A/N: I own nothing. This is a little story which will probably be continued if people seem to like it, but which I think can stand on it's own as a scene from Stephanie's life. Please review if you read my story- I love to hear what people think, even if it's criticism (of a constructive sort)!
It was had been one of those days where people shoot at you. Those are my absolute least favorite days, so by the time I got home I was ready for a long shower, take-out food, and a Ranger's game. But unfortunately, days where people shoot at you tend to progress into nights of people yelling at you. Either they're angry because you're putting yourself in danger and won't apply to work at the button factory, like my mother and Morelli, or they're angry about the possible legal consequences that come with an employee breaking a fugitive's head with her purse, like my cousin Vinnie. Even my Grandma Mazur, who only wanted details to gossip about at her salon appointment tomorrow, was so exited that she was practically yelling into the phone. So by the time I was finally done fielding calls it was past midnight, and I stumbled into the shower half-blind with exhaustion.
I was tired of being chastised for doing my job. Of course, I'm a pretty bad bounty hunter, so I understand that occasionally a rebuke for ineptitude might be unavoidable. But the calls hadn't been about how I should do my job better- they had been about how I shouldn't do my job at all. And that was irritating. Because even though currently my least favorite days are the ones when I get shot at, I'm pretty sure that's only because I've never worked a day at a button factory. Better to have someone else shooting at you than to shoot yourself.
I think Morelli's almost worse than my mother now. He's been dropping more hints than ever about me quitting. Morelli doesn't really do passive, but he does aggressive just fine, and the hints have progressed to almost-ultimatums. Quit your job so we can give us a chance. Quit your job so the day won't come when I have to arrest you. Quit your job, quit your job.
The thing is, Morelli's a good guy. He takes care of me when I get shot or concussed or tasered, and he helps me find the people who blow up my cars. He wants me to be safe because he loves me, which is mostly why he hates me taking on FTAs with my inexpert skills, pepper spray, and a (usually unloaded) gun. The rest of his problem with my job can be attributed to his being Italian, which isn't really his fault.
I love Morelli too, of course. With a history that progresses back to me being six years old, there's really too much invested in our relationship to just end it flat out. We might take almost periodic breaks when our commitment issues and other problems boil too close to surface, but they never have a permanent feel to them. They're just us giving each other some temporary space. Lately, though, that space seems insufficient. Morelli and I have been playing the same game and having the same conversations for too many months. We need a change, and I think it's coming. I just sort of doubt we'll still be together when the dust settles. And even if that's for the best, it's still sort of depressing- we've been together for a while, and there's all sorts of bonds. But after all, even Barbie broke up with Ken when she needed to change her life. And where Barbie leads I, Stephanie Plum, daughter of the Burg, will not be afraid to follow.
I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, feeling slightly more human but still pretty shaky as I got dressed in a pair of biker shorts and a t-shirt. No matter how many times people try to kill you each new attempt is still a shock to the system. I guess this is pretty lucky, because without the adrenalin rush I get in those situations I figure I would probably be dead. But when the day's over and you've put the bad guy behind bars, the energy that kept you alive sort of disappears and you're left with shaky hands and nausea– and maybe a disinclination to be in the dark.
Being already on the edge, it's not surprising that I almost jumped out of my skin when I walked into my living room and saw Ranger sitting on the couch watching basketball on my tv. In fact, I sort of screamed when he turned, although the scream faded in my throat almost immediately. It was good that Ranger was here- it meant I didn't have to check my closets or under my bed for felons or monsters. Ranger didn't tolerate such things in private living spaces.
The lack of monsters didn't mean the situation wasn't dangerous. Ranger is without a doubt the most dangerous man I've ever encountered. I figure I know more about him than anyone in the world outside of his own family, but that's not saying much. He used to be special forces, has muscles like Rambo, and has a lot of questionable connections and expensive black cars. He also has a 12 year old daughter in Florida and a commendable habit of saving my life. He's a man of mystery, but he also happens to be my best friend. He's the person I call when I need help, the person I trust most. Of course, I've never told him he's my best friend- it's not the sort of things you tell bad ass bounty hunters to whom you have an intense attraction. But I think he knows anyway.
Right now he was looking at me silently, waiting to see if I wanted the first word. He has a way of being absolutely still that I find unnerving even when I'm not feeling edgy. So I just pulled my wet hair back into a pony tail and smiled as well as I could. "Hey Ranger. Come to check on the damages?"
He almost-smiled, and moved over on the couch to make room. When I sank down he threw a casual arm around me. Part of Ranger's danger is that he smells better than anyone else on the planet. No joke.
"Just wanted to make sure you would be up to a run tomorrow, babe. I hear that scrawny thug almost lost you today. You know rumors like that hurt our credibility as bad ass bounty hunters. It makes everything harder when the felons aren't scared of you."
Whatever. The only thing that would hurt Ranger's danger credibility would be his demise. And even then the criminals would want to see the body before they let their guard down. In fact, even after seeing the body they would probably still be cautious in case the entire thing was some sort of setup. Ranger wore invincibility the way other men wore cologne.
"Gee" I said, in my best wish-I-could-but-can't voice, "that's really a tempting offer, but I have a very important meeting tomorrow. Scheduled for weeks- it would be unforgivably rude to cancel at such late notice." And anyway, this was true. I have a standing date on Saturday mornings- first with my pillow and snooze button, and then later with Stan, the freckle-faced high school kid who runs the bakery counter during the weekend. This schedule may keep me five pounds above my ideal weight but it also saves me the expense of therapy. Without the comfort of jelly donuts I would certainly require professional help.
Ranger, who I suspect keeps rather closer watch on me then it would initially appear, wasn't buying my excuse. "The bakery's open until six" he said pleasantly "and I'm sure they'll hold back a couple of donuts for you. We'll run at seven- that way you can sleep in." What constitutes sleeping in is one of those area's where Ranger and I disagree intensely.
But he was right- I should be in better shape. The thing about Ranger is that he never tries to keep me from the job- hell, sometimes he takes me along to ride shotgun on his pickups. But he's always trying to make me better at what I do– he tries to get me in shape, he makes me put bullets in my gun and shares all his helpful tips about breaking and entering. And for the times when all that fails and he needs to come riding to the rescue, he keeps a tracking device on my car. Ranger's a busy man, and his ambition concerning me has nothing to do with keeping me completely out of trouble (an impossible task, as life proves to me every day) but everything to do with keeping me alive. Ranger, despite having even worse commitment issues than my own, loves me. I love him too, but it's not something we really talk about. There are too many complications, like the job and his mysteries and the fact that I'm usually dating Morelli.
We watched the tv quietly for a little while, with me dozing against his shoulder. The ESPN classic game ended and he unceremoniously picked me up and carried me into my bedroom, tucked me in carefully and set my alarm, all of which I was dimly aware of through the haze of sleep clouding my mind. He bent down and kissed my forehead, saying in his quiet voice that he would see me in the morning. And I went to sleep, feeling more secure than would have seemed possible a half hour earlier.