A/N: Another fic inspired on Twitter. I retweeted the pic of Kelli Giddish when she was a kid and had cut her own bangs, with this caption "Headcanon: Liv finds this in a box of Amanda's baby pictures, has it framed, and displays it prominently in their apartment." And then this story was born. It kind of took on a life of its own and turned out completely different than I had planned, but I think it's still pretty cute. It's mostly fluff, with a little angst woven in because I can't help myself. But it also hints at things to come in my longer fic, so the angst is not completely unwarranted. While many of the pictures described are based on real photos of Mariska and Kelli, I took creative license with several of them. TRIGGER WARNING! Brief allusions to child abuse. TRIGGER WARNING!

P.S. Shout out to Amilyn for being an awesome af beta! :)

"Good Lord, you sure loved your denim shorts back then, huh?" Amanda displayed the photo at eye level, quirking a brow at the questionable fashion choices it featured in muted late eighties tones. The picture was actually adorable: Olivia, age nineteen or twenty, all legs and sporting a sable blowout worthy of Phoebe Cates herself, sprawled on her stomach on the lawn in front of an elite-looking academic building. She wore a snug pair of cutoffs and what appeared to be a turquoise vest that also doubled as a shirt, her black bra clearly visible underneath. But Amanda's favorite part of the entire ensemble was the bare feet, upraised behind the young woman, grass-stained on the bottom, the toes cutely scrunched together. Her shoes were nowhere in sight.

Olivia still liked to walk around barefooted at home. In fact, she was lounged against the arm of the couch now, her long legs extended towards the other end, her bare feet crossed at the ankles and tucked at Amanda's side. Amanda mirrored her posture, back to the opposite arm of the couch, one leg draped over Olivia's, the other dangling off the cushion. The socks were the only major difference—Amanda's feet were almost always cold.

Their laps were covered in old photographs from the shoeboxes and keepsake boxes that were open beside them on the coffee table. Olivia looked up from a handful of school pictures—duplicates from a sheet of wallet-sizes that had long ago been chopped into odd angles by Amanda's childish hand—and snorted at the observation.

"That's rich, coming from little Stephanie Tanner," she said, fanning the photos out like a poker hand, to reveal multiple twelve-year-old Mandy Rollinses. Each one with a stick-straight blonde ponytail sprouting from the scrunchie on the side of her head. A cloud of feathery bangs stood at least two inches above her forehead, except where they had deflated in the middle, halfway through the school day—and it had required several layers of Aqua Net just to hold them in place that long. "How are your sisters DJ and Michelle, by the way?"

"Blech, put that away." Amanda kicked at the pictures, playfully trying to slap them aside with her foot. "Why were you even watching Full House? Weren't you, like, twenty-something when it aired?"

"John Stamos," Olivia said matter-of-factly, and pushed the foot down, stuffing it between her thigh and the couch cushion. She turned the pictures back around with a fond smile. "And these are cute, not blech. I'm putting one in my wallet."

"Suit yoursel— oh, hot damn." Amanda plucked a photo from the pile she was sifting through. Most of them were similar to the previous one with the bare feet—various shots of Olivia striking cute and silly poses, usually flashing a wide, brilliant grin that only made occasional appearances these days, and almost invariably clad in those tiny cutoffs—but this was much more provocatively staged.

The shorts were still in place, although unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of skimpy black lace against a skimpy flat tummy, to go along with the skimpy black bra from before; but that was the extent of Olivia's attire, save for an oversized letterman jacket in dark green and gold, which she wore draped around her like an off-the-shoulder shawl. She barely looked old enough to have legally consented to the amount of skin she was showing—or rather, its presentation. The figure, however, belonged to a very grown, very shapely woman. Lord, the boys must have been tripping all over themselves. Amanda could relate.

"I feel like I should arrest you for possession of child pornography," she said, giving Olivia a quick peek at the photo, before flipping it around to ogle some more. The words "nubile" and "supple" sprang to mind, though Amanda didn't recall ever having used either before in her life. "I feel like I should arrest myself for not being able to stop looking at it. Jesus Criminy."

