A/N: Hey, y'all. Ngl, this might be my favorite chapter of this story. Then again, I haven't reread the full fic since I finished it, so maybe I'll change my mind by the end, lol. Anyway, hope you like it too. I'm putting a mild trigger warning on it for references to sexual abuse/assault. Oh, and I forgot to answer a question from ProcastinationQueen last time—sorry about that. This story takes place mid-April, shortly before Amanda's actual birthdate (which I picked as April 21 for the Devilishverse); so it falls about a week after "Head Case" and roughly three weeks before "The Glory of Everything." I don't usually like to backtrack and write stories out of order, but I made an exception for this one... because of reasons. Hope that makes sense. I'll try to remember to post a timeline at the end of this fic to make it a little easier to visualize.
4. Tougher Than the Rest
. . .
It appeared to happen in slow motion, both of them jarred forward by the man's bulldozerlike passage, a sharp curse the only forewarning as he tripped on someone's foot or chair leg, and then that fateful, foamy stream poured down from above. Poor Amanda hadn't seen it coming, and she gasped in surprise at the liquid hitting her like an impromptu and tepid shower. "What the hell?" she demanded, twisting around in her seat, first, to figure out what she'd just been doused in, second, to glare at the careless asshole who was responsible. She peeled the wet shirt away from her skin, squirming at the sensation, face scrunched in displeasure. "Gee, thanks, buddy."
They probably could have let it go at that, if not for the man's next move. He gazed into his empty beer cup, crumpled it in his fist as if he were crushing a Budweiser can, and swilled from the other cup he carried, still full. He eyed Amanda above his drink and belched once it was over, looking her, Olivia, and Daphne—each of them turned expectantly in his direction—up and down. Unimpressed and clearly intoxicated, he gave a derisive little snort. "Fuck you, bitch," was his brilliant rebuttal.
"Oh no," Daphne sighed.
Surprisingly, Amanda didn't react much to the offensive comment beyond a theatrical eye roll and a mocking expression, inspired by the dimwitted face that sneered overhead. It was a decent likeness, but hers was much prettier and it didn't make Olivia's blood boil the way Mr. Push-and-Shove's nasty attitude did. Before Olivia even knew what she planned to say or do, she felt herself getting to her feet, rising to a level nearer the man's height. He was quite tall and stood at least a full head higher than she did, not to mention the broad shoulders, suitable for a linebacker.
She wished she'd stayed in her seat the farther she stood, but there was no turning back now. Big guy or not, he needed to know that he couldn't go around treating the rest of the world like it was in his way and to blame for his own dumbass behavior—especially the part of the world that belonged to Amanda. Olivia's little pretty. The woman she would defend until her dying breath (which might be soon if the guy's willingness to hit a girl was proportionate with his size).
"Excuse me, sir," she said, infusing the term of address with all the sarcasm she could muster, "but I believe you owe my wife an apology. And a new shirt, since hers needs to be dried out. And since you're so keen on sharing, why not throw in some beers while you're at it?" She was definitely pushing it with the last one, but if it got him to say he was sorry just to get away, she could live with that. Amanda deserved that much.
The man's face, dopey and unexceptional, lit up as he glanced back and forth between her and Amanda. Olivia couldn't figure out why at first, until he broke into a lascivious smile that practically oozed. She had seen her share of slimeballs eyeing up her and her pretty wife, delighted by the news that they were a couple. Like they were going to start having sex on the spot and invite a perfect stranger—A Real Live Man—to join them. "Did you just say she's your wife?" he asked, raising his voice at the end and making sure everyone in the vicinity overheard. "As in, I pronounce you husband and wife, you can kiss the bride? Does that mean you're the man?"
"Oh no," Daphne repeated.
Pushing up the sleeves of her leather jacket unconsciously, Olivia propped a hand on either hip, trying to appear larger than she was. If only she hadn't worn a skirt with the jacket and high-heeled military boots. She'd wanted to soften the look, keep it feminine despite its edge, but this jackass wouldn't take her seriously in black tulle. There were ruffles.
