A/N: Part one of my fill for the domesticity meme. Part two will be done in a couple weeks (hopefully).

Big Spoon/Little Spoon:

Due to daddy issues and a constantly working mother, Jake has a bad habit of rolling into the fetal position in his sleep. He always starts out on his back, arms over his head, and then wakes up to find his knees tucked neatly under his chin.

Accommodating Amy into his already too small bed isn't hard at first, because they usually pass out on top of each other after the 'sex timez,' as Jake has taken to calling them. But after the lust starts to smooth out into something sweeter, more gentle and more careful than anything Jake's ever experienced, everything gets awkward.

See, Jake's used to having his own space, and it also doesn't help that he's a total blanket hog. Five nights of little to no cuddling and freezing her ass off without the sheets, and Amy Santiago has finally had enough.

She grabs what little end of the blanket is left and tugs with all her might, freeing Jake from the cocoon of blankets he was safely nestled in.

"Amy," he grumbles, catching the sheet before she can snatch it all away from him. "What are you doing?"

"Fixing our dilemma," Amy snaps, irritated from the lack of sleep she's accumulated from the last few days. She tucks a portion of the sheet under her legs before tossing the rest of it to Jake, which he immediately holds onto.

"Sorry," he murmurs behind a yawn, already ducking his head to assume the fetal position again.

"Oh no you're not," Amy growls, pouncing on him from behind so her arm is around his chest and her leg is haphazardly wrapped around his waist. Jake stiffens from the sudden contact.

"Amy, what do you think you're doing?" he ask quietly, uncomfortable with the feeling of being held down by someone.

"Shut up and sleep, Peralta," she barks, burying her face into the base of his neck. Her breath leaves his hairs standing on end and her arm is too tight around him, but Jake does his best to settle into her grip.

"By latching onto me like a koala?" he jokes, trying to absorb the obvious tension in the room. "Yes," Amy relents, her arm relaxing around him. "I'm used to latching onto other people like this. I have seven older brothers, Jake "

"A fact you never let me forget," he puts in, ready for the slap on the arm before it comes. "I'm used to being the clingy one. That's what little sisters do."
"So you're saying you want to be my sister now?" he snickers.

"No," Amy slaps his arm again. "I'm saying I'm going to throw myself on top of you like this and you're going to deal with it."

"Bossy," Jake notes, but settles back into her chest nonetheless. Amy hesitates, but then kisses his shoulder in thanks for his cooperation before pressing her entire body against his back. Jake's oddly comforted by the gesture and the feeling of her surrounding him.

"Go to sleep," Amy mutters, hitting his arm one last time before settling against his back.

It won't really occur to Jake until a couple mornings later that he's the little spoon in the relationship. By then he doesn't even have the dignity to be ashamed about it.

Favorite non-sexual activity:

He likes catching bad guys with her.

Amy's faster than he is when it comes to chasing perps down the endless streets of Brooklyn. She's surprisingly steady on her practical chunky heels, easily maneuvering around corners and ducking under the projectiles of the previously mentioned perps. Jake usually follows behind, watching her carefully constructed bun come loose as it bobs up and down in the wind. Her blazer fans out behind her and if she's runs fast enough Jake's sure it will slip off her shoulders.

She always, always catches the perp when there's a chase on foot. He's never seen anyone get away when she's the cop sent after them. Amy grabs this particular runner by the collar and easily bring him to his knees, an action so undeniably dominant that Jake can feel it in his groin. She snarls out their rights between heavy breaths and wastes no time cuffing the guy.

When it sinks in that their chase is over, she finally turns on her heel to look at him, eyes wild and her heart still pumping adrenaline.

"N-Nice job, Detective," Jake gasps, resting his hands on his knees. His winded, that's for sure, but he can't stop the grin growing on his face.

Amy stares back at him, still breathing heavily but her eyes watching him like he was another one of her prey. Jake shivers, but holds her gaze.

Suddenly, she shoves the perp up against the wall, away from her, so she can grab Jake by the collar and close the distance between them.

Amy kisses him with a desperation that he's not used experiencing from her. Her mouth moves fast over his and she opens his lips with her tongue. Jake grabs the back of her head for leverage, pulling her body closer to deepen the kiss.

The perp against the wall conspicuously coughs.

Amy pulls away quickly, leaving both of them even more breathless than before. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is almost out of its bun and plastered to her neck, and Jake's sure he doesn't look any more appropriate.

