Work Text:
January 2022
Amy lies curled up in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting an amber hue across the room. The duvet is pulled up to her chin, and a half-empty glass of water sits precariously on the nightstand. It’s been another exhausting day of nausea. She’s trying to keep a positive mindset, reminding herself that it’s just a bad day, and that she’ll probably feel better tomorrow. Still, it’s easier said than done, especially after spending half the day sprawled on the cold bathroom floor, her body rebelling against every sip of water she forced down. The memories of her first trimester’s worst days resurface, and she shudders at the thought.
The faint sound of the front door closing reaches her ears, followed by the familiar rhythm of Jonah’s footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, he appears in the doorway, looking slightly frazzled but as endearing as ever. His work bag hangs off one shoulder, and his tie is askew - like he’s either been too busy to notice or simply doesn’t care anymore.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice warm as he sets his bag down and steps into the room. His gaze immediately lands on her pale face, and his brow furrows with concern as he takes a few steps across the room towards her.
“Hey,” Amy croaks, her voice hoarse from earlier bouts of vomiting. “How was work?”
Jonah doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sits on the bed next to her legs, the mattress dipping under his weight. His eyes scan her face, as his hand comes up to squeeze her shoulder gently. “You’re not feeling well?” he asks, ignoring her question.
“I was throwing up a lot earlier,” Amy replies, her head sinking deeper into the pillow. “But I’m feeling a bit better. How was work?” she repeats, wanting to change the subject so she can focus on something else.
“You should’ve called me,” Jonah says, his voice soft and laced with concern.
Amy sighs, tilting her head slightly to meet his gaze. “Jonah - if I needed to, I would have,” she says honestly. “I stopped throwing up five hours ago, and I’ve managed to keep some food and water down. I’m just tired now, that’s all.”
Jonah nods slowly, though the crease in his brow doesn’t ease. He brushes a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.
“Now, how was work?” Amy repeats for the third time, her tone carrying a hint of mock frustration.
Jonah chuckles, finally relenting. “Good - it was good,” he says, leaning back slightly but keeping one hand on her arm. “Busy, but good.”
“Tell me about it,” Amy requests. “I need the distraction.”
Jonah launches into a recap of his day, a mix of exasperation and humour in his tone. He tells her about meetings with potential voters, brainstorming campaign slogans, and the logistical nightmare of organising events in the dead of winter. He recounts the chaos of trying to get a stubborn printer to work, complete with impressions of his campaign manager’s increasingly dramatic meltdowns.
Amy listens, a tired but genuine smile tugging at her lips. “That damn printer,” she mutters.
“I was this close to throwing it out the window,” Jonah replies, holding his thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “Seriously. I had the window open and everything.”
Amy snorts, the sound turning into a weak laugh. “I can see the headline now: ‘Local City Council Candidate Loses It Over Office Equipment.’”
Jonah grins. “Could be good for my campaign. Voters love a relatable meltdown.”
Amy smirks. “You’re right. Nothing says ‘man of the people’ like hurling a printer into the street.”
They both laugh softly, the sound filling the quiet room. Jonah’s thumb brushes over the back of her hand absentmindedly, a soothing rhythm that makes Amy feel a little lighter, a little less trapped in her own body.
For a moment, they sit in comfortable silence, the weight of the day easing slightly. Jonah breaks it first, his voice low and tentative. “You’re really okay?”
“I’m really okay,” Amy confirms, her voice steady and reassuring.
“And you’ve definitely eaten enough?” he presses.
Amy sighs, but there’s a fondness behind it. “Two pieces of toast and a banana,” she says, holding up two fingers for emphasis. “And two-and-a-half glasses of water.”
Jonah visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping. “Okay, good,” he says softly. “I’m going to get ready for bed. Be right back.”
He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead before disappearing into the en suite. Amy closes her eyes for a moment, letting herself savour the brief reprieve from nausea and the warmth of the bed.
When Jonah returns, he’s swapped his work clothes for his usual bedtime attire: a worn T-shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms. He slips under the duvet beside Amy, pulling the blanket up over his legs with a contented sigh, the kind of sigh that signals the day is finally over.
Amy shuffles closer to him, turning on her side so they're facing each other. Her hand comes up to thread her fingers through his soft, dark hair. “Wanna talk about baby names?” she asks.
Jonah tilts his head to look at her, a thoughtful expression flickering across his face. “Oh yeah, we should probably start thinking about that,” he says.
“Do you have any ideas?” Amy asks, her fingers gently combing through Jonah’s hair.
“A few,” Jonah says. “What about you?”
Amy sighs, her lips curving into a wry smile. “I always liked the name Joshua,” she says, “but that’s your dick brother’s name.” She rolls her eyes for emphasis, her fingers pausing momentarily in his hair.
Jonah laughs, the sound low and warm, filling the quiet room. “Yeah, we are definitely not using that,” he says, shaking his head at the very idea.
“And there are loads of girls' names I like,” Amy continues, “but that’s obviously not helpful.” She lets her hand fall to his neck, and her thumb comes up to trace his jaw.
Jonah chuckles again, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as his hand reaches out to rest on her arm. His thumb strokes absentmindedly against her skin. “Are any of them unisex?” he asks, his tone curious.
Amy tilts her head to the side, her gaze drifting upward as she thinks. “'Bailey' could work for a boy,” she says after a moment, her voice thoughtful.
“Bailey’s nice,” Jonah says, nodding slowly as if trying the name out in his mind. “Yeah, I like Bailey.” His brow furrows slightly in concentration, as though imagining their future child introducing themselves.
“What names have you thought of?” Amy asks, her fingers returning to comb gently through his hair.
“I’ve always liked the name 'Carter',” he says.
“Carter…” Amy repeats, letting the name roll off her tongue as she mulls it over. Her expression shifts, her eyes widening suddenly. “Jonah!”
“What?” he asks, his brows knitting together in concern.
Amy doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she grabs his hand and presses it firmly to her belly. “He’s moving!”
For a second, Jonah freezes, his hand staying perfectly still as if afraid to miss something. Then, just as he opens his mouth to ask if she’s sure, he feels it - a soft, fluttering sensation beneath his palm, like butterfly wings against his skin.
His eyes widen in awe, his face lighting up with wonder. “That’s him moving?” he whispers, his voice barely audible, as though speaking too loudly might scare the baby away.
Amy nods, her own smile growing as she watches the joy spread across Jonah’s face. “Yeah,” she says softly. “It kind of feels like butterflies at first.”
“That’s amazing,” Jonah breathes, his voice filled with reverence. His hand stays pressed against her belly, his thumb moving in small, gentle circles as if to say hello to the tiny life inside.
They lie there together, hands resting on Amy’s belly, the gentle rhythm of their baby’s movements connecting them in a way that feels surreal.
“I think he just chose his own name,” Amy whispers. Her lips curve into a soft, contented smile as Jonah’s eyes meet her, tinged with hope.
“Yeah?” Jonah asks.
Amy nods, her smile widening. “Yeah.”
Jonah looks down at her belly, his hand still resting gently against it. His expression softens, his features almost reverent as he murmurs, “Hey there, Carter…”
The room falls quiet again, save for the faint rustle of the duvet and the occasional flutter of their baby moving, as if he’s saying hello. They stay like that for a while longer, neither of them wanting to move, both savouring the quiet magic of the moment.