"Are you kidding me? You really just said that right here and now, in 2022? At a Springsteen concert, a man who, by the way, is a diehard democrat and longtime supporter of LGBTQ rights?" Olivia heaved a weary sigh. Sometimes, dealing with idiots was utterly exhausting, and she dealt with an inordinate amount of them in her line of work. She didn't need them horning in on her personal time. "There is no man in our relationship. That's kind of the point. And I can see from your rude, misogynistic attitude that there's none in yours, either."
A woman in the row behind them laughed at that, giving Olivia a small clap of appreciation, but if the beer-toting jerk understood he'd just been insulted, it didn't show. He was still grinning like a sleaze and looking at her and Amanda as if they didn't have any clothes on. It made Olivia deeply uncomfortable, yet she inched slightly in front of Amanda, preferring to be the one in the line of fire for whatever came next.
"Liv." Amanda cupped a hand to the inside of Olivia's elbow. No tugging, just a gentle urging to back off and let her handle herself. Obviously the detective could more than hold her own in these situations—had done so many times in the past—but Olivia wasn't about to throw her wife to the wolves (or wolf) like she had with Dr. Giacomo. Timid and submissive Olivia Berlin she was not.
"Tell you what, Liv," said the man, putting a snarky enunciation on her name, "I'll be more than happy to apologize to your wife. Under one condition. You two kiss, right here and now, at this 2022 QTBLMNOP-friendly Springsteen concert, and I'll say I'm sorry. Hell, I'll buy you both a T-shirt and an entire round, especially if you use lots of tongue." He raised his remaining beer in a mock salute, an avid expression on his face as he waited to see if they would comply.
Heat rushed to Olivia's cheeks, like molten metal pouring into a forge, but it wasn't from embarrassment or panic over a strange man making sexual overtures to her and Amanda. No, this was pure unbridled rage bubbling under her skin. She'd felt it a few times before: when she screamed into the face of a mother who had given her twelve-year-old daughter over to a cult leader to be raped and impregnated; when she snapped and roughed up the guy in interrogation for implying she'd been sexually abused; when she beat William Lewis with the bed rail.
And now, being treated like a prostitute by this pervert who had reduced her relationship with the woman she loved to a sick little fantasy.
Lucky for him they weren't alone together, and she had Amanda and Daphne to think about. If it came to blows, they would try to intervene and possibly end up hurt in the process. Then she really would have to kill this man with her bare hands, and that would more than likely disrupt the concert. She was quite sure The Boss didn't condone murder in his venues, even when it was deserved.
"Man, just get lost, will you?" Amanda sounded more annoyed than offended as she stepped around Olivia, body blocking a physical attack, be it from one side or the other. "Ain't nobody gonna make out for you to go home and beat off to like the sad, pathetic little creep that you are. Go on, get outta here before I call security. We're NYPD, they'll haul your ass out of here if we tell 'em to."
"You three are NYPD? Even the little one?" Prince Charming played connect the dots in the air with his finger, ending on Daphne, whom he regarded with skepticism and a smirk. "Nah, she's too tiny. And you—" He let his gaze rove all over Amanda, slithery as oil, sucking his front teeth in appreciation. "You just barely make the cut, sweet cheeks. Now, this lusty, busty gal right here—Liv, was it? Her I can buy as a cop. Got that Big Dick Energy going on. Say, sweetheart, what you got underneath that little black number? Wanna show me?"
See? They never took you seriously in a skirt. Olivia wished to God she were armed, or at least carrying her badge, so she could have brought forth one or the other from underneath her "little black number" and scared the pants off of him. But right then she couldn't bring forth anything, not even a snappy comeback, because she was frozen in place by a memory. Rough hands pushing up the bottom of her nightie, grasping her buttocks, fingers digging into the flesh where cheek met panty line. A man's voice—her father's, inconceivably—rough in her ear: Bet yours is real pretty, just like your mouth. You wanna suck on it?
Far away and dreamlike, she heard Amanda cursing out the concert guy ("—you sonuvabitch, or I'll arrest your nasty ass for sexual harassment!") while Daphne got a little too into her role as a policewoman, barking nonsense at him in a surprisingly commanding tone for one so small ("Yeah, pal, you're in violation of penal code 246, and about this close from spending the night in jail with a whole different kind of Boss"). And just like being in the dream with them, Olivia watched herself grab the man's beer from his unguarded hand and toss the drink directly in his face.