"I was eighteen," Olivia said, her voice velvety smooth from behind a seductive little smirk. "Perfectly legal."

For a moment, Amanda fought the urge to heave the pictures aside and take Olivia right then and there on the living room couch. It wouldn't be the first time. But the kids were due back from their movie date with Lucy—the most accommodating nanny in New York City—within the hour. And quickies weren't really Amanda's thing anymore. She preferred to take her time with Captain Benson. A body like that deserved special attention, whether young and lithe, or mature and curvaceous. Seated across from Olivia with the picture in hand, Amanda was getting the best of both worlds. "Eighteen or not, why exactly are you dolled up like you're auditioning for Hugh Hefner, might I ask?"

Olivia snickered and held up the only Rollins family portrait in existence. Taken in an actual Glamour Shots studio, the 8x10 boasted a scowling Amanda, ten years old, knobby-kneed, and pissed off at the matching taffeta dresses she and her sister had been forced into; a pigtailed Kimmie, age six, not only toothless but oblivious to the degradation they suffered together; and strained smiles from both parents, who looked like poorly rendered Barbie doll versions of themselves—impossibly young and slender, with full heads of blonde hair so luxurious it was almost laughable. "Probably the same reason this looks like an album cover for the worst hair band ever," she said, trying to maintain a straight face and failing miserably. Her shoulders bounced with suppressed mirth. "It was the eighties. I took those pictures for my boyfriend. That's his jacket."

Amanda did some quick calculations in her head. If Olivia was eighteen in the picture, that meant the jacket and the photo had belonged to Billy, the boy she moved in with during college. Her first serious boyfriend after the failed engagement to Daniel, and the only man she ever lived with, besides Brian Cassidy. Amanda had wheedled the story out of her one night, over dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant. Billy turned out to be a player, and not just on the football field.

"Looks better on you." Amanda sent a flirty wink in Olivia's direction. "Or off you, that is. Did you say pictures? Plural?"

"Mm-hmm. The others should be in there somewhere. I took them all back when I broke up with him."

Smart girl, Amanda thought, too busy searching to say it out loud. She shuffled through the pile where she had discovered the photo, smacking down each subsequent shot like playing cards in an emphatic game of War, until she found what she was looking for: Olivia at the beach, golden-bodied and glistening wet in a bikini small enough to fit Jesse, long hair cascading water behind her; another beach, another bathing suit—this time a one-piece and a demure pose, her hair the longest Amanda had ever seen it and flowing glamorously around her shoulders as she knelt in the sand; reclining on a mound of throw pillows, her shirt riding up to show off that cute belly again, the infamous denim shorts in place and revealing enough thigh that her oval birthmark—the one Amanda had deemed olive-shaped and sometimes tried to nibble on, just to hear the giggle it elicited—was clearly visible. Amanda hadn't gotten to see that until at least their fourth date. There was another, a little darker and higher up on the hip, shaped like nothing, but it never failed to turn Amanda on and thus had a distinctive "sex shape" in her mind. She didn't get to see that one until much later.

Olivia with a popsicle poised suggestively at her lips. Olivia wearing a cute floppy hat and not much else. Several more low-cut tops and short shorts—and oh, that hair and those legs. (Those eyes and that mouth . . .) "Geez, you were really into Billy," Amanda said, catching herself a moment too late. "Or whoever these were for."

The captain made a noncommittal sound, distracted at first by a fresh batch of photos unearthed from the dog-eared shoebox beside her. She sat back and cast a shrewd look at Amanda over the top of her glasses. "Well," she said, her mouth quirked at one corner, "they're yours now. And if you're a very good girl, I might add some updated snapshots to the collection soon."

Oh, fuck me. Amanda gulped, unsure if she had said the words out loud or just thought them. And was she drooling? It was quite possible she was drooling. "Have I told you lately what an amazing boss you are? And girlfriend?" she managed to squeak, her voice breaking like she'd just hit puberty. Ten years on, plus several months into a romantic relationship, and Olivia could still surprise the hell out of her sometimes. "Mother, woman, dog owner, New Yorker? Human—"

"Okay, okay." Olivia shook her head in exasperation, but gave a throaty chuckle anyway. "Don't push your luck, Mr. 'I'm King of the World.'"

