A/N: I debated whether or not to post this right now (and kind of forgot I was going to, tbh), but I need a distraction from doom scrolling. I hope it helps take your mind off of things for a little while, too. This section was divided to keep the chapters somewhat similar in length, so the next update will be a continuation of this one. Also, a little Easter egg reveal: this part takes place around the time of "Devil Went Down to Georgia." I wrote that one knowing Olivia and Amanda were already married, and Amanda was pregnant... I just couldn't tell you and ruin the surprise. The hints are there if you look for them. ;)
CHAPTER 3: Pat-a-Cake
. . .
If Olivia had disliked cake and ice cream served simultaneously before, she was even less of a fan now that she'd seen them mixed together in reverse. It had taken a considerable degree of self-control—and some serious deep breaths through the mouth—for her not to flee the stall, abandoning her pregnant wife face-down in the toilet, to pray to the porcelain god in the next stall over.
Thankfully she managed to keep down her slice of white sheet cake, but the buttercream frosting had left behind a cloying, sticky film that made her lick her teeth every few seconds, and grimace. Any squeamishness she had for vomit was long ago vanquished by cleaning up her mother's frequent and far-reaching bouts of emesis. With three kids and two dogs at home, not to mention a city full of miscreants who had flung everything from a glass eye to very real feces at her, there weren't too many things that grossed her out anymore.
Nevertheless, while she held Amanda's long blonde mane aloft, stroking the shuddering, heaving back beneath it, Olivia had felt her stomach churning dangerously, her mouth gone slack and humid. It was almost as if she were experiencing morning sickness right alongside her wife, but that was preposterous. She had reread every baby how-to book still left on the shelf from her first two adoptions, and was devouring all the parental guides that had been published since—she was aware of couvade syndrome, otherwise known as sympathy pains. And she'd seen a hysterical pregnancy or two on the job. But she wasn't some attention-seeking man trying to steal the limelight from his wife, nor a headcase with an imaginary baby in her belly.
So, why did she still feel vaguely nauseated as she made her way back to the table decorated in pink and white balloons and crêpe paper streamers? Her breasts had been extra tender the past week or so, come to think of it. Some mild cramping, too. Both were symptoms she'd thought long gone, like the menstrual cycle they once heralded. And she had started to doze off at her desk during quiet moments at the precinct; in fact, she felt dead on her feet all of a sudden, barely able to make it to the empty princess throne—a high back chair festooned in more crêpe paper and fairy lights—before sinking down heavily on the tufted upholstery.
Maybe she was experiencing some couvade syndrome, after all. She wanted to curl up in the middle of Matilda's birthday spread, among the floe of paper plates and plastic utensils smeared with icing, puddles of melted strawberry ice cream going stagnant in between (blech), and sleep. Daphne and Kat could watch the girls for twenty minutes. Or sixty. They had rented the party room for three hours . . .
"How's the champeen projectile vomiter of the Upper West Side doing?" came Daphne's chipper little voice, just as Olivia's eyelids were drifting shut. Speak of the devil.
"Hm? Oh. Sorry." Olivia inhaled deeply and sat up straight in the chair that was meant for her three-year-old daughter. The tiny little girl had looked every bit the dainty fairytale princess seated at the head of the table in her specially decorated throne. Now she was off playing in the castle-shaped jungle gym at the opposite end of the royally-themed party room, her faithful subjects (Noah, Jesse, Fin's grandson Jaden, Kat's niece Amira, and three little girls from daycare) tearing through the ball pit moat, the clattering drawbridges, and the chunky plastic turrets like a royal court gone mad.
"She's washing up," Olivia said, yawning just watching the youngsters with their boundless energy and unbridled imagination. If Amanda didn't push the next one out soon, Olivia was going to be too old and exhausted to enjoy motherhood for the fourth and final time. "Got some in her hair. I tried to get her to let me help, but you know how that goes."
"I do it myself," Daphne said, in a perfect, cartoonish imitation of the piping voices that filtered over from the castle keep. Height-wise, the tiny clerk wasn't much bigger than the children she mimicked, at least the older ones. Noah was gaining on her fast.
"Ah, so you have met my wife." Olivia leaned back against the throne and closed her eyes, a tired smile on her lips. She really should be helping Daphne tidy up the ransacked table, but God, she was sleepy. "I swear, Daph, sometimes I feel like I'm about to be raising five kids."
"Aww. Your very own Walton's Mountain."
"Ha," Olivia said, fading again. She was almost out, until a taller speaker with a slight husk in her thick Bronx accent joined the conversation.
"What's Walton's Mountain?"
Olivia opened her eyes a crack, peering at her youngest and leggiest officer as if she had asked who The Beatles or Madonna were. Oh God, Olivia thought, lids suddenly snapping wide, she probably didn't know who The Beatles or Madonna were. Luckily, Daphne was staring up at Kat with the same flabbergasted expression, which Kat returned upon finding her boss and her girlfriend both directing it at her—rather accusingly, Olivia might add.
