Author's Note: Once upon a time, a couple of months ago in Ghana, my friend cheertennis12 gave me yet another prompt for a new story that went along the lines of: "I have the perfect 50th fanfic for you…Olivia's birthdays, all 16 seasons of them – if you're up for it". We chatted about it a little, shelved it away and I promised her I would write it once I had finished my other stories, at some unspecified point in the future. So consider this the first installment of me making good on my word. Oh and also, a birthday-themed birthday surprise for a lovely person who I am so grateful I got to know a little this year. :) I'll probably update irregularly on a "whenever I have an idea" basis, but it's safe to assume Chapter 2 will be coming before another year is up. Happy birthday, my friend!

"I know what day it is" he announced in the annoying sing-song voice five-year-olds used when they knew a secret, paradoxically destroying the whole concept of the secret by spilling it to everyone. As he leaned over her desk from behind, a cloud of hypermasculine aftershave hit her. He had laid it on a little thick this morning.

"Congratulations. You want a medal for that?"

"Nope. Just part of the job."

"Do I need to ask?" She turned her head to glance up at him, but it was too awkward a position for her neck to hold. The superior grin on her partner's face didn't bode well, but since he had just asked her the previous week how she expected to get into an apartment building without a warrant (answer: ring the doorbell, ask a friendly neighbor to let you in), there was still hope that he was pretty clueless and talking about something completely different. A slight hope.

"It's someone's birthday."

"Yeah, well, someone doesn't want to make a big deal out of it, so don't mention it to anyone, okay?"

"Got it." Elliot leaned in closely. "Happy birthday." The low murmur near her ear sent warm ripples down her spine, and she fought against the urge to shiver, but then he retreated and it was all good.

"Thanks."

"Birthday?" As if he had a radar of some sort, Cassidy popped up out of nowhere right beside them. He had an irritating habit of following people around so he could be right there to "observe" whenever anything "interesting" happened, then provide a running commentary of it. "Hey, why didn't you say? Happy-"

"Shh, not so loud." It seemed to be beyond his imagination that the reason why someone might not have mentioned their birthday was precisely this, because they didn't want another someone to make a big deal out of it.

"-birthday."

"Whose birthday is it?" Munch inquired, returning from his trek to the coffee machine. She was starting to feel like she lived in a rehearsed comedy, because the timing was just a little too perfect. All that was missing was someone jumping out of a cake, or perhaps one of those laughing tapes running in the background.

"Olivia's" Elliot offered helpfully. "She doesn't want anyone to know."

She glared at him, but he held her gaze with a slight smirk around the edges of his mouth, crossing his arms. "And that's working out so well."

Munch shook his head, taking a bite of his sandwich and chewing it slowly. "Birthdays…I don't get them. Everybody has one, what's the big deal?" For once, she agreed with him and his crumb-ridden philosophy. He was making a lot of sense for a guy who kept going on and on about how their computers were about to crash and the world was about to end. She didn't get the fuss about being the centre of attention. The whole thing struck her as pretty childish and self-involved. Being born wasn't an achievement of any sort, and to have to relive it year after year into her thirties seemed like a ridiculous notion.

"Exactly. Look, guys, don't expect me to bring in cookies or anything, it's fine, let's just…move on."

"Which birthday is it, anyway?" Cassidy asked, clearly not listening to a word she had been saying.

"Smooth." Munch patted him on the back. "Nice move."

"What?" His younger partner looked like a cat who had dragged in a dead bird with no clue what he had done wrong.

"You can't ask a woman her age" Elliot butted in a little smugly.

Munch pointed his sandwich at him. "Except when it's a round birthday, then they expect you to know and get all pissed off if you happen to forget."

Sometimes, she wished her ears could be folded inward to drown out the chit chat. There was way too much testosterone in this office, and damn it, where was Monique when you needed her?

"No, not even then. And never get them one of those cards that make a joke about their age unless you want them to sulk forever. Trust me, I'm married and…even I know that."

"Oh yeah? You married to lots of women?" Cassidy commented snidely.

"Okay." She decided to interrupt them before the bickering could begin in earnest. "Thanks for the women's psychology lesson."

Elliot walked around and half sat on her desk, only narrowly missing a pile of papers. "Any plans for tonight?"

"Yes" she said with what she hoped was a mysterious smile. Not that it was any of his business, but it didn't hurt for him, for them to know that she did, in fact, have a life.

"Ooh, a date?"

"You could say that."

Cragen swooped down on them like a quiet bird of prey. "What is this, a coffeeshop? Let's get to work."

"Got it, Captain." She could have sworn she saw the slightest hint of a smile in the look he gave her.

"…so this little girl winds up dead, and no one, not one family member or friend or…anyone noticed anything. They all claim everything seemed fine, like it's normal for a six-year-old to be barely talking. Who does that to a child? I'll never understand it." She hadn't meant to talk about this, but once she had made a start to explain how her work day had been, the word "bad" had been insufficient to describe it. Once the floodgates had opened, it had all come spilling out in a speech probably not intended for the masses. But she had to tell someone, sometimes. It wasn't that she was in the habit of talking about work with people outside work –not that there were that many people outside work she could have spoken to- but sometimes…well. Sometimes, she needed it to be heard. Every once in a while, she needed someone to simply say "wow, I'm sorry, that's messed up" to reassure her that she hadn't lost touch with normality yet. Call it validation or whatever.