"Say what?" Amanda pried her eyes away from Olivia cavorting on the beach in a sundress, the wind—or the young girl's coyly timed hand gesture—kicking the already abbreviated hem of her skirt dangerously high. She glanced up to find a picture of herself at fourteen or fifteen, staring back from some God-awful nineties fashion nightmare: head to toe grunge, which she had painstakingly styled from one of her father's discarded flannel shirts and several thrift store pieces. Her silky blonde hair was sheared off at ear level, the shortest it had ever been or would ever be again, and undoubtedly crunchy from the gel meant to give it a textured, messy look. A cigarette, pilfered from her mother's purse, hung at a loose angle from her lips, poised for sex appeal, not smoking (that would come in another year or two).

Aw hell's bells. She thought she'd burned all photographic evidence of that phase.

"You telling me this isn't nineties' heartthrob Leonardo DiCaprio?" Olivia tapped the picture with her index finger, like she was pointing out a suspect who denied being caught on camera. She kept a straight face for as long as she could, then broke into such a huge, delighted grin, Amanda couldn't help but return it.

"Hush your mouth," Amanda drawled, her cheeks warming from embarrassment, but even more so from the smitten feelings that bubbled up inside her. She sure did fancy that smile.

"Okay, but first, I have a serious question for you." All at once, Olivia became solemn and held up a finger for emphasis. When she had Amanda's full and somewhat apprehensive attention, she draped herself sensually against the corner of the couch, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. "Will you draw me like one of your French girls?"

Amanda giggled, poking her toes into the sensitive spots on Olivia's thighs and—with a bit of stretching—the ribs. It drove the captain nuts that the slightest touch made her squirm around like an eel on dry land; meanwhile, Amanda didn't have a ticklish bone in her entire body. She'd sat, stone-faced and unflinching, through every attack of wriggling fingers and strategically placed jabs she was subjected to since her ninth birthday. That was the day Dean Rollins decided to toughen up his eldest child by holding her down to be tickled by all the party guests, including her mother and little sister, until she peed her pants. For years afterward, she was known as Mandy Pants and shoved into school bathrooms on a regular basis.

Sometimes, just for a second, Amanda thought Olivia had gotten lucky growing up without a father. Then again, Dean Rollins wasn't a serial rapist who would have done God knows what to his only daughter, had he the access. And though Amanda's father had often been her tormentor, he was also her biggest protector when Beth Anne was on the warpath. Olivia had faced off with a mean drunk all on her own.

How the woman managed to laugh and find humor in things like silly old photographs—how she could be so maternal, strong, and compassionate, in spite of everything she'd been through—was still a marvel to Amanda. She wasn't the type to "cherish the moment," but as Olivia let out an actual cackle and writhed to get away from the toes that flexed near her side, Amanda thought she might have just fallen in love with her captain all over again.

"'Manda, stop!" Olivia gasped, huddling down into the couch to escape. It was a terrible plan, leaving her vulnerable to further torture, but she looked so cute all bunched up and peering out from behind the long tendrils of hair that framed her face, escapees from the butterfly clip the rest of her hair was twisted into. "I take it all back. You're not Titanic Leonardo."

"Thank you," Amanda said primly.

"That's more like final season of Growing Pains Leonardo right there."

The moment the words were out of her mouth, Olivia ducked her head again, covering it with her arms as if she were in an earthquake drill. When no more prodding or teasing came, she peeked out cautiously again—and immediately groaned.

During the skirmish, an avalanche of Polaroids had spilled across Amanda's lap. One of them featured a strikingly pretty boy with a moody pout and a shock of dark brown hair. He wore a blue sweatshirt under a frayed denim vest and slouched against a large tree. He was also Olivia Benson.

"At least I went on to win an Oscar. Unlike you, Johnny Depp of 21 Jump Street fame," Amanda said, brandishing the picture in triumph. It was cute as hell, but revenge was so dang sweet.