"That's sick," the perp grumbles into the wall, eyeing Jake with disgust. Jake snorts, taking the guy from Amy and leading him to the car.

"You're the sick one," Jake reminds him. "You're being arrested for selling human ears, for God's sake."

Amy laughs behind him, a sound that sends his blood south. When Jake swivels back to see her face, the look she gives him is a far cry from appropriate.

Working with her isn't as great as sex, but it's admittedly damn close.

Voted 'most appropriate' in high school, my ass, Jake thinks.

Who uses all the hot water:

He uses up all the hot water.

Not that he could ever afford his luxurious water bill alone. In fact, the weight of this burden doesn't get any lighter when Amy starts paying the bills with him.

She fails to understand why a grown man would waste hours in a bathtub the same way she fails to understand why Jake has twelve massage chairs.

When she finally bothers to question them, tired of watching their hard earned paychecks sucked dry by his reckless spending, Jake has the nerve to appear offended.

"I'm not a savage," he states, hand on his bare chest as if she wounded him. Jake sinks deeper into the tub until the hot water comes to his neck, then beckons to the object in her hands.

"You're not really in a position to treat yourself like royalty," Amy counters, rolling her eyes as she hands him the bath bomb. She can't imagine Jake walking into a local Lush store and buying the ridiculous amount of bath salts that he has. Amy has a sinking feeling (no pun intended) that he's getting them from Gina.

Regardless, Jake's in love with bubble baths.

"You could join me, you know," Jake says as he drops the little ball of soap into the water.

Amy has to admit that the child in her is fascinated by the way it fizzes and pops, spreading neon streaks of color into the water. First pink, until that layer dissolves into purple, and then pink streaks again. They're quiet as Amy contemplates his offer, both staring intently at the bath bomb shrinking in the water.

"Which bath salt is your favorite?" she asks instead, shifting her weight to her knees. Her butt and thighs were starting to freeze from sitting on the tiled floor for so long. Amy rests her elbows on the edge of the bathtub, propping her chin up on the palms of her hand. She peers at the stack of bath bombs sitting in a pile to her left, and notices Jake visibly perk up in her periphery.

"Dragon's Egg," he grins proudly, pointing with a wet hand to the lavender spotted spheres in the stack. There's a lot, but not as much as the yellow colored spheres.

"You just like the name," Amy snorts, reaching for one of the yellow soaps. She squints to see if she can find a name carved on it. "These are actually your favorites, aren't they?" she confirms.

He chuckles, putting both pink tinted arms in the air, "Guilty. Those are the Fizzbangers."

Amy nods in understanding, "I can see why you don't want to fess up to that. 'Fizzbangers'?" Her nose wrinkles, "God, that's tacky." Jake makes a noise of agreement as he sinks deeper into the water, disappearing until only his eyes are visible. She watches curiously as he sneaks up to her like a shark. They stare at each other when he comes as close as he can in the water, and Amy idly wonders how long Jake can hold his breath for.

Suddenly, he splashes her in the face.

"J-Jake!" she sputters, trying to get the soap taste out of her mouth. "You idiot!" Amy pushes her sleeves back and grabs him by the top the head, using all her strength to dunk him. Jake chokes on a mouthful of soapy water, barely managing to surface before Amy's splashing him.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry!" Jake pleads, making a blind grab for her wrists and somehow capturing both of them. He finally opens his eyes to see the front of her shirt completely soaked, thin enough that he can make out the black lace of her bra. She follows his gaze to her chest, smirking when she catches his slack jawed expression. Jake has the decency to shut his mouth and swallow the saliva that has collected at the bottom before he speaks.

"Are you sure you don't want to join me?" he questions again, trying to waggle his eyebrows in a suggestive way.

She laughs, "Well, looks like I could use a bath now anyway." Jake grins, sitting up so he can reach the for her T shirt and tug over her head. Amy complies, raising her arms in the air to aid him.

"Next," Jake eyes her bra, wet hands skating behind her back and quickly undoing the clasp.
He pulls her close as the bra falls to the floor, and he kisses her slowly. Amy groans into his mouth with the contact of their chests, inwardly annoyed by the porcelain was separating their lower bodies.

She stands, tugging off her shorts and underwear, then stepping out of them and into the water. Jake moves his legs to either side of the tub so she can sit between them. Amy let's out this noise when the warm water envelops her, a sound Jake usually gets out of her when he's kissing her inner thighs. He leans forward to rest his head on her shoulder as he wraps his arms around her waist, tugging her closer.

