes, like he's trying to judge if she's joking, but she stares straight ahead.

“You're really worried about that?” He says, tones of confusion in his voice, and Amy nods. “Ames, come on. That's insane.”

“Why would it be insane? I was just looking at these drawers today, and then I realized I’ve sorted them wrong because if I forget to prepare a change of clothes and the pants are in the third drawer, maybe he'll get cold in the time it takes to grab them, and it's a bad system, Jake!” She has to take a break from speaking, a few sentences enough to get her out of breath. “Look at me! I can't even sort drawers properly! And you know how I said we wouldn't need a bottle warmer because it was a waste of money?”

“Sure,” he hesitates.

“Well, I got scared he wouldn't eat otherwise, so I ordered one anyway. I thought we were ready for this baby, but that's just the mistakes I discovered today! And they're catastrophes!” She shakes her head, drying more tears from her cheeks. “Who’s to say how many more mistakes I’ve made already? He's not even here yet!”

“Hey, hey, slow down.” Jake rests his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them carefully. “Babe, those are not catastrophes. The drawer system is exactly how every normal person sorts clothes. It's perfectly fine.”

“It is?”

He nods. Amy looks into his eyes for a second, trying to let some of the calm she finds there spread to her, slow her hurried breathing.

“We could prepare a box with some clothes on the table so they're quick to reach,” Jake shrugs to the space next to the changing pad. “That could work, if you're really worried, right?”

“I guess.”

“Ames, we’ve got everything prepared. I know we’re ready, you know we’re ready. Why are you freaking out?”

She looks down, picking up another onesie at random - a grey mini NYPD one, gifted to them by Holt and Kevin - and folding it. “Because I always wanted to be a mom someday. And now I will be, and I’m so happy, but… what if I was wrong to want it? What if I won’t actually be good at it? It’s like what you said when we were trying to get pregnant.” Jake looks puzzled, so she clarifies. “It’s a test you can’t study for.”

“You said there was no such thing.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve changed my mind,” she whispers, swallowing hard. “And I’m scared. What if this kid comes out and he just… doesn’t love me? Or what if I don’t like being a mom? What if I’m terrible at it?”

“None of those scenarios are realistic. First of all, you’re the most lovable person in the universe.”

“You’re just saying that because we’re married!”

“Want me to bring up how many times your ex has proposed to you?” Jake grins. Amy gives him a disapproving glare. “Fine, okay, then. But more than that... “ He shakes his head, looking at her bump with an awe and reverie she’s only seen in the last few months, then looking up at her again. “You’re our son’s home. You’re everything he’s known, and if he’s not obsessed with you, then frankly, I doubt he’s even my kid.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m serious, Ames. Our son will love you. He already does.” Jake takes her hand, resting both on top of the bump. She was convinced their son was currently asleep, but in surprising and perfect timing, there’s a kick against both of their hands. “And you’re not going to be terrible at it. You never could be.”

“How do you know?”

“You know when we had that whole debate-thing about whether to have kids? And how after, I said I wanted kids with you?” Amy nods. “I kind of realized that no matter how scared I am of something, I’m always a little less scared when I’m doing it with you. You’re awesome, and you pretty much ace everything you try. I mean,” he squints and purses his lips. “Maybe not cooking. Or dancing. You’re a pretty bad singer. But -”

“Jake.”

“You’re good at doing things. You’ve rocked the whole pregnancy-thing, and you’re going to do the same with motherhood. I just know it, and it makes me feel safe, because maybe that means I can be a good parent, too, as long as I’m doing it with you.” There’s another kick underneath their palms, and the smile on Jake’s lips is so wide when he feels it, it makes the corners of her mouth twitch, too. “Maybe we’re not going to love every day of it. I mean, Terry complains all the time about how hard parenting is, but he still loves his children, right? Everyone says the good days outweigh the bad ones. And either way, it’s never really a bad day as long as I’m sharing it with you.”

She tears up again at that, but for a good reason this time. A giggle seeps out from her previously anxiety-ridden state, and then she throws her arms around him even though the bump’s made hugging an increasingly challenging ordeal as of lately. Jake doesn’t seem to mind, happy to lean forward and manoeuvre the hug to the best of their capability anyway, and Amy can feel the violent waves of anxiety calm to gentle, harmless splashes as they rest in each other’s arms. She can still feel their son moving around inside her, practicing karate kicks and trying to stretch, and even though it’s getting increasingly uncomfortable for her when he’s this big, it never fails to ease her mind to know he’s alive and doing good.

“You’re going to be the best mom ever, Ames,” Jake whispers, and she decides not to fight him on it.

“I just don’t want to let him down. Or you.”

