Disclaimer: Not mine, Drat!

Notes: This chapter is definitely Rated M for descriptions of Batman in the shower, and his not so innocent thoughts on what I imagine happened in 'Hard Eight'. Oh Boy.

Huge Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, I am simply overwhelmed at the response to this story! I don't think I've ever written for a nicer or more active fandom! You guys rock! I hope this little ditty continues to please!

I fixed some typos, sorry no beta! eep.


Chapter Nine

Ranger's POV

March 30, 2014 - Day 138


To his credit—despite the earlier snark Tank was silent and left Ranger to his 'Zone' the entire drive to Haywood. It was after they pulled into the deck Lester and Hal and Vince in the vehicle behind them that Tank finally spoke again.

"Bossman, you better pull yourself together. Or I'll be relieving your ass of duty until this mess is solved, don't care if I have to have Bobby take you down with enough tranquilizers to neutralize an elephant." He had nothing to say in return that wouldn't further Tank's resolve to shoot him with a dart gun so instead he climbed out of the Cayenne barely refraining from slamming the door on his exit and headed straight for the stair well.

He took the stairs to five…and then kept going, all the way to seven. When reached the top without pause he turned on his heel on the top landing and pounded his way all the way back to the garage before turning around again and working his way back up. The only sound in the echoing cavern the constant boot falls striking down on concrete and steel rimmed steps with each stride—it seemed everyone in the building was aware of his position and had elected to take the elevator to avoid an accidental encounter in his current mood. He certainly didn't hire idiots.

By the fifth circuit his ass was burning, his calves and the back of his thighs were on fire and his shirt was clinging to him, bunching and wrinkled under his Kevlar vest in a very uncomfortable way. The almost thirty extra pounds of equipment only adding to the strain of air heaving through his lungs and making his heart pound in his chest until even he started to feel a little undone.

Ranger stopped somewhere between five and six forearms crossed and braced against the stairwell's concrete wall fighting to expand his lungs fully and draw in each ragged breath past the stabbing hitch in his side. Sprinting seven flights of stairs repeatedly would do that to you.


"He quit yet?"

"Nope he's going back up again," Binkie announced from his position in front of the monitors.

"Shit, that's what ten times? Eleven?"

"Twelve," Woody clarified checking the paper tally in his hands.

"What the Hell is he doing?" Hal wondered aloud also staring at the monitors with several of the men now gathered in the mostly dark room lit by a wall of screens displaying everything from hallways and stairwells inside Rangemen to client's private and business properties.

"He's working through it," Tank's voice boomed from the doorway making most of the men jump and Lester grin beside him witnessing their startled reactions—all of them far too busy watching his cousin punish himself in the stairwell for the days transgressions.

"Beats the Hell out of beating the Hell out of one of us." Cal said. They watched Ranger pound his way up the stairs once more before stopping a flight and a half from the top to catch his breath against the wall.

"I still don't get it," Hal announced when Ranger started up again.

"Simple, Bossman's suffering from an acute attack of serious emotions—and he only knows so many ways to deal with that." Tank growled and stomped away to his office.

Hal opened his mouth and Lester smacked the seated man before him in the back of the head before he could speak jolting the other man's head forward, a vague look of annoyance overwriting the confusion previously on Hal's face.

"He's in love, dumbass," Lester explained. "He's not feeling in control of the situation, and it's driving him nuts. Now everybody better get their asses back to work finding her before Ranger decides he'd rather crack skulls together for recreation."


A full hour later Ranger climbed the stairs for the last time to his apartment on wobbly legs threatening to let him go to the floor at any moment. He knew he was going to be sore as fuck in the morning, but couldn't bring himself to care. It was no less then he deserved. He grit his teeth trying to ignore the burning exertion squeezing his lungs with every drawn inhale, and the slight sting in his eyes from the salt of sweat dripping from his brow. Even the tail fringe of his pony tail was wet enough that strands clung to the back and sides of his neck in a way he would normally ignore but now found almost irrationally annoying. He was still on edge, and he knew why.

He'd fucked up. Big time.

He retrieved his key fob from his pants pocket, and wondered if the amount of sweat on the electronic device might adversely affect its use. He used the key to enter his apartment and tossed what might be a useless device into the silver dish on the sideboard near the door planning to deal with swapping it out later, lest he be locked out of his own damn building and wouldn't that just be the icing on this clusterfuck cake.