Of course, her mother's eyes had glazed over somewhere around 38 seconds into the story as she sipped her wine. That could fall under "self-protection", if one were being kind. (It could also fall under "not really caring", if one were being harsh.) "Didn't you have something else to wear today, dear?" she asked with that irritating look of disappointed concern that should really be reserved for situations where one's daughter is shooting up heroin or preparing for a bank robbery.

"What? Did you hear what I just told you?"

"Yes, yes, it's very sad…" She waved dismissively, nearly knocking her glass off the table in the process. "But let's talk about you. That jacket really isn't very feminine."

Olivia tucked at her shirt. She didn't want to be thinking about this, fretting over clothes, but now that it had been brought up, she couldn't not think about it and it all seemed ridiculously trivial. How was this in any relation to what they had just been talking about? "I wasn't trying to be feminine. I was trying to dress sensibly for work."

"I understand that you're trying to protect yourself-"

"Not the way you think-"

"-but you need to think about the impression you're making."

"The impression of a professional, I hope." She could have explained that when she dressed the way she did, it made her feel more in control, that she got fewer stupid sexist comments from 25-year-old officers who she was supposed to outrank or ogling looks from 50-year-old superiors. She could interview suspects without them getting too distracted and, most importantly, she didn't have to spend hours in front of the mirror every time she got called in spontaneously. She could have said all that yet again, but what was the point? It wasn't as if her mother would listen.

"You're never going to meet anyone if you look unapproachable." For someone who had never gotten a happy ending of her own, she sure seemed to have an unshakable belief in attracting the right kind of man, whoever that was supposed to be.

"I work in sexual offences. Who do you think I meet there?" She felt a stab of guilt at the way her mother's jaw tensed at the mention.

"And I wish you'd reconsider that."

She sighed, cutting her meat. "We've had this conversation. I have a career. I'm good."

"You could have had a career anywhere else, literally anywhere. You were top of your class; is this what you went to college for? Or is it some kind of punishment for me-"

"It's not about you."

"Dealing with…that all the time, it can't be healthy."

"Mother, please. Stop." She was a disappointment, she was doing some sort of juvenile rebellion, she was deliberately putting herself into a dangerous position, she had heard it all before. It would be nice if she could have been spared the pop psychology on her birthday.

"I'm just worried about you."

"Worried about what? That I'll turn out likehim?"

Her mother's lips pressed together, forming a thin line, as they did at every mention of her "father". "I didn't say that."

"You don't need to." A thing could only be stated so many times in anger before it became an accepted fact.

Olivia had had enough of these spontaneous, guilt-ridden waves of concern that happened every once in a while whenever her mother was sober(ish). They tended to manifest themselves in bouts of criticism of her life choices. It wasn't just her job or her decision not to educate herself even further, it was the topics of conversation she chose, the way she dressed, the fact that she was alone and would probably die alone, and who would be there for her in this world once her mother wasn't? No one. (Of course, if she was foolish enough to mention friends or whichever guy she was seeing, they were the wrong choice of people altogether, with not an ounce of good in them, and anyway, you could never, ever rely on other people for anything.)

Once upon a time, she used to crave these little moments of maternal attention like bits of what a normal mother-daughter relationship should look like – at least judging from the things some of her college friends used to complain about, with the nagging and whatnot. As pathetic as it was, she liked it when her mother cared enough to get all overbearing. But then when they did happen –rarely, inconsistently- it felt fake, like an act that was being put together. There was something ironic about her mother's worry now, at the age of 32, when she had been preparing meals for them since she was nine years old. Then again, maybe it wasn't such a coincidence that these moments were happening more often now, when she had a life of her own, when she could walk away. Or maybe she was being unfair and her mother was trying to make amends. Maybe she was changing, working through things, getting better. Ha.

Right now, she was pushing food around her plate listlessly without eating, rearranging the broccoli to separate it from the sauce, then moving it back. It drove Olivia crazy. She knew better than to push it. But she couldn't let it slide. "Something wrong with your food?"

"What? No. No, it's…" She sighed dramatically. "…nothing."

"You should probably eat something then." Although she was on her second glass of wine, not counting the ones she had to have had at home before, she seemed shaky, which was always a suspicious sign for a woman who was accomplished at remaining just functional enough as long as she retained a steady level of alcohol in her system and didn't binge or crash. She was visibly trying here, and Olivia knew that it was probably for her sake, and that somehow made it worse.

"I am." Her mother smiled and cut a small piece of potato, slipping with her knife before getting through.

Olivia averted her gaze, watching the couple who entered the restaurant instead, a flurry of snow dusting the carpet where they had opened the door for a second before it melted. They looked stressed and weary, not at all like restaurant goers on a weekday night. Compared to these people and the argument they had without a doubt just had outside, she thought they were doing pretty well at their performance. They were making an attempt at least. Later, her mother would want to cover the bill, but would have "forgotten" her credit card, so Olivia would pay and she would promise to make up for it, and they would pretend that she wasn't struggling financially, because talking about it was impossible with her mother. It was all about keeping up appearances, and God forbid she should ask for help. but hey, her mother had remembered her birthday and underneath it all, she meant well. And that was something.