Olivia snatched at the Polaroid, missed it by a mile, and swore graphically. The captain seldom used language that foul, unless she was badly startled, pissed off at the outcome of a trial, or in the throes of an intense orgasm. (Amanda favored the latter, preferring to think of it as their dirty little secret. Hearing those filthy words come out of that pretty mouth never failed to turn her on.) And now, so it seemed, when evidence came to light that she'd once been a very soft and very adorable butch. "You ass. Give it," she demanded, her hand outstretched, fingers grasping as Amanda offered the photo over, then jerked it back at the last second. Repeatedly. "Okay, that's it, you're fired. Gimme your gun and shield. Rollins!"

"Oh, you're last naming me now? You can dish it out, but you can't take it, huh Johnny? Huh?" Amanda dodged side to side with the picture, always keeping it just beyond Olivia's reach. She had taunted Kim with everything from stuffed animals to tubes of lipstick over the years, grinning malevolently as the younger, shorter girl leapt for whatever item her big sissy had swiped out from under her unsuspecting little nose. Olivia was much faster—and stronger, Jesus!—than Kim had ever been. But still not fast enough. "Don't be such a Cry-Baby, baby. What's eating you, Gilbert Grape? You havin' A Nightmare on Elm Street?"

Growling in frustration, Olivia scooped up an armload of pictures and deposited them on the coffee table with a loud thwap. She hooked a finger around the hinge of her glasses, raking them aside and chucking them on top of the pictures. The butterfly clip went the way of the glasses. Then she lunged forward, catching Amanda off guard and pinning her against the arm of the couch.

Childhood photos scattered in every direction, some of them crumpling between her body and Olivia's as they came flush together—but if Olivia didn't care, Amanda sure as hell didn't. She knew the kiss Olivia planted on her lips was just a distraction too—a sleight of hand while the magician made off with the glaring proof of her teenaged foray into androgyny. Amanda didn't care about that, either. She sank into the couch cushions, inviting Olivia's full weight on top of her, inviting a deeper kiss and responding eagerly when she got it. She felt the Polaroid slide from her fingers, heard it whip across the coffee table on its way to regions unknown.

Eh, she could find it again later. Right now she had the real thing, and there was nothing boyish about the curves beneath her wandering hands. Finding herself granted free rein, she indulged in both kiss and touch until they separated for air, rosy-lipped and breathless.

"I know this walk down memory lane's made us nostalgic for our youth and all, but maybe we should lay off the heavy petting." Amanda could barely pry her gaze off of Olivia's mouth, even as the words came out of her own. She rubbed her lips together and popped them apart, like she'd just applied fresh lipstick. It took a lot of self-control to look your gorgeous, powerful girlfriend in the eye and suggest not having sex—especially when her thigh was in your crotch, her tits pressed forward enticingly, sumptuously, and close enough to bury your face in—but Amanda mustered the strength somehow. Maybe because she was surrounded by images of baby fat, pigtails, and cute gap-toothed grins. "Kids'll be home soon. Let's not be the reason they need therapy."

"Oh my God." Olivia sounded awestruck, her voice hushed and melodramatic. "Did you just turn down sex? Are you— sweetie, are you okay? Do you have a fever?" She cupped her palm to Amanda's forehead, feeling it—and the rest of her face—frantically. She pressed a cheek to both of Amanda's, peppering them with kisses when Amanda feigned annoyance and turned aside. "Should I call 911? Speak to me, my love."

"You are the biggest goofball I have ever met," Amanda said dryly, welcoming Olivia into the space alongside her. It was a cozy fit, requiring the captain to squeeze in and drape half her body across Amanda, who teetered right at the edge of the couch. They made it work for them, the same way they did everything else—together. Both preventing the other from sinking too far down, from falling.

"I think you meant badass. The biggest badass you ever met." Olivia settled into the crook of Amanda's arm, hand curled under her chin and resting on Amanda's chest. For such a badass, she looked incredibly soft and sweet. Amanda didn't recall ever being gazed at with such open, honest love before. It still took her breath away.

She kissed Olivia on the tip of the nose. "Nope, I meant goofball. But you balance it out with the badass pretty well."

"Gee. Thanks." Olivia shuddered and rubbed the back of her hand across her nose vigorously. Yet another ticklish spot.

