A/N: Yay, I'm glad y'all are excited for a Devilishverse Rolivia baby. :) This is probably the most fun I've had writing a fic for this 'verse; I've loved writing each of them, but this one was just... UNICORN RAINBOW FLUFF. That said, this chapter is one of the angstier ones. You know me, I can't write pure fluff for sustained periods of time, lol. (Well, I could, but it would be like when they put Wednesday in the happy hut in Addams Family Values. YouTube it if you don't know what I'm talking about.) Mild trigger warning for mentions of sexual abuse of a minor in this one.
CHAPTER 2: Hickory Dickory Dock
. . .
For a couple in a lesbian relationship, they sure did rely on a stick to determine their fate a lot lately. Thankfully this one didn't involve yoga inversions or being fertilized like her Uncle Chucky's farmland over in Snellville. But she could probably stand to do a few calming poses right now. Or a few hundred pushups. Her leg was bouncing madly.
"Shh," said Olivia, resting a hand atop Amanda's head and stroking it down the length of her hair, smoothing the strands out behind her.
Easy for the captain to say; she was the one wearing an aviation watch that not only told her the time, but whose chronometers measured latitude, longitude, and didn't fluctuate based on atmospheric changes. She could land a damn plane smack-dab in the middle of Amanda's vagina with complete accuracy, thanks to her faithful Breitling. Here's hoping her ejaculation skills were equally precise.
Amanda felt pregnant, she knew that much. No amount of warnings from the OBGYN that inseminations were rarely successful on the first try would convince her otherwise. The OBGYN had never met the Rollins, née Brooks, women, who popped out offspring like donuts on a Krispy Kreme conveyor belt. Grandmama had been one of seven children and gave birth to five of her own. And who knows how many siblings Amanda might have had, if not for her mama's trauma-induced miscarriages?
But her breasts had been tender the past few days, and this morning when she woke up to her wife brandishing a box of Clearblue pregnancy tests and a full jug of Tropicana in her face ("It's pee-pee time," Olivia had declared with a ridiculously wide—and adorable—grin), she'd been able to tell exactly which creamer Olivia had stirred into her breakfast coffee.
That was another trait handed down to her by the women in her family: bloodhound nose. Probably from years of sniffing out other women's perfume on the collars of the men's shirts. Not much good, evolutionarily speaking, but it had been the first indicator she was pregnant with Jesse. And here it was again, with baby number two.
Oh Lord, they were really doing this, weren't they?
"Has it been three minutes yet?" Amanda leaned over from her seat on the toilet lid, craning her neck to see the display window on the Clearblue stick, even though it was right beside her on the counter. She held her breath, willing a plus sign to appear in the empty slot. Despite her jangling dad-blasted nerves, she wanted this baby. This baby whom she had made with Olivia, whom only she could give to Olivia. A perfect, precious thing that no one had ever offered to the captain before, though she deserved it more than anyone.
"Sweetheart, it hasn't even been thirty seconds," Olivia said gently, and captured Amanda's restless hands, which were in danger of shredding the entire toilet paper roll, right down to the cardboard tube. She held them to her waist and took a seat on the edge of the tub, drawing Amanda's attention away from the pregnancy test. "Come on, tell me some more names you like."
"Names?" Amanda asked, vaguely. She tried to sneak a peek over her shoulder at the indicator, but her chin met with a resolute index finger that turned it back to face Olivia. "What names?"
The captain rolled her eyes and gave a light, exasperated sigh, though the wry smile never quite left her lips. She'd been doing that a lot lately—smiling for no reason. During the past four weeks, in particular. "For our child, you doof. I mean, you did shout 'Jesus' a bunch of times when we talked about it last, but I'm thinking we should have a backup in case you don't give birth to the new messiah."
"Huh?"
This time Olivia's sigh was a bit more sincere, her considerable patience being tested by Amanda's obtuse responses. That snapped Amanda out of it, and she snickered as Olivia's meaning sunk in.