"This is nice," Amy finally admits, relaxing against him. She feels his laughter vibrate through his chest behind her.

"Bit more than nice, yeah," he agrees, mapping out kisses down the side of her neck.

"Y-You never told me what the name of this one was," Amy stutters, her breath catching when he finds a sensitive spot behind her ear. He stops his ministrations, pulling his mouth away from her neck. She turns a bit to see catch his expression, Jake's very obviously trying to come up with the answer. Amy's about to tell him she really doesn't care when he abruptly startles her with a loud laugh.

"Sex Bomb!" he yells victoriously.

"Sex Bomb?!" she repeats, alarmed by Jake's outburst.

"That's the name of this thing," he explains, pointing wildly to the pink water. Amy takes in a deep breath, recognizing the scent of jasmine and musk.

"It's working pretty well," she notes, purposely admiring the upper part of his chest that wasn't submerged in pink water.

"Admit it," Jake teases, running his hands up and down her sides. "This is worth the price."

She scoffs, "Never."

Contrary to her statement, Amy turns back around and settles against his chest, dozing off to sound of his even breaths and seeing bright pinks and purples behind her eyelids.

'Honey Lumps' end up becoming their favorite bath bomb, and Amy swears Gina is cackling in her lair over the fact she's converted another one of her co workers to the dark side.

Most trivial thing they fight over (or rather: 'Amy immediately responds to Jake's confession'!AU):

"Don't go."

She grabs him by the back of his leather jacket, and Jake freezes, feeling her petite hand against the small of his back.

There's a long moment of silence, and all he can hear is Amy's shaky breathing behind him. He doesn't want to turn around; he doesn't think he can face her again. Jake has poured his heart out and he wants to walk away and let her do what she wants with his confession, let her deal with the consequences of his actions.

Still, when she asks him to stay, her voice fragile in a way he's never heard from her before, Jake just has to stop in his tracks. Yet he doesn't have the courage to repeat his confession or the stomach to handle rejection. So he turns on his heels and says that first thing that comes to mind:

"Oh come on, Amy, you never let me do anything cool!"

It sounds whiny and ungrateful, even more so when he catches the fleeting expression on her face. Amy's big doe eyes narrow into slits; her lips, previously quivering with apprehension, fold up into a scowl. Jake's probably plunged any sentimental feelings she was holding for into the metaphorical toilet, but a small part of him is selfishly glad he still has time to look at her.

"You already said that to Holt," she reminds him. Her voice regains it's usual aggression as she continues, "That line is not going to work with me." Amy's hands go up to her hips, jutting her chin out with furrowed eyebrows; it's the stance she uses to win arguments with. Jake swallows, feeling a bead of sweat drip down his neck. "You're seriously considering this undercover mission. Seriously?" she asks him, incredulous. "Have you even thought this through?"

Now it's his turn to scowl, "Of course I have! It's only six months, that's practically nothing." Jake watches as she tries to retaliate with a response, but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "I just don't understand why you're making a big deal of such a trivial thing "

"You're life is not trivial!" she shouts exasperatedly, banging her fists into her sides in frustration. Jake feels all the air leave his lungs. They fall into a tense silence again, staring at each other. Amy's gaze is unwavering, her lips screwed up into a miserable frown, and Jake swears he can see tears forming on her lower lash line. Guilt builds up in his gut, and finally he sighs, body relaxing as he runs a hand through his hair.

"Why do you care so much?" Jake wonders, eyes shut to block out the image of her distraught face. He never has the energy to fight with her when she's upset.

"Because you matter," she mumbles, and when he opens his eyes he finds hers glued to the ground.

"To whom?" Jake prompts, stepping into her space so she's left to stare at his sneakers. Amy takes two steps back, and he pretends like the action doesn't leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Amy bites her lip and he holds his breath, both of them understanding that this was a fight or flight moment. Slowly, she raises her gaze his.

"F-Fine," Amy stutters, and he sees her resolve before she even states it. "Just go. Go and come back safely," she tells him, and Jake nods numbly, feeling his heart shatter.

Flight, he thinks. She chose flight.

He's about to walk away again, for good this time, when Amy seizes him by the collar of his leather jacket. She pulls him down to her level, planting a clumsy kiss on the corner of his mouth. Jake's eyes are open wide the whole time, and after she still keeps her face close to his. When speaks, her lips brush against his lightly.