“You won’t. We won’t. And we’re a great team,” he assures her. “Challenges of parenting got nothing on us.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” His lips brush against the tip of her nose, then her lips, before drawing away. “Come on. Let’s fix the clothes situation.”

He makes them both hot chocolate - right when she thinks her husband couldn’t read her needs better, he still manages to surprise her - and then they refold and sort all the clothes, placing them back in the drawers while they take turns showing the adorable onesies and pajamas to each other. Their son keeps making little excited movements inside her, and minute by minute, Amy feels herself begin to calm down.

Jake is right, she decides. They’re doing this together, and she’s still scared out of her mind, but he’s right - she’s never quite as scared in his company, because she knows they make a damn good team.

She hopes the same system of logic will apply for when she finally meets her son.

~

Giving birth is hard.

Amy had expected it to be, expected a challenge unlike something she'd ever gone through before, but she hadn't expected this. She hadn't expected feeling like her body’s being torn into two parts, like she’s about to pass out any second but somehow never does. It’s a surreal kind of pain, like the worst menstrual cramps she's ever had took steroids, and it's by far the hardest thing she's done. It feels like she wasn’t meant to do this, like no one is supposed to be able to do this, and it’s all she wants to just give up and let someone else take over for just a second, but there’s no one else. Amy has to keep fighting, has to keep breathing somehow, and she squeezes Jake’s hand and shakes her head when he tells her she’s doing so great, she’s strong as hell, and she’s so, so, close now.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” it comes out a fragile whisper when she gets a longed-for break between contractions, and he smiles as he kisses her sweaty forehead.

“Good thing I know you can.”

Somehow, his faith in her is just the right amount of convincing to make her power through at least a few more minutes.

She doubts herself up until the very last second, utterly convinced of her own inability as she fights through the final part with sheer desperation for it all to be over. It doesn’t feel real, it doesn’t feel possible, and she’s in the midst of wondering if there’s any option for her to go unconscious for the remainder of the nightmarish experience when she’s told that it’s only a few more pushes until she gets to meet her son, and that final spur of motivation is all she needs.

A few more deep breaths, a reservoir of strength she never knew she had in her, and then, after what feels like an eternity - a tiny, surprised, squeak.

Then, a louder, sharp, cry that’s instantly the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard.

That’s her son’s voice.

He’s lifted to her chest, and her eyes are blurry from tears as she tries to take in every detail about him. His warmth, his little nose, his gaping mouth as he cries.

“Is he okay?” She manages to get out, almost instinctively, and gets confirmation from her doctor that yes, he is.

Her son is okay. He has adorable round cheeks, a lot more dark hair than she expected, and he’s so, so, soft, and so warm.

“Hey,” she whispers to him, thumb stroking in wonderment over his cheeks as she tries to decide how to introduce herself to the person who’s lived inside her, through her, for the last nine months. “I’m your mom.”

It’s only a few hours before Mac has his first visitors. Charles cries so bad when it’s his turn to hold the baby that Jake has to take Mac away from his shaky arms after less than a minute, which only serves to make Charles cry harder because he’s watching Jake hold his son. Amy gets it - their son looks so at home in Jake’s arms, and it’s a magical feeling to see Jake’s teary, incandescent smile when the newborn grabs his finger with his fist and holds it tight.

She could spend forever watching them. Her husband and her son - her best friend and soulmate, and the life they created together. The only feeling better than watching them together is the moment when Mac is back on her chest, his heart beating against her own, and Amy can’t even begin to understand how deep her love for this child goes. Every now and then, he’ll open his eyes and look right at her like he seems to know exactly who she is, and Amy falls in love a little more. He’s hers, and she’s his. They know each other, and as she meets his curious gaze, Amy knows she will do everything in her power to protect him until the end of times. They’re a team, and a damn good one at that.

When the last of the day's visitors have left, the new little family snuggles up together in Amy's hospital bed. Mac eats for a little bit, then falls asleep the second he stops, and his parents remain staring at him throughout.

“I can't believe he’s so perfect,” Jake mumbles as the snuffles cease and Amy adjusts the infant’s position so that he’s sleeping upright on her chest instead, his little hand resting on her neck. “He’s so perfect, and he’s ours.”

“I know,” she whispers. “Maybe I wasn't that bad at making babies after all.”

Jake smiles. “You never were. We just had to wait a little bit to make a perfect one.”

She nods, running her fingers through the soft hair on Mac's head. “Perfect.”

“You know, if they awarded a prize for making perfect babies, I think you’d win it. I mean, I contributed. But you’d win it.”

“I think they do,” she smiles. “I think the prize is the perfect baby you made.”

Mac hiccups in response, letting out the cutest little shocked noise and making both his parents laugh.

Perfect.