Heaving a sigh, Amanda made a show of rooting under the couch cushion and producing the two photographs she had stuffed beneath it while Olivia was excavating the closet in search of her keepsake boxes. "Okay," she said gravely, "I will let you see these because A) I love you and B) you are not the only goofball on this couch. But you have to promise me—"

"I promise." Olivia snapped up the photos before Amanda could finish. Squinting at the already blurry scenes, she alternated holding them close to her nose and extending them at arm's length, adjusting the distance a little each time, to no avail. Poor thing was blind as a bat without her glasses.

Amanda rolled her eyes and stretched out her arm as far as it would go. Her fingers barely reached the coffee table, grasping for the frames that were still inches away. She made one last wild grab at them and overbalanced, toppling off the edge of the couch. She landed on all fours—how 'bout those catlike reflexes, y'all!—and looked up to find Olivia gazing mildly at her, the hint of a sardonic smile on her lips.

"Totally on purpose," Amanda said, and handed over the glasses with as much cool indifference as one could whilst wallowing around on the floor, two excited mutts trying to climb her like a jungle gym. She pushed the dogs away, sending them off with a swat to their wriggly butts, and plopped her own slightly less energetic rump onto the rug.

"Mm-hmm." Olivia slid the dark frames into place, looking smug as hell—and insanely hot (Amanda had floated the idea of a little roleplay involving those very glasses and would continue to do so until she wore her captain down). But the minute the pictures came into focus, Olivia let out the closest thing to a girlish squeal that her alto voice could produce. "Oh, honey," she said, giggling and glancing back and forth between the snapshots like she was watching tennis. Or maybe a rousing ping pong match. "Oh, hun-nee."

"You just broke, like, all your promises."

Olivia reached over and lightly pinched Amanda's cheek. "But look at you. Look at that little face! Oh my God, you look exactly like Jesse." She turned one of the pictures around—a portrait so old the background was sepia-toned, the towheaded girl in the forefront just distinct enough to make out an impish, scrunchy-eyed grin, great big ears, and horribly uneven bangs—then clasped it to her chest, pouted at the cuteness, brought it up for another look. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

"I decided my bangs needed a trim. Whacked 'em off with the scissors from my mom's sewing basket." Amanda demonstrated with a quick snip of her index and middle fingers, and a simultaneous click of her tongue. "She 'bout had a conniption fit when she saw what I'd done. My daddy thought it was hilarious. Took that picture just before Mama saw what I did to Kimmie's hair. Hers never did grow back right after that."

She flashed a wide grin, almost identical to the one in the photo, though the truth was, she'd gotten the switch for that bit of mischief. But it certainly wasn't the first time, or the last. Being a daddy's girl only got you so far, especially with a daddy whose fuse was shorter than his little finger. Still, she'd fared better than Kim or their mother.

"Remind me never to leave the scissors out where Jesse can find them." Olivia chuckled fondly and displayed the other picture. "So, this was the result of your Edward Scissorhands impersonation, I take it?"

Amanda pursed her lips, but couldn't suppress the smile that formed there. It was a good joke. "Listen to you, name-dropping your own movies, Johnny boy," she said, and took the photo by the outer edges. Not that it really mattered—the thing was ancient and had a crooked crease down the center from being folded in half at some point and stuffed into the back pocket of one Rollins girl or another. Flimsy and faded, it appeared to have gone through the wash once or twice as well.

In pinkish tones, though the world had been anything but rose-colored back then, the photo depicted two skinny little girls wearing bright jumper dresses and white knee-high socks. Their hair, once as long and sleek as Jesse's was now, still maintained its length in the back, but had been trimmed to a near bowl cut at the front and sides. According to Beth Anne, it was the most practical styling option for her daughters, after the hack job Amanda had done on their downy blonde hair. Whoever told Beth Anne that a mullet was practical for an eight- and a four-year-old girl had been full of shit. She'd succeeded only at making herself into the mother of two miniature Billy Ray Cyrus lookalikes.

"Yeah, this was the aftermath, I'm afraid." Amanda shook her head at the bratty little faces grinning back from the photo. God, they were rotten in those days. "The Loganville Mullet Twins. We sure as hell thought we were somethin'."

