I groan in protest, when my alarm clock blares. I hate it, when I just get into a good dream and it goes off. I punch the snooze to get it to stop making noise and fall back against the pillow.

I was just getting into one of the dreams that have been the only thing keeping me sane lately. I was dreaming about my partner.

When I first started dreaming about him, a couple of years ago, I brushed it off as my brain cross-wiring my loneliness and lack of dates with the fact that I get stuck seeing him every day. But now I think my subconscious mind wants to play matchmaker. And it's working.

If I don't want to get yelled at, I have to get up. I get out of bed and turn, doing a quick and sloppy job of making it. I hop a quick shower and get dressed. Then I have enough time to grab a cup of coffee and a piece of toast before I'm out the door.

I lock my door behind me and wait patiently for the elevator. It's old and slow, but it's an elevator.

Elliot's waiting for me, impatiently, parked on the curb. "I thought you died." He comments, grumpily. He's not a morning person.

"Good morning to you, too." I tell him, sliding into the passenger seat. "Is it my fault the elevator's ancient?" We have this exchange almost every morning.

Stuck in traffic, as usual on a weekday morning in Manhattan, he turns to me. "Liv?"

"Hmm?" I'm staring at the black Lexus in front of us. I already have the plate number memorized, out of pure boredom. There's a disadvantage to this blue Crown Vic of ours - it doesn't have a radio.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I've heard a lot of rumors going around. In the precinct and in the DA's office. Rumor has it you're into women. There was a rumor going around you were involved with Abbie, and then Alex. I heard one the other day that had you involved with Novak."

I stare at him, for a minute, startled, then shake my head, frustrated. "That's just bored people trying to find something to do with their lives. I'm not a lesbian. Don't you think you'd have picked that up by now?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

"Trust me, you would have noticed."

"I just had to ask. But you know about the rumors?"

"Yeah. It's just a bunch of people who don't have enough to do, so they spread rumors. It probably has something to with the fact that I'm not married and can't seem to get a steady boyfriend." I go back to staring out the windshield and I see him shaking his head, out of the corner of my eye.

Today's going to be another slow day, if we don't catch anything new. I'm going to court this morning, but not because I have to testify. I'm going to sit with a few of the victims of the rapist that's on trial. Some people accuse me of coddling or hand-holding, but I want to help them, if I can. I've had to live with the mess that happens when a woman doesn't see her rapist brought to justice. The summations start today and I just want to be there.

After that, I don't have anything else to do, unless we catch another case. It seems like the psychopaths and pedophiles have taken a holiday. It'd be nice if it were a permanent one. I'd be out of work, but they wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else. And that's the reason why I have my job, in the first place.

"Well?" My boss and my partner both look up, when I step back into the squadroom. I run my fingers through my hair, quickly. "Guilty on all counts. Jury took an hour to convict." I fall into my chair and look at my inbox in disgust. It's spilling over with paperwork.

I raise an eyebrow in Elliot's direction. "Why are you looking at me?" He demands. "It's all yours."

I shake my head and yank the first file from the stack. If I know him, he probably snuck half of his own paperwork into that pile. He thinks it's funny to stick me with it. I know it's not all mine, because I do my paperwork on time. He sits on his for weeks. I'm not going to say anything right now, but I'll get him back. Sometimes, he underestimates me.

At the end of the day, my inbox is empty and waiting. The finished reports are stacked neatly in one corner of my desk, waiting to be filed away somewhere.

Being neat and organized comes out of long habit. When I was a little kid and my mother was drinking, I blamed myself. I thought there was something wrong with me that was making her drink. I thought her problem was me. So I tried to be perfect, so she'd stop. I kept my room neater than any other seven-year-old on the block.

Nothing I did made her stop. It took me a long time to realize that there wasn't anything I could do to stop her from drinking. It had nothing to do with me. The shrinks I've talked to over the years say it was normal for me to do that. To blame myself. But trying to please her when I was a kid left me with a lot of habits that I haven't been able to break.

I get up and grab my coat, looking at my watch. I knew I forgot about something, but I couldn't remember what. A friend of mine and I made plans to have dinner tonight. I won't have time to go home, but I can still make our reservation.

"Liv?" Elliot catches my attention. "You wanna grab a bite to eat? A drink?"

"Nah. I can't. There's a friend of mine who's been waiting at least a month to have dinner with me. I've always wound up canceling at the last second."