He was still sputtering in surprise when she realized what she'd done, that it couldn't be taken back. The captain part of her who was supposed to exercise self-control and set a good example regretted it at once, but the human side of her, the wife and friend, the abused fifteen-year-old girl who hadn't known how to stand up for herself, felt deeply gratified. Almost at peace. She didn't even care if he tried to get her for assault; he had become the aggressor the moment he dumped his drink on Amanda and swore at her for no good reason. He wouldn't have a leg to stand on in court.
But that didn't stop him from spitting, "Bitch," and taking a swing at her. Fortunately, his reflexes were slow and she saw it coming in the rotation of his shoulder, the inward tuck of his hip, the arc of his flung out arm. She caught his fist like a baseball and cranked it behind his back in a practiced motion that resembled spinning a partner on the dance floor. She might have two left feet when it came to rhythm, but she could tango the hell out of moves like this.
"Bad idea, sweetheart," she growled over his shoulder, jerking up on his arm when he struggled. He was strong, but she had the advantage with him twisted into a pretzel, bones ready to snap if he made one false move. The best part was she didn't have to do the work with this hold; if he fought too hard, he'd break his own arm. Could she help it if he didn't listen when his body told him to desist? "You just assaulted a police officer, and I've got about fifty witnesses who'll back me up on that."
She had Amanda and Daphne, at least. Probably the woman who had laughed and applauded for her. Maybe not anyone she had caught in the excess spray from the beer she hurled, but there had to be a few people outside the line of fire who would side with her. No one was rushing to the man's defense, that was for sure. If he had a date—highly improbable—she was leaving it up to him to face three angry women all alone. Poor fella.
"Now, I came here to have a good time and see a rock legend perform, so if you promise me you'll stop harassing us and go on back to whatever hole you slithered out of, I'll let you off with just a warning." Olivia bent his wrist ever so slightly past the limit when he started to object. "But if you continue to be a belligerent, sexist asshole or attempt to lay another finger on me? I'll break your goddamn arm in three places and personally escort you to the new jail cell you'll be living in for the next one to three years."
"Okay. Okay!" he yelped when Olivia hurried his decision along with a sharp tug. "I'll leave you alone, just get the fuck off me, you crazy—"
He cut himself off before he said anything else he'd live to regret, and Olivia decided it was the best she could hope for. Although, it would have been fun to take him to his knees and demand he kiss the tops of Amanda's boots. But that was probably pushing it a little. She released the man with a light shove away from her, in case he turned around swinging.
He did turn around, rubbing his wrist and glaring through eyelashes glistening in amber-colored dew (it was hard to take him seriously with those soggy curls plastered to his forehead). Then he took one look at them: Amanda, clenched as tightly as a fist; Olivia, arms crossed, gaze unflinching; and Daphne, her cane poised like a field hockey stick, ready to rumble.
"Eh, go to hell," he muttered, throwing them a dismissive gesture as he stalked off down the aisle. The other occupants were forced to draw up their knees or turn aside to avoid being trampled by his graceless departure, several of them shaking their heads and commenting on his rudeness to their seat mates. Olivia didn't have to be a lip reader to spot the word asshole making the rounds.
"I'm sorry about that," she said to the motley crew seated behind her—a young, round-faced couple with thick matching nerd glasses, a couple in their sixties who looked as though they had spent most of those years in a motorcycle gang, and two girls dressed like 1989 throwbacks. None of them seemed especially disgruntled, but Olivia apologized with complete sincerity, prepared to offer compensation if anyone was upset by the encounter. "I hope I didn't get any of you with the beer . . . "
"Are you kidding?" said the nerdy girl, her eyes gleaming beneath the quirky little pageboy haircut. She looked vaguely starstruck if Olivia wasn't mistaken, and indeed, she sat forward, literally on the edge of her seat, as if riveted by every word out of Olivia's mouth. "That was better than a tavern scene in Xena. Or when Buffy kicked ass at the Bronze. I deadass thought you were gonna stake that mofo in the heart!"
"I have no idea what the young lady just said, but I second her approval." That was the older guy who resembled Jimmy Buffet, if Jimmy Buffet traded his Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops for faded tattoos and biker boots. "Been a while since I went home with my Harleys smelling like a barroom brawl. Brings back fond memories, don't it, Peg?"