The last time they had discussed names was the night of insemination, and it was a short-lived conversation: after fifteen minutes with her legs up the wall, the blood rushing to her brain—and other places—she'd been simultaneously horny and slap-happy, resulting in oddball suggestions (Wally for a boy; Celia, short for ceiling, for a girl) that left Olivia giggling as Amanda kissed her senseless. On the lips and other places. Somehow "Lord God Almighty" and "Yes! Harder!" didn't seem like appropriate choices for their future son or daughter, either.
"Oh, um. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret," Amanda said, sitting forward to confide in her wife, who inclined an ear cutely. Amanda would have kissed it, were there less distance between toilet and tub. "I'm terrible at picking out names. I named Jesse after an outlaw, and her middle name? Eileen? My third-grade teacher. And Frannie Mae? First grade."
Olivia frowned. She even did that pretty. "But I like those names."
Knowing Olivia, she probably would have said that regardless of what Amanda had christened their middle daughter and their pit bull. They were good names, traditional with a hint of Southern charm, but Amanda had already decided that she wanted Olivia to choose their new baby's title. The captain had three children who had all been delivered to her fully formed, their identities already in place, her choice in the matter taken away—worse, not given at all. Even their golden retriever Gigi had belonged to someone else first, been named by someone else.
There was a power in naming things. In guiding your child's—yours and no one else's—destiny by choosing what they would be called, and therefore how they would be perceived by others, forevermore. One thing Amanda's parents had gotten right was her name; growing up she'd hated it, mainly because it was so easily manipulated into a taunt ("Oh Mandy, well, you came and you gave without taking . . ."; "Are you looking for a-man-da hug and kiss?"), but with some perspective and some distance between herself and the assholes from high school, she'd come to appreciate it. A bit cutesy, a bit eighties cliché, but with the blonde hair and blue eyes, it had always worked in her favor.
If anyone deserved to shape their child's future so profoundly, it was Olivia Margaret Rollins-Benson. Whatever she picked would be something beautiful, meaningful, and straight from the heart, Amanda had no doubt. That's just who she was.
"Well, my second-grade teacher was Beulah," Amanda said, shrugging with the indifference of someone choosing pizza toppings. Anchovies? Sure, why not. "I mean, I guess that's—"
"We are not naming our little girl Beulah." Olivia released the breath she'd been holding in a whoosh. Poor thing looked like she was having an aneurysm trying not to blurt that refusal. "I love you, sweetheart, but that is child cruelty and grounds for divorce. In all the states."
Amanda couldn't contain her grin any more than the captain had contained her dismay at the prospect of Beulah. "Okay, then, bossypants. Let's hear yours. And don't say Jurisprudence or Miranda, because those are automatic vetoes."
"I am rather fond of Justice . . . "
"Olivia."
"Okay, okay." Olivia's smile, impish at the corners, turned gradually inward and reflective as she considered for a moment. It took on a shy quality the longer she thought, and she suddenly nibbled her bottom lip, as hesitant as a kid with stage fright. "I kind of like Theodore for a boy. You know, little Teddy? Maybe Theo when he's older. And . . . "
"And for a girl?" Amanda prompted lightly.
No matter what the baby's sex, Olivia would love the child with her entire heart and soul. But they both knew she secretly hoped for a girl. A sweet little angel with big, soulful brown eyes, ebony-dark hair, and features so lovely, they seemed kissed by the gods themselves.
Okay, maybe Olivia wasn't the only one who hoped for another daughter.
"I always—" Olivia gave a bashful scrunch of her shoulder, the way Matilda did whenever she became the center of attention. She looked so vulnerable and unsure of herself right then, Amanda longed to gather her up in a fierce, protective hug. "I always thought that if I had a little girl of my own, I'd like to name her Samantha. Samantha Grace. Sammie, for short. Or Sam."