"A date?"

"No. A friend." I reply, shaking my head. "A female friend. Do you wanna call her? Trust me, El. No guy has the patience to wait a month for a date."

I dart into the restaurant about ten minutes late. A pair of dark eyes look me up and down and one of my best friends from childhood, Dana Libretti, shakes her head, slightly. "I was just about to call you to see if you were actually going to show up." She says.

"I'm sorry. I"-

"Got held up at work. That's what you all say." She grins and I laugh. She's married to a cop. She knows all the lines.

My old friend is completely different from me. She's about five foot five, to my five-eight.

Where I was tall, awkward and constantly tripping over my own feet, she was shorter and not so clumsy. I wear my hair short. She wears hers past her shoulders and usually in a ponytail. I'm a cop. She's a paramedic.

She has perfect skin, that's gold-tinged. That, along with her dark hair and eyes were inherited from her Latino mother.

She comes from a huge family, with six younger brothers, at least four uncles on her father's side and hell only knows how many cousins. But that's just blood relatives. Her father's a retired Fire Department captain. There's a huge extended family there - all of his friends and men he commanded.

When the waitress seats us, Dana grins at me. "Finally. You are one hard woman to get a hold of, you know that?"

"I know. I'm sorry"- I begin to apologize.

"Don't apologize. I hear enough of it outta Chris." She cuts me off. "I thought once he got to be a detective, the hours wouldn't be so bad. But they're actually worse."

"Didn't trying to talk to me give you any indication?" I raise an eyebrow and she laughs.

"You work in a nuthouse. I didn't think it would be as bad."

"Thanks. I'll be sure to tell my boss that."

Dana grins at me. "So how are things going in the boyfriend department?"

"Don't ask." I shake my head and rub my eyes. "I get more come-on lines from women than men. And when a guy does pay attention to me, he's a psychopath or a sick, twisted, sadistic sociopath."

"Ouch." She winces, as we place our orders with the waitress. "You know, if you wouldn't so much damned time working, things would go easier."

I sigh. "I love my job. But I don't think it's the hours that drive the guys away. It's what I do that runs them off."

Dana blinks at me. "You're a cop."

"Yeah. They don't usually mind that. Some do, but not usually. But when they learn that I deal with rapists and pedophiles and the occasional psychopath, that scares the hell out of them. I deal with the stuff that they get the chills reading about in the papers."

She shakes her head. "What the hell is wrong with the men in this city?" She asks, disgust in her black eyes. "You're gorgeous. A guy our age should consider himself damned lucky you're talking to him. You could have any guy you wanted. Even some young kid, you know?"

"You mean like the college kid who lives across the street from me and stays glued to his bedroom window, trying to catch a peek of me?" I ask, dryly.

"Is he cute?" She raises one thick black eyebrow, suggestively.

"Dana . . . " I warn, quietly, as the waitress sets plates down in front of us.

"Oh, come on. Live a little. You could always be another Demi Moore. There's nothing wrong with a younger guy. You know, nobody ever made a big deal about older men dating younger women. To them, age was just a number."

"Un-uh. I like a guy who can keep up with me. I don't want them young and clueless." I protest.

"Oh, right. I forgot. You like 'em older and smart. What about that guy you dated when we were in high school? The guy who was your mother's student? Did you ever hook back up with him?"

"After the fit Mom threw when she found out? No."

Dana shrugs. "I remember you telling me about some rookie from Narcotics you worked with a couple of times. From the way you were talking, he sounded hot."

"Mike?" I roll my eyes. "Gimme a break."

"Well, is he?" She persists.

"Yeah. For a girl his own age. Not to me. I'm an old lady to him."

"When will you get it? You don't look old. Period. End of story. It's obvious you've never had kids, you're built like a damned Barbie - you don't look that much past thirty. My twelve-year-old thinks you're hot."

I stare at her, stunned. "Jason?"

"Yeah. My boy thinks you're hot. And if he notices, you gotta be looking good. You know how hard it is to get that kid to notice something besides video games?" Dana sighs.

"But he's not gonna tell his mom that he thinks her friend is hot. How do you know?" I protest.

"Ah, but good old Dad's fair game." She grins. "He told his father."

I decide to tell her about the dreams I've been having lately. "Did you ever get the feeling that your dreams were trying to tell you something? Set you up with someone?"