"D-Don't," she shudders, hands releasing his collar. Amy takes two steps back again, this time to get her bearings. She takes a deep breath, then looks him in the eye. He's struck by the intensity in her gaze. "Don't die," Amy whispers, her charge almost carried away with the wind.

He gives her a genuine smile, one that threatens to break his face, "I won't."

Who does most of the cleaning:

"Wow, this place is starting to look like a very nice, lived in, lesbian apartment," Gina notes as she crosses the threshold into the Santiago Peralta home. Jake laughs as Amy's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"What does that even mean?" she murmurs to Jake.

"No clue," he replies, still chuckling.

"So I'm guessing Amy is the one who makes sure that the floors are actually visible?" Gina quips, tossing her purse onto their clean coffee table. She drops herself unceremoniously onto the couch, propping her feet up on to the previously mentioned clean table.

"Jake's useless," Amy agrees, heading into the kitchen to make coffee. She tries not to let the sight of Gina's dirty ballet flats on her clean table bother the hell out of her.

"I resent that statement," Jake pouts, crossing his arms. He plops down next to Gina, purposely propping his feet up next to hers to piss Amy off. Amy glares at him from the kitchen but doesn't say anything, knowing better than to argue with him when Gina's around to back him up. Jake grins back at her, glad to be protected by the sheer presence of his childhood friend. "I do the laundry," he states proudly.

"Did he turn any of the whites pink yet?" Gina directs the question to Amy, who snickers.

"Blue," she corrects, smirking. "And he always puts too much softener. Our clothes are starting to get greasy and towels aren't absorbing much anymore."

"I just wanted them to be extra soft!" Jake interjects.

"Just so you know, putting extra softener doesn't actually make them softer," Amy clarifies, watching realization dawn on his face. He looks ready to throw a fit, but Gina cuts him off.

"Mmm, yeah. Sorry, Pineapples," she coos as she pats his head condescendingly.

"I'm with Amy on this one, and I still haven't forgiven you for turning my limited edition *NSYNC shirt light pink." Jake has the decency to look ashamed for his past actions. "Plus you're locker still looks a garbage
dump in the Philippines and your bachelor pad was a cross between TLC's Hoarders and Alpine's community dump after one of Dirty Money's house parties," Gina adds.

"What?" Amy mouths to Jake behind her.

"No clue," Jake mouths back with a shrug, as an oblivious Gina continues to detail her dumpster diving experience in P. Diddy's trash.

Who has a season pass on their DVR/who controls the Netflix que:

Jake and Amy have watched every cop movie available on Netflix. They still argue about the order of the "Best Cop Movies of All Time" list.

Amy will never admit it but the action in Die Hard is heart racing, even if the situations are laughably unrealistic for an actually cop. Plus she's got a soft spot for Alan Rickman, and Bruce Willis isn't half bad in this movie either.

Jake would sooner die that say it, but Training Day has suckered him in with it's emotionally rich plot andhundred and twenty two minutes anyway. Just don't tell Amy that, because Washington was her first rabbi and Jake has no right to be checking out 'her man.'

Other than their love for cop movies, Jake and Amy take turns picking out TV shows to barrel through during their free time. Amy prefers crime dramas and Jake likes sitcoms and anything from TLC (the network is practically a religion Gina's converted him to), but they always go back to any variation of the Law & Order. It's a guilty pleasure for them both, though they both agree that the Trial by Jury series is the absolute worst thing ever conceived by Dick Wolf.

Amy makes it a point not to mention just how many episodes of Long Island Medium Jake has gone through on their shared Hulu account (Gina and Jake spend roughly an hour a week at work just talking about that dumb show over lunch), and Jake never bothers confronting her on how many times she's watched that stupid documentary that Holt likes.

They find a middle ground when it comes to their TV preferences, choosing not to judge each other for their choices and put up with the shows they disagree on. It's strangely mature for Jake not to crack jokes when she watches rom coms on Netflix or for Amy to not laugh as he tears up during another episode of A Baby Story.

Actually, sometimes she does laugh when she catches him crying in front of the television, but then Jake simply pulls up her internet history.

"Seriously," he demands, pointing wildly to the screen, "Who cares this much about the creation of contacts?"

Who calls up the landlord when the heat's not working:

Amy, being the ever prepared person that she is, has at least five spare blankets and three space heaters stored in the apartment. They're extremely useful for when she's watching Jake argue over the phone with the landlord over the heating bill.