"Aww, baby, that's real pretty," Amanda said, without needing to exaggerate her approval. It truly was a beautiful name, and she liked that the shortened form had a boyish ring to it. She'd always favored boy names for girls. "I love it. Where'd you come up with that one?"
"Promise not to laugh?"
"Promise." Amanda folded her lips together tightly and drew an X over her heart with the tip of her index finger.
"I was, um, kind of obsessed with Bewitched when I was a kid. I used to run home after school every day to watch the reruns." Olivia scrunched up both shoulders this time, in a sheepish shrug that was almost apologetic.
It sounded like normal enough kid behavior to Amanda—at ten years old, missing an episode of Saved by the Bell had made her practically homicidal—but then, she'd never had Serena Benson to contend with. For Amanda, television had been an escape; for Olivia, it was one more way to let her mother down, to fail at being the perfect daughter who preferred books to the boob tube and showed more concern for the drunk who slapped her around than beloved TV moms who would never.
"Actually, looking back now, I think I just had a crush on Elizabeth Montgomery. Who didn't, right? But I didn't really care about any of the witch stuff. She was just so . . . precious. And Tabitha—you know, the little daughter?"
Amanda nodded. "I used to watch it on Nick at Nite," she said softly, reaching over to catch the lock of hair that fell across Olivia's face each time she glanced down, embarrassed by the admission. She coiled it behind Olivia's ear, trailing her fingers along the jawline below. "Cute kid. Kinda reminds me of Jess."
"Yes!" Olivia beamed at that, bobbing her head enthusiastically. The captain and Jesse had bonded so well in the past year, Amanda sometimes felt like the stepmother, instead of the one who had been Jesse Eileen's personal incubator for nine months, only to then be gutted like a deer carcass to get the little stinker out.
It was good, though—the relationship. Amanda didn't begrudge it for a single minute. Olivia's patience and fondness for Jesse, who made her laugh more than almost anyone, including Amanda, were heartwarming; and Jesse, at a whopping forty-two pounds, had become Olivia's biggest defender. Just the other day, the five-and-a-half-year-old had planted both fists on her hips and blocked Amanda's path when she chased Olivia from the kitchen, threatening to tickle her. "Stop, Mama. You're not allowed to touch Mommy if she says no."
Of course, Jesse had been just as eager to join in on the tickle torture when Amanda explained that they were playing a game and she had Mommy's full consent, despite the shrieks of laughter and Olivia's breathless chants of no-no-no. But Amanda loved that her eldest daughter—their eldest daughter—was determined to stand up for the captain. Olivia had waited a long time for that kind of fierce love and protection. Now she had an entire troop on her side (with one more on the way?), and Jesse Eileen Rollins-Benson to lead the charge.
"She was around my age. Tabitha, that is." Olivia had gained some momentum, hands narrating the tale along with her. She tucked her hair behind both ears, no longer trying to hide the wistful, winsome look in her eye. "Samantha was such a good mom to her. So sweet, patient, and loving. And when Tabitha misbehaved, she never got into trouble, not really. Samantha didn't yell or— or anything. I was too young to understand that it was all fiction. But God, I loved her. I guess, for me, the name just became . . . synonymous with those feelings."
"It's perfect," Amanda almost whispered, not wanting to break the spell cast by that story, as tragic as it was. The saddest part was that Olivia thought of it as a happy childhood memory.
Beaming again, and encouraged by the response, Olivia went on in such an animated tone it took Amanda a moment to make sense of the words that tone conveyed: "And Grace was my mother's middle name. I think it would be a nice way to honor her. The initials would be the same, too. S-G-B. Well, Sammie's would be S-G-R-B, but—"
"No." Amanda didn't mean to state it quite so flatly, so unequivocally, but she was taken aback by the suggestion and went with her knee-jerk reaction—the one that usually got her into a whole heap of trouble. "There's no way in hell we're naming our kid after that woman. Huh-uh."