He had his vest off and all but flung over the top of the breakfast bar in a matter of seconds, suddenly immensely irritated with the way his clothing clung to his every movement. He had the shirt ripped off with one hand over his shoulder and flung away to the floor—not even aiming for the hamper in his irritation despite his normally clean habits…his boots, pants and socks quickly followed leaving a war path to his bathroom. Hell, the last time he'd dropped his clothes where he'd been standing he'd been so severely distracted he'd completely forgotten they existed the moment they were off—His Babe had a tendency to do that to him. She made the whole world fade away.

Yanking the leather tie from his hair more aggressively than necessary and feeling the strands immediately plaster themselves to his sweat slicked skin Ranger turned to the shower and started the pipes with a vicious twist of his wrist. He stepped under the water before it was really hot, letting the lukewarm wash cool his overheated skin sending a shudder of contrasting sensations down his spine as the shower started to rinse the salt from his exertions down the drain. He tipped his head back and just leaned into the wall before him, his hands braced by his shoulders still breathing heavy, shoulders rising and falling with each sucked in breath and letting the water slide over his skin, trying to clear his mind the way he could so easily clear his face of expression—and finding the ability still infuriatingly lacking.

He'd hoped the exhaustion of exercise would calm his frayed nerves—take the edge off the rage and uncertainty swirling just under his surface in a volatile and dangerous mix. It seemed he'd missed his mark.

Grabbing the bottle of gel from the shower shelf he set to quickly cleaning himself with military precision, his mind already drifting to the searches no doubt being run downstairs by his men—with any luck they'd find something useful for once in long string of dead ends and complete shit storm that was this entire operation. He needed to know as much as possible in the next few hours because regardless his ass was going to be on a plane to check out those PO boxes in person; even if he was flying blind—he'd just prefer to know what he was walking into.

Closing his eyes and leaning his shoulder against the shower wall he tried to draw a few deep breaths, and swore with the action that he could smell her faint fragrance wafting to him on the steam. The illusive scent made his gut clench and his cock twitch while he cursed himself silently for his weakness. It was just his imagination, he firmly told himself—there was no way after four months he could still smell the faint trace of his Babe's citrus shampoo, even if she had used his shower the night before her escape, the idea was preposterous.

He knew his Babe had spent the night before her disappearance in his bed. He'd seen the video of that night, her short mental wrestling session with herself in the parking lot before she'd given in and gotten out of the car. He was familiar with that mental exercise having done it himself on more occasions then he was willing to admit when it came to his Babe. She'd spent a lot of time in his apartment, this wasn't a new thing—his Babe was always welcome to borrow his space in times of need, she was welcome to eat his food, use his shower, and slip between his sheets—especially that last one, all the more so if he was going to be in them at the same time. The thought did nothing to lessen the situation quickly growing more pressing between his legs.

He'd taken to timing her visits to his apartment when she worked for him the first time and he'd offered her the use of his apartment and his shower so she could avoid the locker room and the male occupied shower option inside. He didn't hire woman, he'd never needed to—before his Babe it had never even been a thought. And admittedly had it been anyone else he would have worked out another solution—one of the apartments on four was almost always empty and available for a female coworker to utilize. But not for his Babe. He wanted her in his space, he wanted her in his shower, and he always, always wanted her in his bed.

Ranger bit back a groan. How many times had he clocked her post work-out visits to his apartment? Pulled up the video feed to the seventh floor hallway and noted the clock as she left the elevator sweaty from the gym and went into his home. He'd sit at his desk, his dick growing painfully hard as the minutes ticked on knowing without a doubt that she was in there with his shower gel, and her bath puff, and her fingers…and she was doing a Hell of a lot more than just getting clean. The mental images his brain supplied for him in those moments waiting for her to exit his apartment once again were enough to kill a lesser man.

He remembered vividly the day he'd comeback from a bust, sweaty and still decked out in his full SWAT gear. He'd needed to shower and change to something business appropriate to meet with a potential new client in less than an hour, and more than half-way across town. He was in a hurry. For that reason he'd failed to check the security footage first; failed to check on five to see if she was at her desk, or if she had made her way to the gym already and might be in his apartment when he arrived.

It was nearly his undoing.

When he'd met her shirtless stripped down to his cargoes just outside the bathroom door where she'd emerged tailed by a curtain of steam all pink skinned and flushed cheeks he'd taken one look at her expression and he'd known exactly what she'd been doing only moments before. The images his brain threw at him to go with that thought sent his blood boiling to the point of madness and made his dick rock hard straining against the confines of his zipper painfully in less than a second.

