A/N: Hello! I will attempt to keep this note brief, so it doesn't end up longer than the chapter itself. As you'll see, it's a shorter one, but the entire fic is almost 19k words, and my beta was kind enough to go through and add chapter breaks for me. A few are shorter than others, but there's 8 chapters altogether and I'm going to TRY to post one a day. Other important stuff: I resurrected a character from the dead for this fic, and I regret nothing. In, I believe, "Take Me to Church," I wrote Amanda thinking that her Grandmama Brooks was probably rolling over in her grave. Well, surprise! Grandmama Brooks is alive and kickin'! Let's just pretend that was one of those "my grandmother, God rest her soul... j/k she's not dead" jokes. Not as important, but FYI: A number of things inspired this fic. I love how much old ladies love Olivia on the show (and vice versa), and I've been wanting to pay tribute to that at some point. Plus, I've wanted Amanda to take Liv to Georgia and meet some relatives for a while, so there's a little of that too. And I've always had an affinity for the South (minus the bigotry and other yucky stuff), so here were are. I'd call this one fluff & humor, with a pinch of underlying angst, and lots & lots of references to the long fic. And now that I've failed miserably at keeping this short... enjoy!

Chapter 1: Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go

. . .

"You're just a bee charmer, Amanda Jo. That's what you are—a bee charmer."

The drawl had a definite Southern husk to it, but the elongated vowels and cotton-soft R's were more bayou than backroad. If Ruth Jamison had marveled at her pal Idgie rustling up some honey from an alligator nest rather than a beehive, it would have been a spot-on imitation.

Olivia was getting better at her accents—their recent viewing of Fried Green Tomatoes helped—she just needed to work on her geography south of the Mason-Dixon. And her timing. Amanda was in no mood to charm bees of any sort after one of the little shits had just lighted upon her neck, took a good long look around, and jammed its stinger into her flesh for no apparent reason. (Slapping it with an open palm may have been partly to blame.)

"If I'm so damn charming, why the hell'd that little effer stab me?" she groused, rubbing the small bump right at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. It had already swollen to pea size, even though the honeybee who was responsible had yet to perish. The insect floundered on the porch step like a staggering drunk, until Amanda crunched it under her thin heel. A mercy killing, death was imminent.

"You look so pretty, it probably mistook you for a flower," said Olivia, brushing away Amanda's hand to examine the assaulted area. She blew on it lightly, alleviating none of the pain, but forming her lips into a perfect pink pucker that conjured images of Bubble Yum clouds, soap bubble globes, and some far less childlike pursuits to which only Amanda was privy.

The flower thing might not be too far off. In Manhattan, amid the hustle and bustle, the asphalt and exhaust, the overweight pigeons and overconfident subway rats, black was the predominant color for clothing. Amanda had taken up the somber mantle as naturally as any native New Yorker, whittling her wardrobe down from multiple brights—her "Mandy" attire—to a steady palette of darks that rivaled the closet of Batman himself.

But that was the city. When you were standing on your grandmama's front porch in the blazing Georgia sun, the heat from the floorboards baking your feet inside their strappy nude sandals, you dressed accordingly. So she had worn the sundress, though it was the most colorful addition to her trousseau in years, almost to the point of feeling garish. Mustard yellow ("I think it's more 'sunflower,'" Olivia had said, peering over Amanda's shoulder and hugging her around the waist as they admired the midi in the mirror), knee-length, with a coy triangle of exposed skin beneath the tie-up neckline, it made Amanda feel pretty and girlish in a way she never had growing up in Loganville.

Back then she'd been too rough-and-tumble, scrapping with all the boys, and later, doing more than just scrapping. They had never treated her with the tenderness and care of the woman at her side. Funny how it took a feminine touch to bring out her softer, sweeter nature. Shania Twain had it wrong—no man was necessary to feel all-woman. Then again, Shania had never met Olivia Margaret Benson.

She had adapted to her surroundings like a chameleon, donning a sweet summer dress that had already earned her several compliments from the ladies lunching at the diner. "Well, aren't you just the prettiest thing to come through these parts in a coon's age," said one particularly chatty waitress, who was probably ten years Olivia's junior, "And that dress, land sakes!"

Amanda was almost certain they were commenting—with the double entendre and sugarcane smiles typical of the South—on what was inside the frock, but she couldn't blame them. The captain's curves were made to be embraced by the white cotton wrap, cinched at the hip with a slouchy bow, ruched at the shoulders, hem whispering against her calves. The tulip skirt provided a daring glimpse of inner thigh with every step, a print of sweet pea sprigs toning down the provocative cut, keeping it innocent, light.

She looked like she belonged barefoot in a field of wildflowers, snowflakes of cottonwood fluff in her hair, crowds of Black-eyed Susans, violets, bluebells and milkweed reaching out for the chance to touch her, to kiss her golden-brown skin (it had taken all of one day for her to tan flawlessly in the summer sunshine), a goddess walking among them.

Currently, the goddess was scraping the edge of her credit card across Amanda's pricked, pulsing flesh, trying to extract the barb from underneath. They had become something of an expert team at removing stingers as quickly as possible, once Jesse's bee allergy presented itself a year ago. Thankfully they hadn't needed to use the newfound skill for anything other than the occasional splinter, but Olivia was putting all those YouTube videos and wikiHows to work now. She angled the Mastercard at eye level, showing off the black fleck on the plastic like a doctor displaying the bullet she'd just tweezed from a patient's gut.