"You mean like the ones I used to have about me and Brad Pitt?" She asks, and we both laugh. "You've been dreaming about someone?"

I don't want to tell her that I've been dreaming about my partner. "Yeah. There's this guy"-

"It wouldn't be that gorgeous partner of yours, would it?" Dana grins, broadly. "Oh, my God. You're blushing."

"Am not." I protest.

"You are. The guy is gorgeous - you gotta admit." She laughs. "Oh, come on. Do you know how many women would die to be in your shoes? I met the guy once and I'd switch places with you on any day. He could lose the suit and tie, but he looks better than most guys you'd meet. And he flirts with you."

"He doesn't!" I shake my head. This is ridiculous. Where is she getting this? "He was a married man."

"Was. That's the important thing.He's yours, now." Dana's still grinning.

"No, he's not."

"Hey, if you don't want him, move the hell outta the way and give the rest of us a chance. I think you've got a shot, though. You're blind if you can't see it. I had lunch with you two for an hour and I could see it. Married man or not, you were the one he was watching." My old friend persists, adjusting her simple ponytail.

"You think?" I ask, still skeptical. "Dana, he's a Catholic. He takes wedding vows and family seriously. His family is his world."

"Yeah. I'm a Catholic. So's my brother. And he's married, too, but that doesn't stop him from checking out your ass every time he sees you. Religion, wedding band, family - none of it stops them from looking or daydreaming."

"My boss would have my ass if we started anything like that." I reply, softly.

"You think? You had a fling with that kid from your squad - what the hell was his name? Ben? Brian?"

I half-suspected she'd bring up Cassidy. "Brian. And it was a mistake. I'd had too much to drink that night and I did a stupid thing."

"Yeah. But your boss didn't do anything then, did he?"

"No. But this is my partner. It's a lot more serious than that." I find myself shaking my head again. "A drunk off my ass one-night-stand isn't as serious as a relationship with my partner."

"You're smart enough to keep your mouth shut, aren't you?" She asks, looking at me, seriously.

"Yeah. But my boss is smarter. He picks up stuff, even when we don't tell him. Trust me, if we tried anything like that, right under his nose, he'd find out."

"Honey, I'm married to a cop. My brother's a cop. And I don't think there's actually any kind of rule against it . . . "

"But it's not exactly approved of, either." I rub my eyes.

"They can't fire you. Hell, live a little. Take a chance. You're gonna regret it if you don't."

"I don't know, Dana. I know there isn't a rule against it and that they couldn't fire me or reprimand me if the boss did find out . . . "

"Then what the hell are you waiting for?" She demands.

"It's my reputation I'm worried about. With the guys, they're all brothers. But a woman's an outsider. They don't accept me as part of the family. All I have is my reputation. Starting something with my partner isn't going to help. And it might hold me back, if I go for a promotion or something, because people talk. And gossip gets around a precinct house like it does in a high school."

"Then you gotta decide." My old friend puts down her fork and looks at me seriously. "You gotta decide if you wanna be happy or not. If you wanna be alone the rest of your life or not. I've seen you - you look happy around him. It's your choice."

"But what if he doesn't feel the same way and I blow it all to hell?"

Dana groans, softly. "I hate you when you get stubborn. I'm sorry, but I do. I've got six brothers. I spend eight hours a day with a guy or with a bunch of guys in a firehouse. Don't you think I know how to read them by now? He likes you. Any idiot with a pair of eyes could see it."

I bite my lip. "Really?"

"Yeah. If you say your boss is so smart, he's probably noticed. I know you're not shy. So stop acting like it. Make your move or get the hell outta the way." Dana grins at me. "Trust me. He's probably thinking the same way you are. He doesn't want to make the move and blow it all to hell with you. You gotta make the move."

I sigh. She's right. I can't sit around and wait any longer. I have to let him know. Or he's going to find someone else and move on. "But he and the wife just spilt up, after twenty years. I don't wanna be the rebound girl." I protest, voicing another concern.

"Not with the way he was looking at you when we were in that diner. You're not gonna be a rebound."

When the waitress comes around, we spilt the bill and part ways. She's going home to Brooklyn, to her husband and kids. I'm going back to that empty apartment. Something I'm getting tired of seeing.

(A/n: I know it's heavy on the dialogue, but I wanted to give Olivia a friend. She always seems so alone in the world that it seemed fair.)