"Sure does, Bart," said Peg, a woman with hair that belonged on a Dolly Parton impersonator and fake nails that would have made Freddy Krueger envious. But her smile was big and genuine when she flashed it at Olivia. "Don't you worry about that mean old bully, honey. You put him in his place good. Hell, that's the best opening act I've ever seen at a concert."
The '80s girls smiled shyly, and though they didn't add anything, they nodded along with the others. From the expressions on the group's faces, you would think Olivia was some kind of hometown hero—or at least the hero of section B, row 7. Her reception was much the same when she turned back to her own small group, except Amanda and Daphne were more hands-on.
"My Lord, woman, I thought he was gonna knock your block off." Amanda scooped up Olivia's hands, examining them for even the slightest injury, and kissing the knuckles as if they had thrown a punch instead of catching one. "Are your hands okay? I was about to go Atomic Blonde on that piece of shit. You shoulda let me take care of him, darlin', he coulda really hurt ya."
"Looked like she had it all under control to me," Daphne interjected in her most excited, chirpiest voice. She did a karate chop with the curved end of her cane, punctuated by a "hi-yah!" that drew a few backward glances from the row ahead, which she ignored and continued battling her imaginary foe. "I really thought you were about to throw hands with that douchebag, Liv! Could you fight someone his size? Of course you could, you're a total badass. You have got to show me that twirly move thing. Kapow!" She tugged at the sleeve of Olivia's jacket as she bounced and enthused like a hyperactive kid on sugar. Can I, can I, huh, huh?
"I'm okay, love. I caught him just right, didn't feel a thing," Olivia said to her wife, and it was mostly true. The punch she intercepted had been about the equivalent of catching a Major League baseball without a glove, but she had enough experience that no lasting damage was done. The sting would wear off soon enough, especially with Amanda's affectionate tending. To Daphne she turned a bemused expression. "I'm not sure I want you armed with too many combat skills, Dapho, but I will give you some self-defense tips. If you stop manhandling the leather, that is."
Daphne followed Olivia's pointed look down at the cuff she was jerking this way and that, taking the arm inside with it. She released it into Olivia's lap, a sheepish smile on her nimble features, and petted the sleeve as if it were a lapdog she was soothing. "Sorry, Cap'n," she said, doing another gruff cop voice, but merely sounding like she had a head cold. "I mean, ten-four. No more fingering. Well, not fingering fingering in, like, the lesbian sense, but no more putting my hands on your business. Not that I touched your business business, I just meant—"
"Daphne," Amanda warned. There was a glint of amusement in her baby blue eyes, clearly visible to Olivia, although not quite so obvious to their babbling friend. Daphne shrank down in her seat like a scolded four-year-old and squeaked a tiny, "Over and out," in reply. She seemed to be under the impression that Amanda and Olivia were television patrol cops from the 1970s who still used CB radios. They had offered to take her on a ride-along once or twice, so she could see what they really did, but she'd declined, stating that just spending time with them off-duty was education enough in crime fighting.
Trouble did always manage to find them, Daphne wasn't wrong about that. But there was one thing Olivia couldn't let go from this newest run-in with Mr. Wonderful. "Penal code 246?" she asked, an eyebrow arched at the flustered little clerk.
"I improvised." Daphne shrugged with an air of cocky indifference—that was the Daph they knew and loved—then went comically wide-eyed and a shade or two paler. "Wait, was that illegal? Are you going to send me to the big house for impersonating a police officer? I'll never survive in prison. I've seen Orange is the New Black. And Wentworth."
Olivia folded her lips tight, suppressing a grin at Daphne's imagined travails. Beside her, Amanda was snickering under her breath, even as she tried to wring beer out of the back of her T-shirt. Offering a hand, Olivia peeled the damp fabric away from Amanda's skin and bunched it in her fist, squeezing out the excess moisture. "I dunno, Detective, should we write her up or let her walk? She looks a little shifty to me. Kinda like a . . . depraved Girl Scout. Probably embezzles a lot of cookies."
