A/N: Hey, y'all. Long time no see. I've been sitting on this story for quite a while... since April, at least. I wanted to post it around Amanda's (or Kelli's) birthday in the Devilishverse, since that's when it takes place, but I didn't have another story waiting in the wings at that point, and I prefer to be at least one story ahead when I post something. I still don't have anything else finished—although, for those who have asked, yes, I'm still working on this series; there's big stuff coming, it's just taking a very long time—but it's summer, and man, I want to post something while folks are still on vacation and the show hasn't come back and blown everything all to hell. Plus, my birthday is Saturday, and it seems like a good occasion to share this, a birthday-centric fic. I'm winging it a bit this time: I don't have an official chapter count, but I think it will be around 8 or 9. They may be a little shorter than in some of my other fics, so I can break them up semi-coherently. I don't think this one will need trigger warnings, beyond a heads-up that there are brief references to past assault/abuse. It's kind of a lighthearted romp this time. Happy reading!

1. Incident on 57th Street

. . .

"You're not going to, like, throw your underwear at him, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Olivia scoffed at the suggestion, eyebrow hiked as if she were in the box with a rather colorful perp. She leaned in then, confiding to them in her richest bourbon-and-cigars tone. "You know I don't wear underwear."

She laid it on so thick Daphne nearly choked on it. In fact, the little clerk let out a rodent-esque squeak that led to a harsh glottal stop, and concluded with much coughing. She held up her index finger to signal she was okay when two hands, each belonging to a separate owner, thumped her on the back out of time. "I'm o . . . kay," she croaked, and drew a large whooping breath, forcing herself to sit up straight and smile. "Just, uh, took me by surprise is all."

You and me both, Amanda thought, but kept it to herself. She'd begun to wonder if the risqué comments and flirtatious behavior were imagined—just a lot of wishful thinking on her part—but Daphne had heard this one too. Olivia was definitely adding some spice to her repertoire. In that leather jacket and snug band T-shirt, her long brown hair loose and wild, it was more like a whole damn shaker of cayenne pepper. And who knows, maybe she really had foregone the panties underneath the flowy midi skirt in solid black?

Probably not, but Amanda entertained the idea anyway, finding that it made her jeans feel about two notches tighter—although, not unpleasantly so. She hadn't discouraged the saucy remarks, either, too charmed (and turned on) by them to put an end to their recent emergence. They were a tad concerning, though. It had only been a week since Amanda went crashing into Anthony Giacomo's office, ready to knock the old man's block off if he'd put his liver-spotted meat hooks on any part of Olivia's body. Then she had to stand there and intentionally allow him to grope Olivia in order to arrest his perverted old ass.

This, after the hypnosis session that reawakened Olivia's memories of being sexually abused by both of her parents. It was a fragile, emotionally rocky time for the captain, and Amanda wasn't about to shame her for trying to reclaim and express her sexuality as a means of overcoming that trauma. Just as long as it was what Olivia really wanted, not something she had cooked up to keep Amanda interested. Amanda was always interested.

Thankfully, Olivia seemed to be enjoying her newfound sensual freedom to the fullest. She didn't glare over the top of her glasses when Amanda made off-color jokes at work lately (to be honest, Amanda missed that part), instead zinging her right back with a wit so sharp and quick it flooded Amanda's cheeks with heat. And not just from giddy schoolgirl embarrassment, as if she were flirting with teacher. She'd seriously considered tracking down an empty broom closet somewhere in the precinct and dragging Captain Benson into it by the lapels of her tweed blazer, for an afternoon quickie.

A little stop and frisk underneath that gray cashmere turtleneck, at the very least.

Might have worked, actually. The assertiveness was making its way into the bedroom as well. Most of the time they made love—tender, passionate, almost spiritual in its reverence and warmth. Olivia had been particularly gentle after Samantha's birth, insisting that they wait the recommended four to six weeks postpartum to do anything too vigorous. By week three, Amanda had worked the strap-on back into their routine, as long as she was the one wearing it, while Olivia did most of the work to get herself off.

Now, ten weeks in, they fucked on the regular, and little miss strait-laced Captain gave as good as she got. Somehow she walked the line between playfully rough and pleasurably painful so well, Amanda wondered if she'd ever gone undercover in the world of BDSM. "That's Mistress Olivia to you, my pet," was the answer purred into Amanda's ear when she asked as much, her nipples and ass cheeks cherry-red from her wife's skilled hand and even more skilled mouth.

