A/N: Glad you guys are enjoying the fic so far, and hopefully getting as big a kick out of it as I did writing it. :) Thanks to those of you who let me know you're still with me. Olivia gets a little introspective in this chapter, but it's still fairly light compared to what I usually write for her. Happy reading!

3. It's Hard to Be a Saint in the City

. . .

"Curse these short but adorable stumps. Curse you, I say! Ptoo ptoo."

Olivia looked on with mild amusement as Daphne Tyler spat upon her own two legs, placing a hex on them like a tiny, angry witch. In reality, she only made the spitting sound (although, Olivia had never heard anyone utter an actual ptoo ptoo before), sans saliva, and flourished her cane as if she were Rafiki in The Lion King.

Currently she was bemoaning her height, or lack thereof, and how hard it would be for her to see over the head of anyone who sat in front of her. That hadn't been a problem for Olivia since around freshman year, when her legs practically doubled in length over night. With it came the name-calling—Olive Oyl, Ostrich, anything beginning with O—but it had some advantages. She'd been damn good at swimming and track throughout high school, and once she filled out, no one called her Olive Oyl or Ostrich anymore. Especially not the boys.

It probably was difficult being on the other end of the spectrum, even though Daphne wore her shortness like a badge of honor most of the time and never tired of hearing how cute and petite she was. On some people it would have been an obnoxious trait, but on Daph it just made her cuter. Then again, Olivia had a bit of a soft spot for the little nutball. "I tell you what, Daphne," she said, giving her friend an indulgent pat on the knee. "If someone tall sits there, I'll put you on my shoulders. You'll have the best view in the house."

Mid-lament, Daphne's mouth snapped shut as if it were spring hinged. "Really?" she asked in wonderment.

"No." Slowly Olivia unfurled a sly little smile, winking at Daphne to soften the blow. The clerk got so disappointed whenever she realized Olivia and Amanda weren't actually flirting with her, even though she made frequent playful passes at both of them. It had become their friendship dynamic, and strangely, it just worked for them. Daphne got an ego boost, meanwhile Olivia and Amanda got to see each other being hit on by someone else in a nonthreatening context. In a way it helped build trust. "But I will trade seats with you if it comes to that. Take a chill pill, Tyler, he's gonna be close enough, we'll probably smell the sweat. You're not going to miss anything, I promise."

Bending forward at the waist, Daphne shot a bemused look past Olivia, to the seat on the other side of her, occupied by Amanda. Once again Olivia was in the middle, but she didn't mind it much. It was almost comforting, like having two very tiny, very cute bodyguards. And one of them was very confused. "Did your wife just tell me to 'take a chill pill'? What does that even mean?"

"It's from the eighties," Amanda said, sounding distracted. At first, Olivia thought she was engrossed in the tour book pictures again, but on closer inspection it turned out to be a map of the arena that she studied so intently. Looking for the best place to buy outrageously overpriced nachos and beer, no doubt. They could probably pay for Samantha's first semester of college with the money Amanda was blowing through tonight.

Olivia might have been concerned, if Amanda weren't doing so well lately. Her detective was taking on new responsibilities at work and proving every day why she was Olivia's number two—yes, it was Fin by title, and Olivia trusted her old friend implicitly, but when it came down to who threw their heart and soul into being a cop, whom she didn't have to wrestle into accepting the responsibilities of higher rank, her wife was it.

Amanda had risen to the occasion as a mother of four, too; she didn't panic over all the finer nuances of newborn care like Olivia had ("Babe, she's not having trouble breathing, she's loadin' up her diaper," "She's not gonna have abandonment issues just because we don't pick her up the minute she starts cryin', Liv"), and she hadn't lost her patience with the older kids in so long Olivia didn't even remember the last time she'd needed to intervene. Sometimes Jesse and her mama seemed hellbent on out-sassing each other, but that was all in good fun, mostly. It had taken some getting used to, and repeated assurances from Amanda that mouthing off was just how the Rollins women bonded, before Olivia stopped playing referee. Now she rolled her eyes and let them verbally duke it out.

She would be lying if she said it wasn't mildly triggering, though. For the most part, she could tell when they were kidding. But her heart still skipped a beat when Amanda raised her voice or Jesse struck an obstinate pose, little hands on little hips, defying her much taller, much stronger mother. Logically Olivia knew nothing bad would happen, but there was always that split second right before she took a calming breath . . .

That split second filled her with guilt every time. Amanda was doing well. She showed no signs of relapsing—she was the happiest and most content Olivia had ever seen her, as a matter of fact—and she couldn't have been any further from Serena Benson in personality, strength, and maternal instinct. It had crossed Olivia's mind that she might be creating the problem herself, the recent revelations about her own mother's abuse causing her to sense danger where none existed.

But that was a thought for another Saturday night. Say, when Daphne wasn't claiming the eighties were "way before her time," Amanda wasn't making love to a map like it told the precise location of Atlantis, and The Boss wasn't somewhere backstage warming up. "Give it a rest, hon," she said, tapping a fingertip under Daphne's wagging chin as if she were nudging it closed. "You were born in 1985, you've been around long enough to know that saying. You know Springsteen, and he's about as Eighties as it gets."

