A/N: Been kicking around the idea for parts of this fic for quite a while, but they didn't come together until... certain other elements fell into place. Sorry, I know that's vague, I just don't want to get too spoilery. Anyway. I was trying to finish this in time for Amy's birthday, which also didn't happen. But hey, I'm only, like, a week late? Happy birthday, Amy! I'm splitting this one into four chapters. As usual, contains references to the long fic. Have fun deciding what they are. :D It's very fluffy this time, guys, with some smut towards the end, but don't worry, I haven't abandoned the angst fics. They're still my favorite. I've just been writing so much of it in the long fic, it's nice to have these shorter stories to lighten my (and Rolivia's) mood. Oh, and this chapter and the title of the fic were inspired by a tweet of mine about a jacket I randomly saw on Pinterest, worn by a model who looked freakishly similar to Amanda from behind. I recommend checking out the full-size cover art for this fic on my DeviantArt page (crystallinjen) 'cause it's got some good visuals, including that pic. Read, review, enjoy.
Chapter 1: Mustang Sally
. . .
Howdy Honey! Shall we begin?
Your city girl wants to take you for a spin
So strut on down to her old '65
(Put on your walkin' boots) We'll go for a drive
Your Cap'n's only order: "Bring your wits"
And on your big day here's some fringe benefits
She understood most of the clue, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why Olivia had stolen her cowboy boots. With no further instruction than "Southern casual" and the proffered envelope, she'd gotten dressed—hip-huggin' stonewash jeans with the cozy seat and embroidered pockets that attracted Olivia's hands like magnets; Western-style rockabilly shirt in black, skulls and rose vines stitched along the bodice in white and red relief; messy side-pony just for the heck of it—only to discover that her favorite shitkickers were nowhere to be found in the closet or under the bed.
Honestly, it was an aggressively Southern outfit (except for the boots), but she knew the captain liked her Georgia peach extra peachy.
Opting for a pair of suede booties in a low heel that would inevitably garner a few short jokes, Amanda trotted swiftly from their apartment and down to the parking garage via stairwell. She was much too giddy and impatient to wait on the elevator; besides, elevator rides were no fun anymore if Olivia wasn't in the car with her.
She did, however, discover Olivia in a different sort of a car altogether. The top was down on the '65 Mustang—an ambitious choice for New York in the spring, but Amanda had no complaints, especially with the captain lounging in the driver's seat like a queen on her throne. A very confident, very sexy queen who filled the space around her to the fullest, one arm draped along the window ledge, the other thrown casually across the steering wheel. A pair of Ray-Ban aviators were perched atop her thick, chestnut mane, all tousled waves and pretty tendrils.
She'd worn the leather biker jacket, sleek as black oil and embellished in glinting silver, which had once inspired Amanda to tongue her top teeth coyly and, in her breathiest Sandy Olsson voice, remark, "Tell me about it, stud."
Underneath the jacket, Olivia was snug as a bug in a gray angel hair sweater, partnered with the no-nonsense, straight-legged jeans she preferred (although she had cuffed the hems, exposing a knot of lovely golden ankle) and her Adidas trainers. It was an effortless and cool look that already had Amanda salivating, even before she hurdled the passenger side door and plunked down beside her hot date.
Who said forty-one years meant you had to stop showing off your agility and precision?
"Where we goin', foxy lady?" she asked brightly, flashing a grin both toothy and dimpled. Her secret weapon, but also an indicator of her barely contained excitement. If this birthday was anywhere near as good as the last—and the handwritten clue on embossed stationery seemed like a positive sign—she was in for a real treat.
Olivia eyed her with open amusement, caught off guard only for a moment by the lack of preamble. She swept an approving gaze over Amanda's ensemble and hitched up one corner of her mouth in a wry smile. "That's for me to know and you to find out, pardner."
"You said dress Southern. Figured it was 'bout time I dusted this baby off." Amanda smoothed the sleeves of her stiff cotton shirt, then plucked rakishly at the tips of the collar. James Dean meets honkytonk. She'd owned the shirt since freshman year of college and was rather pleased to find it still fit like a glove.