Come to think of it, Mistress Olivia sounded a lot like Saturday Night Olivia, who flirted in the backseat of taxicabs and apparently didn't wear underwear. She was snickering at Daphne's reaction, brown eyes twinkling merrily, even in the dim cabin lighting. She angled a hand over her grin, oopsie-fashion, shoulders bouncing with suppressed laughter.

Amanda would have been far more entertained if she hadn't glanced up to the rearview at that moment, and caught the cabbie eyeing Olivia with interest. He'd looked them all over that way since they first piled into his car, rowdy and acting the fool though they hadn't touched a drop of liquor. Yet. To be fair, it had been hilarious playing hot potato with Daphne, who squawked at being passed from one lap to the other, but quite obviously relished having two women lavish her with attention and body contact. Less thrilling was sitting on the hump in between and being named monkey in the middle; Daphne put up such a fuss, Olivia had finally hefted her up like she was one of the kids and plunked her down on the opposite side.

That put Olivia in the middle, smack dab in the driver's field of vision. It wasn't like he could tilt the mirror to look down her shirt or up her skirt—neither were particularly revealing, although the tee was a very thin, snug fabric that clung in all the right places—but that didn't stop him from undressing her with his eyes, and therein lay the problem for Amanda. She didn't give two shits what men fantasized about when they looked at her, and Daphne would laugh her tiny lesbian ass off at any guy who thought he stood a chance. Olivia, on the other hand. Amanda barely tolerated men breathing the same air as her wife and captain, let alone believing they had a right to look.

"Hey. Eyes on the road, pal." Amanda slapped her palm against the plexiglass partition behind the driver's head, giving him and at least one of her companions a start. She only felt guilty about Olivia, who was seated close enough that she couldn't hide the reflexive jerk of her limbs. No matter how well she disguised the other earmarks of PTSD, the hypervigilance always gave her away, poor thing. And here they were, on their way to a very noisy, very crowded arena.

Shit.

"Okay, Detective Rollins," Olivia said, patting Amanda's knee with a down, girl vibe, and the tone to match. But she left her hand there and settled in deeper under the arm Amanda had looped around her shoulders. There wasn't a timid or helpless bone in her body—her tall, luscious, powerful frame—and yet, lately, she was allowing Amanda to play bodyguard more often too. Ever since Amanda was all that stood between her and being roofied and raped by a sixty-year-old slimeball. It was almost as if she needed protecting. "Let's not piss off our only form of transportation, mkay?"

The last part was spoken from the corner of her mouth as she leaned in with mock furtiveness, like a spy relaying a secret code. God, she smelled good. Rich, heady. A scent that wafted after the classiest women in the lobbies of the most expensive hotels in New York. They didn't get that worldly, exotic smell back in Georgia, and though Amanda knew it came from many different geographical sources, she still associated it with her wife's city. Her city girl.

She was cute as hell when her playful side came out like this, and Amanda couldn't bear to spoil her fun. Maybe just a little reminder though, so Olivia didn't go in completely unprepared.

"It's gonna be a lot louder and a lot more aggressive at the concert. You sure you're up for that, darlin'?" Amanda kept her voice low when she rumbled the rest into Olivia's ear, keeping it just between them. "No one'd blame you if you wanted to go back to the apartment. Cuddle up on the couch. Who knows, maybe put on a show of our own . . . " She placed the tiniest of pecks to the helix of that ear, more sound effect than kiss.

Olivia shivered like she'd caught a chill and reached up to toy fondly with Amanda's chin and trace a finger along her jawline. She gave a strand of blonde hair an affectionate, painless tug with the same finger, sending a corresponding little thrill up Amanda's spine. "A lot more aggressive? What're you, planning to jump on stage like a young Courteney Cox and deck him if he looks my way?"

"Might." Assuming a boastful thrust of the chin, Amanda did her best tough guy impression. Sort of a cross between De Niro posturing in front of the mirror in Taxi Driver and Eastwood daring some punk to make his day. She had to admit it was pretty damn good, and it earned her a grin from Olivia that bordered on an excited squeal. Here's hoping she really was wearing panties. "I could take that sweaty old Jersey boy any day. What is he, like, eighty now?"