"Yeah, Daph, quit tryna to squeeze into those Generation Z pants." Amanda glanced up from her lap to smirk, apparently listening to the conversation after all. She might not be subtle or able to concoct a plausible lie on the spot, but she was still a sneaky little thing. Nothing ever got by Detective Rollins. Especially Daphne behaving as though the five-year difference in their ages was more like fifty. "You're a Millennial, just like the rest of us."

Biting back a laugh at Daphne's indignant squawk, Olivia rested her hand on top of Amanda's, intentionally covering the arena brochure that was stealing her attention. She patted it as if she were breaking difficult news. "Actually, love, I believe you and I fall into the Generation X category. But that's okay, everyone knows X stands for the good stuff . . . X marks the spot, Xs and Os, the X factor—"

"X-rated," Amanda put in without missing a beat. She hiked a lovely pale eyebrow, lips cocked in a suggestive smirk when Olivia did a double take. There had definitely been some innuendo in that example, and it didn't take Amanda's denim-clad thigh rubbing against hers to figure out. It wasn't surprising, with all the shameless flirting Olivia had done that evening, but it was nice to know her efforts weren't going unnoticed. Amanda had been treating her so carefully since the whole Giacomo incident ("Liv, the guy planned to rape you," she said, whenever Olivia downplayed that last counseling session—as if she'd forgotten), it felt good getting a rise out of her.

A little too good, perhaps, considering they were in a very public place and they had Daphne with them. Not to mention the ridiculously expensive tickets for a show that was about to begin at any moment. Her and Amanda's libidos would just have to take that chill pill she'd recommended to their friend a second ago. Maybe, if they were both still in the mood after the concert, they could have some fun back at the apartment. The kids were sleeping over at Nonna Carisi's house, and Amanda could moan and curse and come to her little heart's content. Moreover, Olivia would be free to make her do so.

"Mm-hmm, that too," Olivia said warmly. She tweaked at Amanda's cute short-sleeve cuff, the urge to touch and tease nearly irresistible. As far as she was concerned, she had the most adorable date in the place, and the Born in the U.S.A. getup put Amanda that much more over the top—she looked like the prettiest mechanic in Manhattan. Or anywhere, for that matter. Olivia's heart wasn't the only thing to swell up each time she gazed at the blonde beauty by her side.

Of course, when you were accompanied by the lesbian equivalent of a bloodhound, you had to be careful thinking such things. Daphne observed the exchange over the top of her open tour book, huffed to herself, and announced loudly enough for at least the rows in front of and behind them to hear, "Ugh, would you two get a room? I paid good money to come here and see The Boss, not watch you lezzies canoodling all night."

"Jealous?" Olivia asked, turning to Daphne with a seductive, purring manner, which mostly involved sticking her chest out, all the while toying with Amanda's hair. She twirled the long golden strands languidly around her fingers, aware she had both of the younger women ready to eat out of her bare hand. A few light scritches of the scalp, and Amanda would probably roll over and bark on command. Eighties' babies were so damn easy.

"Quite frankly?" Daphne's voice squeaked like an adolescent boy's, and she hugged the tour book to her chest, heaving a dreamy sigh. "Hell yes. I don't know what's up with you guys tonight, but you're giving me major lady wood. Are you in some kind of bisexual estrus I've never heard about? Your pheromones are going to burn this mother to the ground before Bruce even makes it on stage." She lifted her shoulder-length brown hair and fanned the back of her neck.

"Bisexual estrus?" Amanda hissed, overpronouncing the words.

"Lady wood?" Olivia echoed, doing the same.

They looked at each other in bewilderment, then burst into laughter at the same time. Daphne stared as if they had gone off the deep end together, but her sober expression only contributed to the humor of the situation and put them both in stitches all over again. "Okay, I take it back," the clerk said flatly, when they finally regained some composure, drying tears and breathing high, girlish sighs, some of which erupted in giggles at the end. "That was about the least unsexy thing I've ever seen. Y'all are batshit crazy. Do they seriously let you people carry guns?"

"Yep. With real live ammunition and everything." Amanda made a finger gun and pretended to pick off a random concertgoer a few rows up, some guy in a red cap. It was such a hammy move, Olivia half-expected the hat to go somersaulting off the guy's head with a metallic zing, like in a cartoon or a Three Stooges skit. She blew across the barrel, spun the imaginary pistol on her finger, and holstered it at her hip. The transition from there to the inside of Olivia's thigh was smoother than silk, and it released a flock of butterflies into her belly, especially when Amanda gathered a handful and squeezed. "Liv loves watching me pump lead into those silhouette men's paper guts at the range, dontcha, babe?"

Olivia did, in fact, love observing her wife's prowess with guns. There was something vaguely orgasmic in seeing a hot blonde in ass-hugging jeans blasting away at a target—and hardly ever missing her mark. A primal, carnal feeling, almost, like Olivia could scoop Amanda up, set her down on the stall ledge, and feast on her right there in the shooting range. Obviously, she would never really do such a thing—certainly not if she wanted to keep her shield and her reputation—but that didn't mean she couldn't fantasize about it during target practice. "I do," she agreed, and if her heavy-lidded gaze didn't give her away, the husk in her voice surely would. "Very much."

For a moment they were locked on each other, the air itself seeming to crackle around them, so that even Daphne felt the heat and fell silent, enraptured. But there was always that one guy who had to come along and ruin things. This one did so by elbowing his way through the row behind them, jostling their chairs without apology, and dumping his beer down the back of Amanda's T-shirt.

. . .