"You know, Cap'n, I think you're right. I've seen her mugshot somewhere before." Amanda snapped her fingers as if she were summoning up an image from the tip of her mind's eye. "I got it. She was on that wanted poster I saw over in Munchkinland last week. Better bring her in. Careful, though, the little ones are always pretty wily."
Arms crossed over her modest chest, already concealed by the velvet blazer, Daphne gave a petulant humph and turned her nose up at the playful ribbing. Half the fun of teasing her was seeing what her reaction would be—and she knew it. "And to think, you guys were my first choice of who to bring with me for this concert. I could've had my pick of Boss-lovin' lesbians and gotten lucky afterward, but no, I'm stuck with you two chuckleheads and not even the prospect of a threesome later as a thank you for my sacrifice."
"Wow," Olivia said, distracted by her attempt to fan Amanda dry with her hands. "If a threesome constitutes a thank you in Daphne Land, I can't imagine what we owe you for all the babysitting and the fun times and the belly laughs. You want a kidney?"
"Nah. I'll still be horny."
Shaking her head at her friend's insatiable sexual appetite and her wife's damp shirt, Olivia opted for flapping the latter behind Amanda like the white flag of surrender. "Okay, love, this isn't working. Come on, I think we need to go dry you off with a blower. I don't like you sitting here in wet clothes, you'll catch your death." So, maybe that was a bit of a stretch, but Amanda shouldn't have to endure a two-hour concert in a beer-soaked shirt. Especially since she'd worn the flimsy white tee just to please—and entice—Olivia.
To Olivia's surprise, Amanda didn't object to the directions, instead taking her outstretched hand and allowing her to lead the way. The detective was usually only that compliant when they were headed for the bedroom, switching off lights as they went, a giggle in the darkness, the sashes on their robes conveniently coming loose. Amanda always twirled the ends of hers like a go-go dancer working her tassels. Sometimes she held them wide in both hands and flossed the sash back and forth against her backside. Her incredibly cute, incredibly irresistible little backside.
"You're going right now?" Daphne asked, incredulous but stepping aside to let them through. She eyed their clasped hands and secret smiles with suspicion when they exited the end of the row. "The concert'll be starting any minute. Bruce waits for no man. Or women who go sneaking off for a little preshow hanky-panky."
"Oh, Daph, don't be ridiculous. I think we have a tad more self-control than that." Olivia tsked her tongue, rolled her eyes, and shook her head, all at the same time. Talk about overselling it. There were people in the nosebleeds who could probably tell she was protesting too much, but at least she wasn't alone in her theatre de la bad acting. Amanda's innocent face was about as convincing as Frannie Mae's, after the dog got caught with a chewed-up shoe literally still in her mouth.
"Yeah, Daphne, give us some credit. We're not total horndogs like you," Amanda said, and pointed to the souvenir bag and Olivia's purse on the chair beside their friend. "Watch those for us, will ya? We'll be back faster'n you can say 'Thunder Road.'"
Olivia pretended not to hear when, out of Daphne's earshot but well within their own, Amanda added, "Or maybe 'I'm Goin' Down' . . . " The arena was loud, with the voices of thousands of excited fans chattering at once and the loudspeaker pumping out Billboard hits from the past five-hundred decades, so it was entirely plausible that the suggestive comment got lost in the crowd. A shame, really, not to acknowledge a cleverly referenced song title, which Amanda was no doubt proud to have delivered at the exact right moment.
Oh well, Olivia would make it up to her for spoiling the joke. Perhaps sooner than expected, if her fluttering belly and flushed cheeks had anything to do with it. She told herself it was just the overstimulation of being in a large and noisy crowd, after months of staying at home in an apartment where you stepped on a toy every few feet and couldn't use the toilet without one small head or another poking around the bathroom door, asking what you were doing. ("Yes, Jesse, I'm pooping! Get outta here!" Amanda was known to shout, inciting riotous laughter and scattering squeals with a deftly aimed roll of toilet paper.)
Entertaining and cozy, yes. Kisses and cuddles were never in short supply. A conducive environment for feeling desirable or expressing sensuality, not so much. Neither was an arena packed to the gills with all manner of society, from working class stiffs to the uber elite, who probably had private box seats and backstage access. But there was something kinetic in the room's energy, something vibrant and electric. Olivia felt really good.
And really hot for her wife.
. . .