A/N: Well, guys, this is it. The final chapter. I've been having a hard time coming to terms with it—after nearly a year and a half of either writing, thinking about, editing, doing artwork for, or posting this story on a daily basis, it's like saying goodbye to a dear friend, now that it's over. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this fic (and the Devilishverse) since the beginning and left reviews and encouragement. It's so appreciated. A few of you have asked if I'll be writing anymore Devilishverse stories... I hope to. There's a lot of things I'd still like to write for my girls. If life doesn't throw me any major curveballs (knock wood) and y'all still want to read my stories, I'll see what I can do. (P.S. Hey, movienerd1174, you're in luck—Rolivia shotgunning weed is a reference to something I already wrote! Check out chapter 5 of Idle Hands.) Okay. Here we go. I hope you guys like the ending. Hit me up and lemme know!
EPILOGUE: Go with Peace and Love
. . .
"Amanda, I wish I could say that from the first moment I saw you, I knew we would be standing here together. But the truth is, when you walked into my precinct ten years ago, I never would have dreamed this was possible. Not because of the cute blonde ponytail or the sassy Southern drawl—which I'll admit I'm now quite fond of—and not because you were any less extraordinary than the woman I'm marrying today.
"It was because I'd lost hope that someone like you existed. For me. I thought I'd passed up every chance at happiness, at love. The world seemed like such a bleak and lonely place, and I was convinced I was meant to walk through it alone. But then you . . . beautiful, astonishing, incorrigible you.
"You picked me up, dusted me off, and set me back on my feet again. You changed my life in ways I'm only just beginning to fathom, and I can't wait to spend the rest of it with you, figuring it all out the way we do everything best—together.
"I gave you this necklace because you helped me find my way back home. Now I'm giving you this ring because you are my home. I love you, Amanda Jo Rollins-Benson. I trust you with everything I have, with everything I am. I don't have to search for a little pretty out there in the world anymore. She's right here in front of me."
. . .
"Olivia . . . Liv, I'm already regrettin' telling you to go first 'cause nothing I say will ever live up to that. But that's no surprise—I wrote that line before I even heard your vows. That's how perfect I knew they'd be. Because you're perfect. I thought so from the beginning, and I'm more convinced of it now than ever.
"I know, I know, you hate it when I say that. You think your singing voice could peel paint off the walls, and your taste in Netflix series is kind of atrocious— oh wait, that's me who thinks that. But caterwaulin' and weird sci-fi shows aside, you are the most amazing person I ever met. You make me better than I am just by knowing you.
"Oh Lord, okay, now we're both gonna cry. Okay, um . . . oh, and I f-feel so lucky that I get to spend the rest of my life showing you h-how special you are, each and every day. I promise I'll always be there to do that. Always.
"You s-said I was the light that guided you back home, but darlin', you're the reason I shine at all. Can't have a sun or stars without a sky to hold 'em up. That's you. My city girl. My clear blue sky for miles and miles. Until they find a way to stop time or pull down the sun, they're never gonna keep us apart. Let's shine."
There wasn't a dry eye in the sanctuary as they recited their vows, other than Fin's, the kids', and the dogs' (though Gigi's big brown eyes did look a tad misty and she broke loose from Jesse to insert her snout between Olivia and Amanda when the pastor announced their first kiss as married women).
Someone in attendance hooted his approval of the kiss, and Olivia had the sneaking suspicion it was Rafa, who grinned at her from the front pew. Spiffy as ever in a double-breasted pinstripe, his wilderness beard was freshly shorn—thank God—and he looked so much like the old ADA Rafael Barba, she wouldn't have been surprised if he stood up and gave a closing argument during the recessional.
Fortunately, he did not, opting instead to allow Sarah Bareilles the final word, singing the guests out to the front steps of the church to the tune of "I Choose You":
"My whole heart
Will be yours forever
This is a beautiful start
To a lifelong love letter . . . "
The newlyweds made it through the gauntlet of bubbles—an environmentally friendly send-off alternative to tossed rice, chosen for the children's enjoyment and because neither bride wanted to end up with birdseed or biodegradable confetti in their bras—and drove themselves and their brood to the reception hall in Amanda's Jeep. The department had issued Olivia a new SUV, after Henry Mesner totaled the old one, but she'd come to rely on the detective's vehicle and driving in the interim. Maybe she would chauffeur them to the airport tomorrow morning, just to be sure she wasn't getting rusty behind the wheel.
Until a week ago, honeymooning in the Cayman Islands had seemed like a pipe dream. Less than—it hadn't even been considered. They would make do with a long weekend in Cape Cod, freezing their hind ends off at some little B&B along the coast. In mid-March. In Massachusetts.
But then Rafa had appeared like a smug, dapper little angel, waving a pair of tickets to the Caymans that he just happened to have on hand from a family friend in Cuba who just happened to have an empty vacation villa on Grand Cayman. Amanda was going to get her wish to see Olivia's fifty-three-year-old ass parading around the beach in a sexy two-piece after all. And whatever else happened down in those warm white sands would be strictly between Olivia, Amanda, and the Caribbean Sea.
Dancing commenced almost at once, after the toasts (Daphne had 'em rolling in the aisles); the best chicken piccata pasta outside of Italy (Jesse consumed so much of Mrs. Carisi's bruschetta, she was in danger of needing her stomach pumped); and what else but an Italian wedding cake, two-tiered and decorated as professionally as anything you'd find in the display window of a Milan bakery (both brides kept their promise not to smoosh the cake in each other's face).