She'd stared at him frozen in the doorway, just the pink tip of that distracting tongue had flicked out to wet her bottom lip in a nervous habit he doubted she was even aware of—she was certainly oblivious to the way it affected him every time she did it, or he was certain she'd be more careful about when she used it. How many times he'd lost his control and devoured her lips in a hungry kiss after just such a gesture, unable to control himself—desperate to follow the trail that teasing tongue had just taken over her own perfect rose-petal pink lips.

Her fingers had hitched her towel more tightly closed, her cheeks had flushed an even deeper pink under his intense gaze while she struggled to firmly adjust the simple twisted edge precariously wedge between the towels seam and the soft swelling edge of one perfect breast concealing the rest of those perfect curves from his hungry eyes. Those slightly trembling fingers captured his complete attention with the action.

He'd wanted so badly to close the distance between them, snatch her wrist and suck the soft tips of her fingers into his mouth, trace the smooth pads of her fingertips with his tongue. He'd wanted to see if any scent or taste of her lingered on those delicate digits while imagining her thrusting them inside her own flesh, surrounded by his scent—gasping out his name sent him spiraling further out of control. He knew she'd let him if he tried, the way her breath caught in her chest and her gaze lingered over his bare chest.

And God he'd wanted. Needed to the point it hurt. She so often left him in such a state it had almost become his new norm. How many times had he thought of ambushing her in just that way as she was leaving his bathroom? The driving need on those days that he knew she was taking entirely too long for just a simple shower was a million times worse…knowing if he left his desk and slipped upstairs she'd be ready for him, already naked, hot and deliciously wet and perfect, God so perfect.

That day he'd bit back a groan, breathing too hard to be considered healthy and growled at her to put on some clothes before he missed his meetings-for the rest of the week and she'd squeaked in panic and flushed and fled to the closet while he'd all but thrown himself into a very, very cold shower.

He'd made his meeting with four minutes to spare.

Ranger let his eyes shut under the spray of water and imagined the taste of her on his lips, the feel of her skin always impossibly soft like silk under his roughly calloused hands. He'd planned it all out in his mind so many times; pictured it perfectly. Taking her fingers into his mouth, teasing their edges with his tongue and he gentlest of nips from his teeth, he'd tracing the pad of her thumb in little circles with his tongue to match the ones she would have used the very same digit to tease against her own clit. He'd nibble on the pulse point of her wrist, taste the soft fleshy pad of her palm just below her thumb and help her wrap her hand around his firmly aching cock, show her what she did to him—how hard she made him, how desperate he was to touch her, taste her, be inside her.

His hand wrapped around his cock without forethought, lost in the images in his mind now his touch became hers from behind his closed lids. The heat of his skin from the scorching shower and the slippery coating of slick soap under his palm a poor imitation of how it felt to slid inside her that night. God his knees nearly gave way at the memory. He tightened his grip as he worked himself, his breath picking up once more. She had felt so much better than this—better than anything or anyone he'd ever been inside. His Babe was everything he'd anticipated and so much more—he'd known she would be tight and wet after his careful attentions that night. What he hadn't expected when he'd taken her in those first few minutes unable to restrain himself now that the permission was his was how with scarcely a touch she'd been so wet and aching for him she'd trembled. Everything about her was mind-staggeringly responsive, every touch, every kiss, every delicate brush of lips and fingertips and tongue sent her quivering. The sound she'd made when he buried himself inside her sheath would haunt him 'til his dying day. It was frozen in his memory in perfect exquisite detail; nothing could have made it more breath-haltingly perfect.

The emotion that fluttered across her face, echoed through his chest: contracting around his heart and clenching his gut in perfect time with his first thrust into her heat. The sensation rocked them both down to the bone, the world tilted on its axis outside her bedroom window and threatened to crash down around them with the magnitude of what they both were feeling.

It was like burying himself in another person's soul.

And she'd felt it too, he knew it with the same certainty that he knew the sun would rise in the East, and that her breath would always catch and her heart would flutter when he called her Babe.

Her eyes slipped shut as her body closed impossibly tight around him, and a half gasping whimper escaped past those perfectly parted lips, the way she'd clamped down on him so tight, so perfect; like heaven. He was lost.

So many fantasies from that one night, it had given him the sound-track that now tortured him nightly in his dreams. He'd only guessed at them before that night—good guesses mind you, his Babe was after all pure sin and deliciously erotic when eating cake or anything else as equally sweet, shit watching and hearing her moan in pleasure while licking frosting from an innocent utensil (heedless of the company they were in,) had nearly had him coming in his pants on more than one occasion.