"What?" The young woman shrugged and gestured into a vague corner somewhere. "Is it upstate or something?"
"Oh, honey." Daphne scooped up a glob of the cake icing Matilda had left untouched on her plate, along with most of the cake itself and all the ice cream (Olivia's stomach lowed mournfully), and offered it on her index finger to Kat. When the officer declined, nose wrinkled, Daphne spread the buttercream on her own tongue and helped herself to a second serving before smooshing the plate on top of the tower she'd constructed of mangled leftovers and Chinet. "It's a good thing you're pretty."
"It's from an old television show," Olivia explained to Kat, who looked like she didn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed by Daphne's comment on her beauty.
The pair had been dating since shortly after Olivia and Amanda's wedding, and though they made a cute couple—the height difference alone was visual comedy gold—Olivia got the sense that DaphKat was not long for this world. More often than not, their personalities clashed: Kat never got Daphne's jokes and became mortified whenever the clerk flirted with Olivia or Amanda; meanwhile, Daphne went cross-eyed with boredom when Kat mentioned boxing, health food, or male actors she found attractive ("Who the hell is Armie Hammer, anyway? Isn't that a brand of baking soda?" the baffled clerk had asked her friends after one such conversation). The only thing they seemed able to agree on was that the other was hot.
Olivia gave it three more months, tops. She did enjoy seeing them together, though. It was cute how flustered Kat could get about the romance aspect—especially in front of her captain—and if anyone deserved to be getting laid by a sexy young thing like Tamin, it was Daphne Tyler.
Hopefully these family functions wouldn't be too awkward after they split up, but neither woman was vindictive and Olivia didn't foresee any major drama arising. Good thing, too, because Olivia had decided to ask Amanda's thoughts on making Daphne their new baby's godmother. It wouldn't do to have the godmother and surrogate auntie at each other's throats during birthdays and holidays. Dysfunctional family was one of the many ugly realities Olivia and her wife fought like hell to protect their children from.
"Before your time," Olivia added, when Kat still appeared clueless about The Waltons. Olivia had preferred Charlie's Angels herself. Seventies' Farrah Fawcett had really been something. And don't even get her started on Suzanne Somers in Three's Company . . .
Apparently badass Captain Benson had always been partial to a pair of sapphire eyes, a head of feathery golden hair, and a body so heavenly, the angels themselves extolled its virtues. Lo and behold, here came such a body now, though the face above it had more of a greenish tint than its usual celestial glow.
The blonde locks, previously loose and sinuous, were watered down to a single pale tendril at the end of Amanda's sloppy braid, like a tongue of flame. It coiled lightly at her bosom, which had grown considerably in just the past week; if Olivia didn't know better, she'd say it had gotten bigger in the five or ten minutes since she exited the bathroom. According to Amanda, she had gone up a whole cup size with Jesse months before she started to show anywhere else. She seemed poised to repeat the same generous outpouring with little Apple Pip (the baby's current size and temporary nickname).
Olivia had no complaints. In fact, she and Amanda were planning to take full advantage of the new bounty later that evening—provided they could both stay awake to enjoy the main event. They hadn't made it past foreplay without one of them falling asleep since not long after the positive pregnancy test.
"Ugh," Amanda groaned, slumping into the next chair over and readily melting into the one-armed embrace Olivia extended. Her blonde head, frizzy with dried sweat and the strawberry ice cream that had been on her fingers when she dashed to the bathroom, came to rest on Olivia's shoulder, her elbow hooked over the arm of the chair. She might not like being coddled while pregnant—or any other time—but she was almost always receptive to cuddles.
"Okay, baby?" Olivia asked, sweeping Amanda's bangs back and turning a kiss to her clammy forehead.
"Uh-huh. Think some of my brains came out through my nose in there, and I'll never eat white cake and pink ice cream again, but I'm good." The detective nuzzled at the crook of Olivia's neck, reminiscent of Gigi or Frannie seeking more affection.
"You poor thing," Olivia said indulgently, dotting several more kisses to her wife's brow, not the least bit self-conscious that Daphne and Kat were watching with avid gazes. Until their wives were about to give them something they had longed for their entire lives, something they thought lost to them forever, they just couldn't comprehend the love and gratitude that swelled in Olivia's chest every time she looked into Amanda's sweet face, her breathtaking blue eyes. It was like falling in love all over again. "How about we wrap this up early so you and the pip can go home and rest?"
Amanda opened the eyelids that were fluttering as diligently as butterfly wings in an effort not to close, and peered around Olivia at the gaggle of rambunctious children on the playground equipment. "Nah. Let's let 'em get good and tuckered out. Wear off some of that sugar. They'll sleep better t'night." A wink accompanied the final declaration, Amanda's lips protruding in a lazy pucker Olivia had to duck down to intercept.
Daphne heaved a wistful sigh and twirled a birthday candle between her lips, polishing icing off the untapered end. (Matilda had gotten lots of help from her big bubby and big sissy blowing out the troop of striped candles that encircled the wax number 3 on her Cinderella cake.) There were practically heart emojis floating around the little clerk's head as she looked on the affectionate display with open envy. Kat, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as inclined to swoon.