"You were right," Olivia said, tracing a finger along Amanda's jaw. For a second, it almost tickled, and she smiled as if she knew. "Still are something, if you ask me."

The kiss lasted just a few moments, but it tuned out the negative memories that were clunking around in Amanda's brain. Her laugh was genuine when Olivia withdrew something from a concealed pocket and begrudgingly thrust it towards her. Another picture, this one of Olivia in her mid to late teens, adorable as all get-out and also a total beanpole. She wore not one, but two—two!—leopard print halter tops in bright neon shades. Her belly button played peekaboo above a pair of those ubiquitous jean shorts, although these had a bit of length to them, the bottoms cuffed above the knee. But it was the hair that really did Amanda in: a mid-cheek bob with bangs and an abundance of curls, obviously the result of a recent perm. All topped off with a bandana tied in a floppy bow. The cherry on top of a very cute and very eighties sundae.

"Oh my Lord, is this what I think it is?" Amanda pointed to the froth of dark brown curls that framed teenage Olivia's sweet, smiling face. It hadn't changed that much, to be honest. (The face, that is. The hair was significantly better now.)

With said face buried in the couch cushion, the captain sent up a muffled, "Yes. The perm of shame."

"Babe, why would you hide this from me?" Amanda tousled the thick mane that spilled out around Olivia, a protective barrier against the humiliation of high school fads gone wrong. "This is the greatest thing I have ever seen in my life. How old were you?"

Olivia parted her hair enough to peer out with one golden brown eye, a color that reminded Amanda of late autumn, bonfires burning, a warm mug of cocoa clasped in chilly hands. "Sixteen," she said, and rolled onto her back, tossing that hair along with her. Confiscating the photo, she held it out in front of her and examined it thoughtfully, head cocked to one side, glasses askew. "God, that awful perm . . . " She bit her lower lip, hesitating. "It was— it was kind of an apology."

Sensing that jokes were off the table at the moment, Amanda sat forward and rested her chin on the couch cushion, eyes on Olivia only. "Oh?" she asked, piecing at the strands of hair caught up in Olivia's glasses and tucking them behind her ear.

"Yeah. This was right after she made me break off the engagement to Daniel." Olivia trailed her thumb along the outline of her younger self, but stopped at one pointy little elbow and placed the picture facedown on her chest. "After the vodka bottle."

Amanda didn't have to ask who "she" referred to, or what type of memories a vodka bottle resurrected for Olivia. Late one evening, after a stressful day at work and too much red wine led to some unproductive love-making—lots of foreplay they were both too tired to follow through with—she had held Olivia close as the full story emerged, spurred on by an ugly case involving an abused teenage girl accused of matricide. The captain's story wasn't much prettier: a slashed forearm that required seven stitches, received while fending off her drunken mother and the jagged glass from a broken bottle; the sickening fear when she fled, convinced Serena was dead from the nasty spill she took after the second kick; being picked up on the front steps of the NYC Public Library by Simone Bryce at 3 AM, shivering and sobbing, because she didn't know where else to go.

"I barely left my room for almost a month after that. At least when she was around. Which wasn't much, thank God." Olivia drummed her fingers absently against the photo, eyes on the ceiling. "Then one day she came home and wanted to take me 'shopping for school clothes.' It was June, school had just ended. But she was so . . . remorseful. She always was after one of our—"

Blowups? Knock-down drag-outs? Amanda provided silently. She had a serious bone to pick with Serena Benson. Sometimes, though, it was better not to comment on the woman's behavior, which could be a sensitive subject for the captain. Amanda continued playing with Olivia's hair, listening. Domestic disturbances? Flat-out child abuse?

"Incidents," Olivia said, and shrugged. "And I always fell for it. Every damn time. So, I let her take me out and try to buy back my . . . I don't know, respect? Trust? It couldn't have been my love, because she never wanted that." She made a scoffing sound, but quickly sucked her breath in again and lifted the photograph for a long, hard look. "New clothes. New hair. It was like nothing ever happened."

Tentatively, Amanda inched the photo from Olivia's grasp and placed it aside. She pushed herself up from the floor and onto the couch, stretching out on her stomach against—and partially on top of—Olivia, who tugged her into a warm and ready embrace.

