A/N: Standard disclaimer applies to this story.

Highlands Girl, I can't thank you enough for the time you've spent working on this chapter with me.

It's officially Thursday on the East Coast, so this update is a little early. It's my way of thanking you for all your comments and alerts.


Chapter 4. Bad mistakes, I've made a few

"I sure hope you know what you're doing." Tank's tone was laced with concern. Have you gone crazy, man? Should I send reinforcements? Expecting him to push the issue, Ranger stayed silent. While he would have preferred to keep Stephanie's ordeal to himself, he didn't have that option. Tank wouldn't drop it, unless he was convinced that his friend was of sound mind. And since Ranger just told him to have Lester run the overnight bag Ella had packed for Stephanie up to the house in Rumson, Tank had a valid reason to question Ranger's sanity.

The silence stretched for another beat, before Tank spoke again. "Carlos, Steph is…"

"One of us, Pierre."

Tank's startled laugh boomed over the phone line. "No shit…" Relief was palpable in his tone. "I've always known that our girl was special."

Suppressing a twinge of possessiveness that flared up, when Tank referred to Stephanie as 'our girl', Ranger redirected the conversation to the FUBAR op.

Decker and his men left the warehouse in three vehicles and split up, after crossing the river into Pennsylvania. Short a team, the RangeMen in pursuit had to choose among the targets to follow. For Vince and Zero, a high speed chase down the interstate amounted to nothing, when their Explorer hit a pothole. A busted tire cinched Decker's escape, forcing the partners report to Haywood empty-handed. Cal and Junior were more successful in tailing a nondescript van to South Philly, but the target they picked up and put in a holding cell was none other than Rodney Alembert, the skip Stephanie had followed to the warehouse earlier that day. And even though Ranger doubted that the small time scammer knew much about Decker's score or backup hideout, he decided to take the lead on the interrogation.

"Keep the douchebag awake. And get a complete background check for fuck's sake. No more surprises. I'm offline until the debriefing at zero six hundred hours."

He ended the call, his gaze locked on the reflection of the moonlight on the water surface. For the umpteenth time that day he was staring out the window, trying to reel in his temper. Tonight, resisting the urge to hurl a paperweight off his desk against a wall to shatter the glass was proving difficult. The muscle in his jaw twitched. Yanking open the door to the deck, he strode out without taking his eyes off the ocean, but the sound of the surf did little to settle his rage. He stilled for a moment, watching the waves, and then stalked back inside, shoving the door against the jamb. The hinges held, softening the impact, and the door shut with a hardly audible click.

Casting a glance on the mantel clock, he realized that over an hour had passed since he had left Stephanie upstairs. The aftereffects of the change she had gone through should have subsided, which meant he should have heard from her by now. But before he could check on her, he had to get in control of his emotions. The last thing he wanted was to scare Stephanie off with a flash of his temper. Taking air in through the nose, he let it out from his mouth, and repeated the process until he felt calm enough to see her.

Ranger supposed he should have been grateful that she was alive and with him. Closing his eyes, he struggled to subdue his body's reaction to the scenes that flooded his brain at the thought of her soaking in the tub upstairs. He had always been hyperaware of her presence, but the charge he felt earlier, when the tips of his fingers skimmed the naked skin above her jeans, was akin to electric shock. Forcing himself to think about the things he needed to tell her, rather than letting his mind wander down a dangerous path of imagining whether being with her would feel any different, he ran up the stairs to the second floor. Barely making it over the threshold of the bedroom, he called out, "Babe?"

Stephanie walked out of the bathroom, with his sweats rolled up to avoid tripping herself, to find Ranger standing by the door.

"Feeling better?" he asked, watching her unconsciously rub her neck, as he tried to gauge whether she was still unsteady on her feet.

"Much..." Her stomach growled, before she could say anything else.

"I was going to ask if you were up for dinner." Holding out his hand, he flashed her one of his megawatt grins. "But, I just got my answer. Let's go eat."