Olivia's jaw snapped shut with comical abruptness, though nobody laughed. She narrowed her eyes behind the glasses she'd worn to thoroughly read over the pregnancy test instructions, which Amanda would have skimmed and then decided to wing it. "That woman?"
"Yeah, that mean, abusive drunk of a woman. Why would you wanna put that on our kid? To honor what?" Amanda rested her elbows on her knees, ducking down to catch Olivia's gaze as it dropped to her lap, to the hands she tucked between her thighs. "Baby, she beat you. She almost killed you. She did awful things—"
"Don't." Olivia's posture went rigid and perfectly straight, and though she didn't pull away, neither did she offer a hand when Amanda reached for one. "Don't say it."
'It.' Amanda didn't need to ask what that it referred to. Following their most recent trip to the OBGYN, which saw Amanda with her feet in the stirrups, legs cocked wide, vulva flapping in the wind, she had expressed her loathing for gynecological exams and having her vagina rooted through like a department store bargain bin.
Somehow the conversation had turned to first experiences with Pap smears, and Olivia let slip that her first had been imposed by Serena Benson. The woman—that woman—had dragged her teenage daughter to a gynecologist, insisting she needed an exam to rule out pregnancy and chlamydia in the wake of Olivia's engagement to Daniel McNab, the man who had deflowered her a week after her sixteenth birthday.
Rape kits were still in their infancy in those days, barely even heard of outside Chicago, their place of inception, and proving statutory rape hadn't been Serena's main objective anyhow. The exam, Olivia all but admitted, had been a form of punishment. Why else would Serena lock the car doors, tug Olivia inside the doctor's office by the hand (the hair wasn't an option in such a public place), and stand guard in front of the exam room door, watching the entire humiliating process while Olivia turned her face to the wall, refusing to speak or acknowledge her mother's presence?
Amanda had taken it a step further—too far, perhaps—and blurted out the first words that came to mind then, just as she did moments ago. "Babe, do you realize what you're describing? That's— that's medical rape. By proxy, but still. She forced you to be penetrated against your will. I don't care if it was the Eighties or not, that was your body and your decision."
It should have come as no surprise, the revelation about Serena; this was the same woman who had discovered fifteen-year-old Olivia being sexually abused in their kitchen by her latest one-night stand and did nothing to stop it. Actually thanked her traumatized, weeping child for servicing the man in her stead. God, every time Amanda thought about it, she longed to hunt down Serena in the afterlife and punch her damn lights out.
But the look on Olivia's face during that conversation, especially when Amanda uttered the word "rape," had been devastating. "Are you seriously accusing my mother of raping me?" she'd asked, the color gone from her cheeks and her voice. She had wilted like a dying rose when Amanda didn't deny that interpretation. "And you think I'm the one who sees victims where there aren't any? Jesus Christ."
The look had returned, that same searching and desperate supplication for Amanda to take back what she'd said, to absolve Serena of any wrongdoing. Amanda couldn't. It would be her childhood all over again, listening to her mama making excuses for her daddy's abuse, and playing along like a good little Mandy girl. Olivia deserved better than that, even if meant not telling her what she wanted to hear.
"I'm sorry, darlin'," Amanda said now, cupping her hands to Olivia's knees. Thankfully her touch wasn't rebuffed. It hadn't been since late last year, though she sometimes felt her wife stiffen at loud noises or an unexpected caress. Less so in recent months. Perhaps not at all, eventually. "I shouldn't have said it like that. I just— I hate that she hurt you so bad. It makes me really angry. I don't want to associate that stuff with our little girl. You wouldn't want me to put Dean or Beth Anne in the running, would you? Or Charles?"
Why had she added the last part? Why couldn't she ever control her damn tongue? She half expected Olivia to latch on to that, to snap back that, for Christ's sake, she hadn't suggested Daniel or Lewis or the names of any of her other rapists (the men, at least), and what gave Amanda the right to throw those examples in her face? It would have been better if she had gone off that way; Amanda would have felt far less guilt being yelled at than she did when Olivia took her by the hand, forcing a wan smile.