"You were a kid," she said, chin propped on Olivia's shoulder. "You just wanted your mama's love and attention, like every other kid does. Her screwups aren't on you, darlin'. It was her responsibility to break that cycle, not yours."

Olivia blinked rapidly several times, then smiled down at Amanda, eyes shimmering. "Yeah, you're right." She raised her shoulder, bringing Amanda closer for a kiss on the forehead. "How'd you get so smart?"

"Good teacher."

Later that evening, when the photographs were scattered back into their boxes—or neatly stacked, in Olivia's case—and the kids were destined for bed, Amanda heard Jesse giggling in the front room. She found the little girl standing on tiptoe in her footie pajamas, entranced by something on the bookshelf. "Whatcha lookin' at, sweet pea?" she asked, sidling up for a glance. There, one shelf up from the middle, angled side by side to form a V, were two small frames containing a photo apiece.

"When did you take that picture of me, Mama?" Jesse asked, pointing to the shot of Amanda with those dreadful choppy bangs. "I don't a'member that."

"That's 'cause it's not you, silly billy." Amanda ruffled her daughter's fair hair, so like that of the little girl's in the frame. "That's me when I was around your age."

"Really?" Jesse took another inquisitive look and declared, through an impish grin, "Your hair is funny. Who's that boy? Is that Noah? Why's him have black hair? Is he from a coloring book?"

Coloring book Noah was actually a black and white photo of Olivia gazing over her shoulder, the most solemn and self-possessed four-year-old Amanda had ever seen. Her hair, indeed dark as pitch, was fashioned into what the captain had referred to as a mop top, although Amanda instantly dubbed it "the British Invasion," for its resemblance to the iconic hairstyles of The Beatles in their early years of fame.

"Where on earth did you get all that dark hair? And those eyes," Amanda had wondered aloud, comparing the picture to one of a young Serena Benson. The slender twenty-something was pale—of skin, hair, and eyes—next to the infant she held cheek to cheek. Baby Olivia, still cutting teeth, had the thickest, swarthiest head of hair Amanda had ever seen on a child.

Only after the silence stretched on for a while did it occur to her what she'd asked. Olivia couldn't answer that question, not really. Beyond a no-account half-brother who appeared once in a blue moon to cause trouble or beg for money—or both—and a couple of grainy images of Joseph Hollister that looked more like stock photos than actual candids, Olivia knew nothing of her paternal lineage. As for her mother's side, a single album filled with faces she would never see in person was the closest she'd gotten to extended family.

Amanda smoothed over her faux pas by hastening to add that Olivia reminded her of a tiny Snow White.

"Did you know that in the original story the queen pricks her finger with a needle," Olivia had said, putting away the picture of her mother, "and bleeds onto the snow on the black windowsill, and that's how she conjures up Snow White? Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony."

"Fairy tale genetics are fucked up."

They had laughed at that, but now, as Amanda studied the little mop-top girl in the photograph, she couldn't help thinking about genetics again. For better or for worse, it was something Olivia would never get to pass on to another person. She would never get to share those dramatically dark features—conjured from her mother's blood and suffering—with a daughter she watched grow into a beautiful, fierce warrior like herself. Like Amanda was already getting to do with Jesse.

She tapped the glass around the photo and leaned over to whisper in Jesse's ear. "Wanna hear a secret? That's not a boy, that's Liv when she was a little kid. A long time ago, some pictures didn't have color like they do today."

"Wow," Jesse said, her new favorite exclamation since discovering Olivia's fondness for the word. "Y'all are old. And weird. I like you and Aunt Livia better now. You look the way mommies are a'pposed to look."

Amanda laughed and gave Jesse a loud smooch on the neck that made the little girl scrunch up her shoulders and giggle. She swatted the tiny pajama-clad rear and sent it off to be tucked into bed by Aunt Livia.

"Yeah, kid," Amanda said, pausing for one more look at the long-lost children on the shelves, before grinning and trotting off towards the sounds of laughter—both young and old—that filtered from the bedrooms. "I like us better now, too."