Grasping his fingers, she followed him down the stairs, musing about the nearly constant physical contact he had kept with her ever since they had arrived at the house. As they were crossing the foyer, she realized that while it was possible he worried about her falling over, even if there was more to it, her learning his true motivation was unlikely, so she decided not to question it.

She snapped out of her reverie, when Ranger led her into a bright and airy kitchen. A table was set by the picture window, overlooking a rose garden. He helped her into a leather barrel back chair, poured water into their glasses and settled across the table, with his back to the wall, waiting for her to break the silence.

Stephanie picked up her glass and studied him over the rim, before taking a sip. She needed to know what had happened to her and couldn't understand why he was stalling, so she blurted out the first thing that came to mind, even though it couldn't be further from the truth.

"I'm still mad at you, you know."

"You sure about that, Babe?" A small smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth told her that he wasn't buying her outburst, but his eyes were serious, lacking the spark of amusement, which usually accompanied their banter.

"No…?" There was doubt in her voice. "I don't know. I'm not, but I should be."

"But you're not. And that's what matters."

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Or will I have to drag every single word out of you? She added in her head, waiting for his blank mask to slam down. It never did.

"Yes. But, I need to know what you remember, first. Will you tell me?"

There was an inexplicable sadness in his eyes, and an odd note in his tone. If this wasn't Ranger, she would have said it sounded as if he was pleading, but that couldn't be right, because Batman didn't plead. She trusted him to come through on his promise to explain everything, so if he wanted to hear her side of the story, it wasn't from idle curiosity. Thinking about where to start, she pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and then let out a breath.

"I followed my skip to a warehouse, had the daylights knocked out of me once I got inside, and blacked out… After that things get fuzzy. I think I climbed out of a window and jumped down, hurting my ankle. I can't be sure though." She paused to look under the table and flex her ankle. "Clearly, there's nothing wrong with it now."

When she looked back up, his eyes bored into hers, urging her to continue. "Is that it?"

"Not exactly." She hesitated, trying to remember. "Didn't you say I was shot?"

"You were." His tone was flat as he spoke, choosing his words to avoid revealing too much too soon, so she wouldn't run out on him again. The only way he thought to lessen the shock from the revelation was to let her remember what she could, piecing the puzzle together on her own.

"So, let's see if I get this straight. A few hours ago, I injured my ankle, but it's healed now. Then I got shot and almost bled out, yet, I'm alive."

She looked to him for confirmation and got a nod in response. Gripping the edge of the table to avoid jumping out of her chair, she leaned forward and tried appealing to his common sense.

"But, Ranger, that's impossible," she said emphatically, adding in her head, not to mention totally crazy.

"It might seem that way at first." His lips tipped up in a humorless smile. "But that won't change what you are, Babe."

"Excuse me? Won't change 'what' I am?" Her voice rose, and she leveled a 'Burg death glare on him. "And what the hell is that, pray tell?"

"Immortal."

She stared at him, wide eyed, and started gulping air. Her heart leaped into her throat, and blood was pounding in her ears. Before she could faint, Ranger made it to her side, turning her away from the table and pushing her head between the knees. Running his hands over her shoulders, he spoke in a low voice.

"Deep breaths, Babe." His fingertips were ghosting over her neck. "That's it… slowly in… and out."

When the panic attack subsided, he eased her back up, rubbing his hands up and down her arms with a little more pressure, but still keeping his touch light.

"Thanks, I'm all right." Sinking back in the chair with a sigh, she closed her eyes. "Of course, all right is a relative condition," she muttered under her breath, opening her eyes to find him watching her.

And in that moment of clarity, realization dawned. She had died earlier that evening… but didn't stay dead. She needed to know why, and since Ranger wasn't volunteering anything, she had to push for answers.

"If I'm immortal, does that mean I can't die? I'll live forever?"

"Not exactly," he hesitated, briefly considering the possibility that she would bolt, seeking refuge in denial land, if he laid out the whole truth, but she didn't give him a chance to dodge the question.