"Am I s'posed to make a wish?" Amanda asked, still irritable as she tented a palm to her throbbing neck. She probably didn't look quite so pretty and sunflower-fresh anymore, red faced and scowling, her tousled blonde waves frizzing in the humidity.

"I think that's dandelions and eyelashes," Olivia said, ignoring the grouchy tone. Wisely, she had worn her hair up in a loose French twist, the untucked strands tumbling over themselves to flutter at her neck and shoulders. (Somehow, it reminded Amanda of the Sistine Chapel ceiling, Adam just a breath away from the outstretched finger of God.) "But if that's how you do down in Georgia, honey-love . . . "

Staying pissed off was hard with Olivia looking—and talking—like that. Amanda rolled her eyes anyway and said, "Fine," before sending the stinger aloft with a puff of air from her funneled lips. "I wish this visit was over and we were back in the city, instead of roastin' like a couple pigs on a spit. I wish my underwear wadn't ridin' up my sweaty ass crack. And I wish that bee would burn in hell. Like we are."

"Wow." Olivia tucked the credit card back into her woven straw tote, an overpriced but extremely cute accessory she'd found at the airport in Atlanta and insisted on buying—there was a faded billboard ad for peaches stenciled on its side. She could be such a girl sometimes.

"Someone wore her cranky pants today," she said lightly, and unspooled her hair from the tortoiseshell claw, fanning its extravagant weight and length around her shoulders. Mm, rosemary and mint. She combed her fingers gently through Amanda's hair, the halo of frizz at the top and the marshland underneath, and caught it up in an airy ponytail, pinned in place with the claw. "Better?"

It was better, actually. But. "Now you'll be hot."

"I'll be fine." Olivia placed a hand on the side of Amanda's head, drawing her near to kiss the opposite temple. "Your grandma has air conditioning, right? We can cool down inside, get off our feet for a while. I bet she has aloe or something else we can put on that sting, too. Let's just go in for a bit, say hello, and see how it goes, okay, sweetie?"

Normally it would have driven Amanda crazy to be pacified so, to be handled, but Olivia was being extra patient and indulgent with her, in spite of the heat, the jet lag (if a two hour flight within the same time zone qualified as such), the forty minute drive up from Atlanta in a cramped rental, and the incessant whining. The least she could do was return some of that kindness; she would need the captain on her side if she hoped to make it through this impromptu family reunion without committing familicide.

"A'right," Amanda said grudgingly, allowing herself to be guided forward by Olivia's steady, reassuring palm at the small of her back. She had recently found that when that hand wasn't there, she missed it, the way you missed a lost ring or a watch that stopped working. Lord, when had she become such a clinging vine?

"But 'member what I said, okay? If Mama's here, we get in, we get out. No nicey-nice. And if she gives you any shit, you tell me, and I'll deal with her." Amanda leveled a serious gaze at Olivia, much like the one she used when she gave Jesse and their other kids—but mostly Jesse—a stern talking to. Only now, it was aimed up instead of down. "Got it?"

"Sir, yes, sir." A faint smile accompanied the staccato reply, and Olivia scuttled her fingernails along the exposed skin just above the shirred back panel of Amanda's dress.

"Sorry. I know I'm bein' all . . . scrappy."

Bitchy was the word she'd been looking for, but it felt weird to swear on her Grandmama Brooks' front porch—even though she'd already done it several times since the kamikaze bee attack. Her grandmama was probably the only reason Amanda hadn't ended up a complete heathen in the first place.

Whereas her mama had seen fit to drag her to First Baptist of Loganville every Sunday and use the Bible like a weapon ("If a daughter profanes herself by whoring, she profanes her father; she shall be burned with fire," was a particular favorite, the part that specified a priest's daughter conveniently amended), Grandmama Brooks had taught her that church wasn't just four walls and an altar ("Church is where you make it, Mandy") and only quoted verses at her in a positive light ("He's got every one of those hairs on your towhead numbered, baby girl. You're worth more than all the sparrows").

And now, the kind-spirited but feisty, God-fearing but sensible woman who once threatened her former son-in-law Dean with a shovel, should he ever lay a hand on her eldest daughter again, had suffered a stroke. A mild one, according to the late-night call from Beth Anne—a lot of blubbering, interspersed with the words "my mama" and "brain attack"—but any sort of health issue was cause for concern when you were nearly eighty-one years old.

"We should go," Olivia had said, the moment Amanda ended the call and explained what had happened, mentioning offhandedly that Beth Anne was requesting her presence. (Olivia's name hadn't entered the conversation at all.)

"Seriously? Mama'll have her nose in everything. Putting on a big, dramatic show as usual." Amanda had stroked Olivia's cheek then, as delicately as stroking the petals of a tea rose, her fingers almost tentative. "Sure you wanna subject yourself to that?"

"I'm not afraid of Beth Anne, love. And it's your grandma. I know how much she means to you. Besides, you still owe me an ice cream from that van where you lost your virginity."

Two days later, after making the necessary arrangements at work, securing a flight, and securing childcare—Amanda had refused to include their kids in the outing, which would inevitably turn into a three-ring circus, as all her family gatherings did—they were in Loganville. Home sweet home. No sign of Memphis Boatwright or his ice cream truck, née sex van, to report as of yet.

"I like my baby scrappy," Olivia said, dotting a second kiss to Amanda's sweaty temple before flapping a light breeze her way via foldable fan, another airport purchase. Amanda had teased her about that one. City girl can't take the heat, huh? Wasn't quite so funny anymore.

"Now ring the doorbell." Olivia jutted her chin towards the push button in its little brass plate, her hair wafting about her shoulders with each flick of the fan. "It's hot as balls out here."

. . .