"Seventy-two," Olivia and Daphne groaned in unison.

"Eh, same diff. Old is old." Amanda sniffed, swiped her nose with her thumb. If the window were open, she would have turned and spat.

It was all an act, of course, just like the brooding bad boy routine. She loved Bruce Springsteen—or rather, his music—almost as much as her wife and their best friend did. In fact, she was the one who had schemed with Daphne to get the tickets. The Boss did not come cheap. When they had heard he was playing the Garden a couple of weeks before Amanda's birthday, they struck up a deal. (Not a bet.) Despite Amanda's claims that their newborn daughter was her birthday gift to Olivia, she wanted to acknowledge the day, of which the big celebration this year had been Sammie's meconium tapering off from black tar to the color and consistency of Dijon mustard.

"Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poopon?" Amanda had teased in a lofty French accent, waggling the warm balled-up diaper at Olivia. That earned her an epic eye roll from the birthday girl.

No matter how many times Olivia insisted it was her best birthday ever, Amanda couldn't let her wife ring in her fifty-fourth year with poopy Pampers and bad French farce alone. When Daphne called to announce Springsteen would be in town mid-April—"Are you and Liv coming with? Say you're coming with, Mandy Lou!"—Amanda saw her chance. She'd had to convince her friend to let her pay for Olivia's ticket and part of her own; Daphne insisted on paying the other half, on top of her ticket, to make it a joint birthday outing. Her exact words were: "I gotta get you two crazy baby ladies out of the house somehow, otherwise you'll be popping out another one."

There was no danger of that happening anytime soon, or you know, ever, but it did sound nice to leave the apartment for something other than work. Amanda hadn't taken her wife on a proper date since their day of greasy vendor food and horseback riding at the Walton County Fair, during their visit to Loganville. Right at the beginning of her pregnancy, and almost spoiled by that run-in with Dean and his forty-year-old bimbo of the week, it had been a bit of a mixed bag as far as dates went. If she could present Olivia with Bruce and his E Street boys on a belated birthday date, Amanda might just win the award for Best Wife of All Time.

And sure enough, Olivia said, "Have I told you lately that you're the best wife a girl could ask for?" when the tickets slipped out of her card, a Sorry I'm Late sloth dangling from a branch on the front, and into her lap. Actually, it was something more along the lines of Oh my God, Amanda, what did you— OH MY GOD SPRINGSTEEN ARE YOU SERIOUS I LOVE YOU! Followed by a bunch of kisses peppered so exuberantly to her face, it left her cheeks glowing red. Then came the best wife pronouncement.

The best wife stifled her laughter at her incensed companions as they defended The Boss's honor and his timeless quality with the utmost sincerity. Olivia called him a musical icon whose catalog was prolific, impeccable, and the voice of a generation. Daphne said he was the only man she would even consider sleeping with. "As long as his guitar's in the same room with us. Near the bed. No, wait, in the bed. Can I just have sex with his guitar?"

They both agreed he looked good for his age, one of the few true rock artists who didn't resemble a twice-baked version of his younger self, heavy on the potato. "I mean, Axl Rose was a total babe in those days," Olivia said, tossing back a gesture as if the eighties lay just over her shoulder, "but now he's like the love child of Mickey Rourke and Meat Loaf. It's depressing. I'm serious, Daph. Wait until your childhood idols start hitting their sixties and seventies. No one wants to see Granny Spice in a skimpy Union Jack dress and platforms."

"Au contraire, Captain," Daphne said when she finally stopped giggling enough to speak. "Geri Halliwell is about ten times finer now than she ever was in the nineties. They all are. The 2040 Spice Girls reunion tour is gonna be on fiyah!" She shimmied her shoulders—more accurately, her boobs, though there was less to bounce there—like she was dirty dancing, and gave a hoot of anticipation that finally drew the driver's attention her way.

"I'll send you two youngins to that one on your own." Olivia exchanged a grin with Amanda, their lascivious uber-lesbian sidekick never failing to amuse, then let it warm to a loving, gentle smile. "But I'm okay with some noise and crowds tonight. I promise. And if Bruce makes eyes at me, you have my full permission to tear him limb from limb, sweetheart. Just make sure you grab his guitar while you're at it, so Daph can get her rocks off later."

. . .