"Spit it out, Ranger. You promised you'd tell me what I wanted to know."

"You won't die from bullet wounds, stab wounds, asphyxia, or poisoning…" Causes of death rolled off his tongue in a litany, his clinical manner of speech making her wonder if he recited it often, when his last words caught her attention. "…if the vital organs are intact, the body will heal. But removing the brain, heart, or lungs…"

"Ugh! I get the picture. You just had to go there, didn't you?" She cringed, cutting him off, as her imagination offered up ways how the vital organs could be removed from a body. Picking up her water glass, she took a long drink to fight off a wave of nausea. While she was trying to regain her composure to continue their conversation, it occurred to her that he must have had an ulterior motive for being graphic, knowing that it would affect her.

But why? As soon as the question crossed her mind, the answer hit her like a ton of bricks. The smug bastard is hiding something. Again. What the hell could it be?

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How do you know these things? If all this is true, and I'm taking a gigantic leap of faith here, how do you know that I'm immortal?"

"You never disappoint, Babe." His smile was warm, but the eyes were still missing the spark. "I was wondering when you'd ask me this question."

"And?"

"I know you are, because so am I."

"No way…" she breathed, her mind flooding with more questions. "How old are you exactly?"

"I was born in 1479. In Toledo."

"Ohio?" she blurted, realizing that Toledo, Ohio, most likely didn't exist in 1479.

The corners of his eyes crinkled, as the spark of amusement finally flickered in their depths. "Toledo, Spain."

"I thought you were Cuban?" she asked dejectedly, looking out the window, peering into the darkness outside, away from his penetrating stare, so he wouldn't see her berating herself for being naïve. Hating that she had believed him, when he had to have lied about his past, and that now, when the things he was saying seemed unfathomable, yet rang true, she needed to know more.

"According to my current birth certificate. Yes."

"What do you mean your current birth certificate?" She turned her head back to look at him so fast, it was shocking that she didn't get whiplash, and was struck by the resignation she saw in his eyes.

"The legal system isn't equipped to handle special identity cases like ours, Babe. We have to improvise." His tone was even, his posture was deceptively relaxed, but he was still rationing the answers to her questions.

"Improvise how?"

"A new set of documents every twenty to thirty years. Or better yet a few sets. Just in case."

"But, but… Why?"

"That's just about as long as you can get away with, if you don't let anyone get too close."

Seeing confusion in her eyes, he paused, relieved that she didn't call him on his slipup. There was something about her that had always made him lose control of his mouth, telling her things he shouldn't. And he really didn't want to discuss his reasoning for keeping her on the fringes of his life; especially since he was no longer sure it held any water.

She had to understand that changing her identity every so often was crucial to her well-being, so he clarified, "Steph, you won't look a day older than you do today. For the rest of your life." He let it sink in and then continued, "And you don't want to have to explain why."

"So, I guess this is one of those legally gray areas?"

"You could say that." Ranger fell silent, deciding to talk about those, who were less particular about obtaining their new identities another time, and Stephanie was too preoccupied to notice that he was holding something back. They finished their meal, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

"I'm beat," Stephanie said, suppressing a yawn and setting her napkin next to the empty plate. Stretching, she rose from her chair and was about to start cleaning up, when he stopped her.

"Leave it. Maritza, the housekeeper, will take care of everything in the morning."

"Okay… Then I'm going to bed."

After making her way upstairs, she closed the bedroom door and found a pair of black silk boxers on a wingback chair that she hadn't noticed earlier. Crawling under the covers, she was mildly disappointed that Ranger didn't offer to join her. Physically and mentally exhausted, she closed her eyes, but couldn't get comfortable. After tossing and turning on the sinful sheets for at least an hour, she gave up trying to fall asleep, threw off the covers, and stomped into the bathroom.

When she came back, Ranger was sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair was loose, brushing his bare shoulders, and her gaze lingered on his sculpted chest, her mind flashing back to the previous night.