"You're right. Stupid idea. Forget I said anything." Olivia shrugged lightly, as if the matter were already forgotten.
"It's not stupid," Amanda said, squeezing Olivia's wrist, just above her Breitling watch. That reminder of her mother, which Amanda had helped preserve by having it repaired last Christmas. Fuck. "At all. Maybe . . . maybe we could do Samantha Elizabeth instead? That way she'd have both Sams' names, or . . . Oh, or Samantha Margaret? Then she'd be named after you. We'd be honoring you, and I'm all for that."
"Yeah." Olivia tucked her lips together in another semblance of a smile that wasn't, placating Amanda with a small nod and an even smaller pat on the hand. Her voice was small too, when she murmured, "It's been three minutes, love."
"Huh?"
Olivia glanced from her watch to the counter and the pregnancy test Amanda had forgotten completely while arguing hypothetical names for a hypothetical child. Goddamn Serena (Grace, yeah right) Benson. Twenty years in the grave and she was still finding ways to hurt her daughter—and using Amanda to do it. She looked longingly at Olivia, wanting to apologize again, but the captain had that expression: the one she wore when she was fine and ready to move on. It was best not to harp on a subject when she made that face; Amanda often ended up just making it worse with her big damn mouth.
"Oh. Right." Stifling a sigh, she reached back for the test stick and brought it into view, her thumb over the indicator window. She took a deep breath and moved her finger aside, revealing the results for her eyes only, the reverse side of the stick facing Olivia.
"Well?" the captain asked, an anxious note in her higher than usual tone.
Amanda slumped her shoulders heavily, not attempting to hide a second, much deeper sigh. She gazed solemnly past the plus sign that confirmed what she'd already intuited—she was carrying Olivia Benson's child—and gave a discouraged little shake of the head. "Well, the good news is we've got about eight months to decide on a name. Bad news is I'm about to get really damn fat."
"What?" Olivia grabbed the edge of the tub like someone had slammed on the brakes. Her eyes grew progressively wider as she studied Amanda's own widening grin.
"Congrats, little darlin'," Amanda said, as the pregnancy test was snatched from her hand, Olivia squinting distrustfully at the positive results, despite the glasses perched on her cute kittenish nose. "You're gonna be a mommy. Times four. Told you it'd only take one good squirt."
"Amanda!" Olivia was on her feet now, and it was a good thing. For a moment it had appeared she might topple over backwards into the tub in an outburst of sheer excitement. "Don't ever do that to me again, you butthead," she scolded, without taking her eyes off the plastic wand cradled in her hands. She was grinning too, and if Amanda wasn't mistaken, the tears weren't far behind.
The captain might be the biggest badass in all five boroughs, but she was also deeply sensitive and wore her heart on her sleeve. It was one of the many complexities Amanda loved best about her wife. Her Liv.
"Again? Geez, babe, how many kids you plannin' on me poppin' out? Not all us Southern gals are meant to be barefoot and pregnant baby factories, y'know." Snickering, Amanda rose to her feet as well, catching Olivia by the shoulders as the taller woman paced to and fro on the bath mat, oblivious to the joke and everything else but that plus sign. She stooped down to catch a glimpse of warm brown eyes, and sure enough, there were tears shimmering on Olivia's dark lashes and in the rims of her glasses. "Happy, darlin'?"
In lieu of a reply, Amanda found herself lifted off the ground and deposited on the counter beside the sink, where Olivia proceeded to kiss her senseless. "What's that thing you Southern gals say?" Olivia asked, lips love-stained and quirked at the corner when she drew back. "Happy as a pig in shit."
They dissolved into helpless, giddy laughter when Amanda slid the pregnancy test from Olivia's grip, studied it for a moment, then declared in her sultriest Georgia drawl, "Oink oink, baby."
. . .