"What?!" he shouts into the receiver, pacing around angrily in his academy sweatshirt and fuzzy socks. "Of course we paid the bill! Check it again! I definitely mailed it back to you!"

Amy sighs and shuffles over to the kitchen counter with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, feet still warm in her bunny slippers. She leafs through their mail and sighs when she finds the bill.

"Jake," Amy huffs, holding up the envelope and the check. Jake looks absolutely embarrassed as he quietly tells the landlord that he's coming downstairs with the money and please turn up the heat now sir, we're just two cops trying to enjoy our day off.

He sheepishly makes his way out of the apartment, Amy cranks up the intensity on the space heater and quietly reminds herself that this really is the idiot she has chosen to fall in love with.

Who steals the blankets:

It's Jake at first, but then he realizes that a pregnant Amy Santiago-Peralta is quite the force to be reckoned with.

"The baby's cold too," she snarls while yanking the comforter away from him.

Thus begins the best and worst year of his life: nine months of freezing his ass off at night, and then three months of never sleeping.

Who leaves their stuff around:

The usual answer: he does.

From books to clothes to week old food, if it wasn't for Amy, Jake would probably be living in eternal filth. He doesn't feel the need to be tidy, his space is an organized mess, and like Gina he's almost wired to thrive on dysfunction. Almost.

But when Amy quietly (or rather loudly, when she's in a bad mood and literally doesn't want to deal with his shit) cleans up his mess, Jake feels his entire body just relax when he can actually see the floor of his apartment or the full extent of his keyboard.

There's only one notable instance when Amy was caught leaving her stuff around.

Jake's mother decides to visit their apartment, unannounced, of course. Neither of them would have minded if it wasn't for the fact that five minutes before Jake's hand was conveniently up Amy's skirt.

Jake answers the door with an unevenly buttoned shirt and Amy disappears into the kitchen to sort herself out. His mother pushes past him and settles herself on the couch, the same couch they were just making out on.

"Really, Jakey, you haven't answered any of my call " she starts.

"I'm really sorry about that " he tries to interrupt, dropping a glass of water on the coffee table for her.

"And I know you're busy." she eyes his shirt with a bit of revulsion, his mother never really got it into her head that her son has grown up. Frankly, Jake never considered himself a grown man until he got with Amy, so it's a fair assumption on her part.

He undoes and then re-buttons his shirt abashedly, coughing as he tries to think up an appropriate response.

Just then Amy comes in, smelling more like her perfume than herself, shirt perfectly tucked into her skirt, both articles of clothing surprisingly unwrinkled.

His mother likes Amy, or at the very least, she likes Amy more than she's liked any of Jake's previous girlfriends. It's a start.

Amy impresses his mother with her usual hospitality and appropriate conversation topics. She smiles sweetly when his mother makes snide comments about the dollies and refills her water before being asked to.

His mother warms up to Amy eventually, the two women suddenly gossiping like old friends over Jake's strange childhood stories. He's half embarrassed by his mother and half impressed with Amy's social skills, but overall their exchange leaves a warm feeling in his chest.

That is until his mother decides to lift up the couch cushion (probably already suspicious about the actual cleanliness of their apartment) and pulls out something shocking enough to make even a composed Amy Santiago drop the tray of snacks.

Jake can't help it, he just has to crack a joke.

"Well, mom," he manages between chuckles, "we were busy... A moment ago anyway."

His mother flicks the offending scrap of lace at his face as Amy smacks him in the back of the head with the snack tray.

Who remembers to buy milk:

Amy places a fresh wet towel on his forehead and rests her head on his abdomen, and Jake welcomes the pressure on his stomach. He makes a content sound, patting her head to acknowledge his thanks.

Jake's so sick. He's vomited twice and his stomach is still jumping rope with the acid inside. He's sweated through three T shirts already yet still feels like he's frozen to the bone. Amy sighs, rubbing his belly for him with a sympathetic smile.

"Don't drink the sour milk next time," she chides, reaching up to flick his nose.

"Buy fresh milk next time," he groans, pushing her face into his stomach for more relieving pressure. Amy laughs into his shirt and Jake almost flicks her back when another wave a nausea hits him.

Jake's out of bed faster than she can ask him if he's okay, and vomiting into the toilet before she can reach out to comfort him.

He's still grateful for her though, especially when she washes his face and wipes the sweat off the back of his neck for him.

Who remembers anniversaries:

Jake remembers them the week before hand, and Amy has them cataloged in her phone; but when the actual day rolls around, they both forget.