So much had changed in less than twenty four hours…

Tearing her eyes away, she met his and tried to raise an eyebrow. Even though both went up, he got the message. Stalking over, he tugged on a stray curl, before pushing it behind her ear, and cupped her face, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone.

"Can't sleep?"

"I'm exhausted, but my mind is racing a mile a minute." He was so close, she could feel the heat, radiating from his body, and desperately wanted him to pull her to his chest to drive away her fears, wreaking havoc on her brain, at least for the night. The soft plea tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Stay with me?"

He nodded, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, and steered her to the bed. "C'mon, I'll tuck you in."

They settled under the covers, her back to his front, and she soaked up the feeling of security that always came from being in his arms. But when his fingers started tracing abstract patterns on her skin between the waistband of the boxers and the hem of the shirt, she was desperate for a distraction from his touch. So she took a shuddering breath and asked, "Tell me something?"

"What do you want to know?"

Sensing his withdrawal, she laughed, but it sounded bitter. "Everything? I know next nothing about you."

"You know all the important things. The rest is history. Nothing that matters."

His voice was low and even, so when she flipped onto her back to look up at him, she was surprised to see an unreadable expression on his face, as he hovered over her, perched up on his elbow.

"It matters to me," she whispered, before turning away, blinking back the tears that threatened to reprise their morning appearance.

For as long as Ranger could remember, he didn't share details of his life with anyone. Tank had been around for most of it, and neither Brown nor Santos asked many questions – they had their own secrets. Despite having been deeply religious in his youth, not even then did he believe that confession was good for the soul. And over the years, he had gotten so used to changing identities, he was no longer sure he possessed a soul of his own. But the upset woman in his arms wanted to hear his story, and for once, he didn't have a reason to resist.

He started speaking into her hair, absently running his fingers over her arm. "A long time ago in Toledo, a young don of a noble but destitute family grew up with little chance for a political career or a fortune. A second son born to a second son, he was groomed to become a page and served under Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva, the Second Duke of Alburquerque."

"What was his name?" Stephanie's voice was hesitant, as if she was afraid that her question would stop him from telling her the rest.

"Carlos Francisco de Mendoza," Ranger said softly, then rolled onto his back and pulled her into his side, before returning to his tale.

"The Duke grew fond of the young don for his quick wit, bravery, and agility with a sword, ignoring the short temper and vindictive streak, and, as an act of grace, arranged a marriage between the page and Ana Isabel de Padilla, the sole heiress to the de Padilla family fortune. But Carlos craved adventure over matrimonial stability, carrying on his dueling ways and earning a reputation of reckless valor. His desire for action was rewarded with an introduction to Alonso de Ojeda, a conquistador commissioned to sail for the Americas. Without giving much thought to leaving his wife or newborn son, yet not squeamish about using the family fortune to fund his part of the voyage, Carlos joined the flotilla as the commander of the second caravel, departing Spain for the New World.

They sailed along the west coast of Africa to Cape Verde and arrived at the Gulf of Paria. After making landfall, the young commander separated from the flotilla with his cavalry. On their quest for gold, which was rumored plentiful on the continent, they were armed with the sharpest swords and dressed in the finest armor. Starting the conquest of the virgin lands, the commander assumed that defeating the natives would be easy, and the thought that they were accustomed to different kinds of battle never crossed his mind. He paid a price for his arrogance, when a curare-soaked dart slid between the chainmail and steel plates of his armor, piercing the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Fleeing back to the flotilla, his men were forced to abandon his body, convinced that their commander had met his demise in the jungle.

Unable to return to Spain, as he would have had trouble explaining his miraculous survival and risked the trial of the Inquisition, Carlos was condemned to decades of exile…"

Lost in his memories, Ranger didn't notice Stephanie's breathing even out. When a soft sigh escaped her lips, it brought him back to the present and the dark bedroom, where the woman he loved slept soundly by his side. As he watched the steady rise and fall of her chest in the pale moonlight, he felt more at peace than he did in a long time. Smiling to himself, he kissed the top of her head and drifted off to sleep.