"Well, once again you have exceeded all my wildest, rootin'-tootin' expectations," Olivia said, fingertips poised beneath Amanda's chin like she was admiring a delicate jewel suspended on a fine gold chain.
Amanda craned her neck and kissed the heel of Olivia's outstretched palm, right at the cleft. To her delight, the hand twitched, goosebumps springing up on the swath of wrist exposed beneath the leather cuff. Secret: her tough-as-nails captain was more sensitive to touch than a sea-anemone, its tendrils wavering in a dreamy underwater dance.
"We don't actually say that, you know," she gruffed, longing to take a nip at the cashmere skin in such close proximity to her lips, to trace her tongue along the branch of blue and purple veins that skittered there. Later, if she was lucky. (And she hadn't bagged her captain by skill or by chance.) "Never in my life have I uttered the words rootin'-tootin'. Word? See, I don't even know the proper compound . . . whatever."
"I think it's a hyphenate," Olivia said, and reached into the backseat, rummaging for something unseen. Her tongue peeked from between her lips, a small, pink hatchling straining its head from the nest. God, Amanda loved her. "And I hate to burst your NYC-transplant bubble, but you totally just said it."
"Dudn't count. I's repeating you."
"Yes, it does."
"Does not."
And they wondered where their children got their tendency to bicker for hours on end—Noah and Jesse, at least. Little Matilda was as compliant and amiable as ever.
"You wanna argue with me," Olivia asked, retracting her arm and bringing with it a large, rectangular box wrapped in rose-gold paper, speckled with shiny stars, "or you wanna open your presents?"
"Presents?" Amanda enunciated the last few letters that pluralized the already appealing word, shoulders bunched around her ears in anticipation. She drumrolled her fingertips together like a greedy old miser in a Christmas cartoon and, receiving a flick of the eyebrow from her sardonic seatmate, declared, "Presents!"
"I thought as much." Olivia handed over the box—fairly light despite the bulge at its center—and pretended to recoil when Amanda seized it into her own lap, gave it a preliminary shake, shredded the paper in two seconds flat. "Happy birthday, little pretty," she chuckled, looping an escaped blonde coil behind Amanda's ear to better view her face.
"You did not," Amanda stated, the lid in her hands, hovering above the open box and the indigo denim folded inside it.
She'd seen the jacket online weeks ago, added it to her shopping cart, then backed off at the last minute. She needed another denim jacket like she needed a hole in the head, and even if this one practically had her name written all over it—actually, it read "Howdy Honey" in golden thread across the back yoke, under the downturned collar and above the wingspan of black fringe that ran the entire back seam—she couldn't justify spending one hundred thirty-eight dollars (plus shipping) of her hard-earned cash on something so frivolous. She had three kids and a hungry captain to feed.
But oh, she'd wanted it. At the time, she hadn't even thought Olivia was listening to her lamentations. The only response she got to her canted laptop screen was a sidelong glance from behind bold-framed reading glasses and a nondescript "hm."
"I did." Olivia looked mighty pleased with herself—as she should. She puckered up for the kiss Amanda launched forward to stamp on her lips, and grinning just as widely, batted at the fringe that did an energetic hula when Amanda unfurled the jacket with a snap. "It's hideous. You'll look adorable."
Amanda tsked. She was already sliding her arms into the sleeves and fluffing the underbrush of baby-fine hair that grew below her ponytail, rescuing it from the collar. The jacket fit perfectly and complimented the rest of her outfit as if she had matched it on purpose. Damn right she looked adorable.
"Thanks, baby. I—"
Before she could say how much she loved the gift, another arrived in her lap—this one also scavenged from the backseat, and heavier than the first, though squatter and not as lumpy. Same pink-champagne paper, a resplendent pink bow fizzing on top.