"Isn't morning sickness supposed to happen in, you know, the morning?" the officer asked, a wary expression on her face. Her stance took on a boxer's defensive sway, as if she might be required to dodge a geyser of puke, shooting from Amanda's mouth like Old Faithful, at any moment.
"Actually, it's a misnomer." Olivia stroked Amanda's arm soothingly when she felt the blonde gearing up for a snappy retort. Pregnancy turned her wife into a bit of a grouch, as well as a vomit factory.
The detective's patience with Tamin was already in short supply, even before the younger woman looked at her like a bomb about to explode. Some of it had to do with the officer constantly flouting Olivia's orders—ironic, considering Amanda's policy on asking forgiveness rather than permission—but there was an element of rivalry to the women's work relationship that simultaneously amused and exhausted their captain. Had she said five children? Make it six. Seven, if she counted Sonny.
Welcome to Walton's Mountain, indeed.
"The nausea can happen at any time of the day," Olivia concluded, splaying her hand protectively on Amanda's belly. It had already become an unconscious habit, and Amanda didn't discourage it, so Olivia didn't check the impulse, either. "Not just mornings."
"Is it like that the entire nine months?" Kat asked, sounding more inquisitive than revolted this time. She held open the trash bag for Daphne to dunk an accordion of stacked plates and smooshed dessert with an unceremonious kerplunk. They did make a good team when it came to the post-celebration clean-up.
Olivia deferred the question to Amanda, not wanting to hog the mommy spotlight. She was trying to keep her excitement for the new baby at a moderate level so she didn't irritate her wife, but she could host an entire TED Talk on morning sickness alone, with all the information she had accumulated on the subject.
"Nah." Amanda sighed heavily, lifting her head with a great deal of effort. The third trimester was going to be a bitch. "Mostly around six to nine weeks is the worst. Some women can have it the whole time, but it was only for that little while with Jess. Hopefully Pippi here will settle into her new digs soon, too."
Amanda's palm rested gently on the back of Olivia's hand, their fingers interlaced over the little pip who was still knitting herself together in the warm, undoubtedly Southern comfort of her mama's womb. Probably sipping a sweet tea on the porch swing that very moment. The thought made Olivia grin, until she caught Daphne smiling moonily at her over an armful of paper cups and quickly schooled her features.
"You two would have a baby who's due on Valentine's Day," Daphne said, trying for accusatory but falling short at petulant as she released the load of cups into the trash like a cloud letting loose a brief torrential downpour. "Do you plan these things in advance, or are you just that disgustingly perfect?"
The married women regarded each other for a moment, then answered in unison, "Disgusting."
"But ixnay on the abybay," Amanda stage whispered, tipping a nod at the kids nearby. They were mid-battle with the plastic balls from the ball pit, the older kids occasionally hitting their targets, while the four younger girls dodged and squealed and missed every toss. No one was listening to the grownup discussion at the table. "We haven't told the rugrats yet. Saving it for tonight, actually."
"Oh boy." That was Daphne, who warned that when her four older brothers were presented with their new baby sister, they had asked how to exchange her for one with a penis.
"Good luck." This from Kat, who related a similar tale: after one night of their newborn sister's ceaseless squalling, she and her sisters had tied several It's a Girl! balloons to the baby's bassinet, in hopes of airlifting her back to the stork from whence she came.
And then Amanda, who hunkered against Olivia like she dreaded what their small brood had in store for them: "Oh Lord." Hers was the most harrowing story of all; convinced that a days-old Kim was the ugliest, most shriveled thing she had ever seen, preschooler Amanda had smeared their mother's makeup all over the newborn's face. "I thought she looked pretty good," Amanda confided, shrugging off the gasps and slightly horrified laughter. "Still got pictures somewhere. Li'l Bozo baby."
Olivia had no amusing stories to contribute, unless you counted meeting your brother for the first time at age thirty-nine and being partly convinced he was a serial rapist like your father. She had been disappointed in her choice of siblings then, too. Fourteen years later she was an only child once again, never meant to be from the start. She said a silent prayer of thanks (she'd taken it up again, since the conception of her youngest daughter—praying) that her children would never know what that felt like.
It almost made up for all the rest; the forty-six years of loneliness and heartache that went before.
"Noah loved Tilly from day one," she said, a fond smile on her lips as she watched the boy, currently shielding his littlest sister from an onslaught of plastic ball artillery. His middle sister leapt into the fray, arms filled to capacity, sending a rainbow-colored volley right back at the misguided fools who dared open fire on her siblings. "And Jess was already part of their lives from the start. I think it was just always meant to be. This family. Us."
A chorus of awww's drew Olivia's attention back to the other women, where her lips were promptly and soundly kissed by Amanda.
"See?" said Daphne, misty-eyed. "Perfectly disgusting."
. . .