"Have I mentioned how insanely hot and gorgeous and beautiful you look right now?" Amanda murmured against Olivia's ear as they eased into the slow, swaying rhythm of the music like they were already dipping their toes in the turquoise waters of Seven Mile Beach. "I don't know what that thing you're wearing is called, but sweet Lord in heaven, please tell me it's comin' with us to the islands."
For their first dance, they had agreed upon the Chris Stapleton ballad "Tennessee Whiskey," the song they'd shared their first official slow dance to, in the parking lot of a honkytonk late last summer. It hadn't escaped Olivia's notice that the majority of their reception playlist contained country music anthems. She had chosen half of them herself.
"I think it's called a bodysuit," she chuckled lightly, her cheeks warming at the sight of twelve sets of eyes—neither Cragen or Munch had been out of town, it so happened; they were the only "extended family" invited—focused on her during a rather intimate conversation. Thankfully the guests were far enough away, the music loud enough in the small banquet hall, no one else could overhear.
For the moment, Olivia and Amanda were in their own private world.
"Or maybe a bustier? Anyway, I've got something much better for our honeymoon, love," she confided, turning her lips to Amanda's ear and kissing the perfect pink shell that peeked out from beneath blonde waves. In the pale strands, she could already smell the sun, sand, and surf. "Just consider this the appetizer."
As Stapleton sent his signature note aloft ("'Cause there's nothing like your love to get me high"), Amanda rumbled something along the lines of "Oh my Lord, woman," and tipped Olivia back in a playful, shallow dip that left them both giggling and a bit breathless. Gradually, the detective was regaining her strength, and she had just enough to prevent them from toppling over with that ambitious move.
By the final repetition of the chorus, guests had begun to filter onto the dance floor, each awaiting their chance to cut in with one of the brides—Daphne and Kat, however, only seemed to have eyes for each other since the night of the bachelorette party—but it was the youngest members of the group who got to do the honors.
"May we cut in?"
A tentative tap on the shoulder drew Olivia's attention behind her, where Noah stood with Matilda on his hip and Jesse at his side. He glanced back at Fin for confirmation that he'd phrased the question appropriately and grinned up from beneath his cheerful flower crown when he received a double thumbs-up.
"Yeah, may we?" Jesse asked.
"May we?" Matilda echoed. She stretched out her tiny arms, pale and slender as the limbs of a fawn, to Olivia, but squealed in delight to be intercepted by Amanda.
"C'mere you little French baby," said the detective, eliciting more chime-like giggles and squeals by pretending to gobble the child up in the same manner as Frannie on a ham bone. She hugged Matilda snugly between herself and Olivia, threatening to squish the poor thing senseless. Matilda was thrilled. "Mmm, you smell just like your mommy."
"Me too!" Jesse plastered herself against her mothers' sides, extended an arm high into the air, and leapt, waving her wrist under Amanda's nose. "Mommy put-ed her perfume on us. Even Bubby got some!"
Amanda dodged the heel of the little girl's upthrust hand just in time to avoid contact—and a potential broken nose. "Lord, child," she muttered, but acquiesced to a sniff and an exaggerated hum of approval. She rested her hand on Jesse's back, patting the long golden mane there, of which neither she nor Olivia could bear to see even an inch altered, and offered Noah a soft smile. "That right, son?"
The boy hung back with uncertainty, until Olivia reached for him, gathering him into the tight little clutch of swaying bodies, their gentle rhythm reminding her of a rocking cradle, the angelic harmonies of Little Big Town their lullaby. His family. Her family. Right then, with his head cushioned at her breast and her arms full of love, she felt like the richest woman in the world.
"Uh-huh," Noah said, melting easily into the group. He looped an arm around Olivia's waist, the other around Amanda's, effectively smashing Jesse's face into the huddle. "Is that okay, Ma?"
"Yup." Amanda nodded decidedly, then smiled over at her wife. She took Olivia's hand as they continued to dance, knotting it with hers behind the older children's backs, completing the circle. "I think that's just fine."
The pineapple wedge slid off the toothpick end of Amanda's cocktail umbrella and plopped wetly against her bare chest, right next to one of the small black triangles that comprised her bikini top ("You know eyepatches aren't meant to be worn on your nipples, right, love?" Olivia had teased, a wicked grin on her sun-kissed lips, when she got her first glimpse of the two-piece. The freckle on her top lip was adorably, irresistibly pronounced in the warm Caribbean light).
"Aw man," Amanda said, without much conviction. She started to pluck up the fruit slice, still planning to deposit it in her mouth, along with the two cherries also pierced on the paper parasol that served as a mai tai garnish. Probably tasted like coconut oil now, but she could live with that.
Olivia had other ideas. "I got it," she said, prowling on all fours above Amanda and somehow managing not to overturn the hammock as it lolled beneath them. She tweaked at the stretchy black string that coupled the skimpy triangles she had deemed eyepatches, as if it might twang like a steel guitar. "You just lie back and let me handle this, Blackbeard."
Like she had any room to talk. The cups of her halter-style bikini top were filled to capacity—and then some—the ruched bottoms hugging her full hips enticingly, the little flounce on her shapely backside too cute for words. There were honest-to-God yellow polka dots sprinkled all over the icing white two-piece.
Olivia Rollins-Benson looked like a cupcake. Good enough to eat.
"Aye aye, Cap'n," said Amanda, her smile and her legs stretched out luxuriously, fingers interlaced behind her head.
Then Olivia dipped down to retrieve the chunk of pineapple with her teeth. When she reemerged, the bright yellow fruit clasped between her lips, it reminded Amanda of buried treasure, of infinite riches. It reminded her of gold.
. . .
THE END