It took longer to open because of the cloth ribbon cinched around each side of the box, and eventually Olivia reached over to assist, popping the whole thing loose with an expert yank. The strands of ribbon fluttered from her hand like gangling spider legs. She set the bow atop Amanda's head, arranging the streamers as if she were straightening a veil.
Amanda recognized the box she uncovered by its Cowboy Pro logo, designed to resemble tooled leather, and she immediately let out a whoop that bounced from wall to wall inside the cavernous garage. "I know what's in here," she said, giving the box a vigorous shake. Its contents thumped against the cardboard, trying to kick their way free.
"Aww. I guess I'll just have to return them, then . . . " Olivia extended both hands, snickering when the box was jerked out of reach.
"Nuh-uh!" Amanda cast aside the lid and unearthed the cowboy boots from the protective layers of crackling tissue paper and foam. They were indeed the pair she had wanted—beetle-black with a sparkling gold inlay of winged hearts that reminded her of Daryl Dixon's vest in The Walking Dead—pointed out to Olivia in passing during a shopping trip for the kids' school shoes. Again, not the time to be buying things for herself. But she'd lusted after the footwear for at least half an hour, while Olivia stuffed their children's feet into patent leather of all shapes and sizes; and this time, when she made her sales pitch to the frazzled captain, she got a full-on glower. Maybe even a harrumph.
She hugged the boots to her chest now, reveling in the scent of brand-spankin' new leather. "Mine. No take backs."
"You sure? You sure?" Olivia repeated the question each time she nipped at the boots with crab-claw fingers, and chuckled each time Amanda dodged her advances. Eventually she surrendered, leaning back against the headrest with a fond smile as she watched Amanda ohh and ahh over the fine craftsmanship of her new favorite shitkickers.
"You like, sweetheart?" she asked, a hand finding its way into Amanda's hair, fingernails scritching lightly at the back of her scalp.
Amanda nodded enthusiastically, flicking her suede booties into the footwell below and replacing them with her rough and rowdy pals, Daryl and Dixon. Slouching down in her seat, she hoisted one leg and then the other onto the dashboard, latching them at the ankle. A risky move in Olivia's pristine pony, but the boots weren't dirty and it was her big day. She was pretty sure she could get away with it.
"I love."
The posture earned her an eye roll from the captain, and a snort when she rotated her ankles, toes tapping at the air—an impromptu happy dance. Nonetheless, Olivia withdrew her phone from an inner pocket of her biker jacket and snapped a quick photo. "Good. Now get your feet off my dash."
Well, it was fun while it lasted. Amanda righted herself and dusted off the thighs of her jeans like she'd just dismounted a real mustang. "So, is this why I couldn't find my old boots anywhere?" she asked, still dancing a little jig on the rubber floor mat. Heel, toe, heel, toe, sliiide.
"Mm-hmm. They're in the trunk." Olivia hitched a thumb over her shoulder nonchalantly, as if taking your significant other's shoes hostage was a normal, everyday occurrence.
"Stole 'em right out from under me, you wily varmint." Amanda tipped sideways and formed her lips into a duckbill, soliciting another kiss. She got it—soundly—and dropped back in her seat, sighing with deep satisfaction, legs kicked out to admire her snazzy attire. "Thanks again, darlin'. You didn't have to spend so much, but I sure do 'preciate it. Best gifts I've gotten since . . . well, since my last birthday."
It was supposed to be a joke; the gifts for her last birthday had included the lighthouse necklace she seldom took off (the charm was tucked inside her shirt that very moment, a sweetly familiar weight against her chest, the way it felt when one of the kids snuck a hand into hers during intense animated battles), a trip to Coney Island, and her first time with Olivia. Definitely one for the books.
But as Amanda started to toss the shoebox into the backseat, the captain cleared her throat loudly and cast a pointed look inside the empty package. Empty, except for the envelope—textured light-peach cardstock, like the first—which Amanda had overlooked in her haste to guard her treasure.
"More?" she asked in wonder, as she dived in and thumbed open the unsealed flap.
"Oh, honey child," said Olivia, lowering her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose and keying on the engine, "we're just getting started."
. . .