But all the desert sounds in her arsenal paled in comparison to his holy grail. That single gasping whimper as they joined. She'd done it again the second time he'd buried himself inside her that night—even after teasing her, torturing her to every increasing heights with his fingers, and lips and teeth and tongue—he'd coaxed pleasure after pleasure from her moaning, trembling prefect body.

He'd thought for certain burying himself inside her the second time couldn't compare to the first—he'd been wrong. And once more that sound tumbling from her lips nearly sent him over the abyss. It had been just as perfect the second time as the first—maybe even more so with the desperate way she'd rolled her hips up to greet his thrust now, all hesitation and shyness gone this time—her hands clawing at his back until he'd had to press her palms to his, fingers laced tightly with hers, the intimacy of such action not lost on him-or on her judging by the way her eyes grew bright even in the dim lighting.

He'd pin her to the bed beneath him, held her to him never wanting to let go, every strong deep thrust he made against her inviting heat wound the spiraling symphony of pleasure tighter in his gut. Her answering thrusts and gasping moans driving him higher, tipping him towards the edge ready to fall.

His movements quickened against his own flesh, his grip tightening, legs shaking. And like every other night it was the memory of that sound that sent him spiraling. Ranger ground out her name between a hissed exhale and an intense rush that centered in his belly and pulsed outward following his spine and then just as quickly as it started it was over leaving him shaking and spent and honestly no more relaxed then he'd been after the stairwell.

Fuck.

Ranger let his head fall back against the tile wall, thumping his skull firmly in a tempered rhythm against the solid surface wondering how he failed to notice just how in over his head he'd actually been. When did his perfect control become such a fucking mess?

Re-washing was a mindless procedure while he gathered his thoughts, attempted to cobble together the words he needed to say. By the time he left his apartment once more dressed in simple Rangeman black, booted up and gun on his hip he had some idea of what to say.

He just didn't know if it would be enough.


Stephanie POV

November 13, 2013 - Day One


We exited the taxi in front of the port check in, I paid the driver in cash and we rolled our suitcases towards the ticket check in. I'd made reservations over the phone—the burner phone not one connected to me or Julie in any way, and now the only way to pay this late before departure was to make the payment completely in cash.

Thanks to the start of my criminal mastermind career at the expense of Rangemen, that wasn't a problem.

The woman in the small office was very polite and helpful and I didn't see any cameras during our exchange—any obvious ones at least. Julie was still playing the part of bored teenage son standing off to the side poking at a few leaflets on expeditions offered on the various islands and on board the ship. She was also keeping the woman from getting a direct view of her face. I just hoped this port worker with all the faces she saw daily wouldn't remember a single mother paying cash for two tickets on a 5 day cruise when she saw the news later.

I wondered how long it would take them to circulate my picture to the local news outlets—which was another great thing about cruise ships, who watched the news while on vacation? Nobody I know! The whole concept was un-American. It ranked right up there on the scale of wrong-ness with baking a cake and not licking the batter off the beaters or failing to scrape the sides of the bowl clean with your fingers…or buying a dozen Boston crème doughnuts and not finishing the last one—no matter how sick you started to feel. It was indecent—it just wasn't done.

At least that was my take on it.

I sent up a silent prayer that everyone else on this boat felt the same way—about the news at least, but seeing as there was a midnight buffet with full desert bar every night they were probably on board with the cake and doughnut thing as well. My kinda crowd.

As we made our way up the gang plank to the deck of the ship for security check in, screenings and the one thing I hadn't counted on—the on board photos. I felt my heart start to pound the closer we got and Julie noting my distress, or maybe suffering from a bit of her own snatched my hand by my side and gave it a quick split second squeeze and shot me a wink before dropping it and turning to lean on the rail of the walkway staring down at the gap of water between the side of the ship and the solid dock, her expression perfectly back to dis-interested teen as if the mask had never slipped.

Maybe the ability to be cool as a cucumber in these high stress situations was a genetic thing I pondered. Batman DNA. While I pondered that the line grew shorter and before I knew it they'd snapped Julie's photo (looking bored) and mine (probably looking about as hot mess as a usual DMV photo thanks to the Miami afternoon humidity now in full swing.) Then we were handed a map of the ship with a welcome packet telling us all about events and meals and island ports…considering I've never been on a cruise in my life the whole thing was a bit overwhelming.

Lucky for me Julie had been on a cruise before—several in fact. Living in Miami, one of the major ports of call I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Because of this Julie quickly became leader in navigate the hallways, walk-ways, elevators, corridors, and windy turning yet somehow grand-sweeping stair cases that made up the interior of the ship. As Julie led the way I kept my eyes open for possible dangers—televisions tuned into local Miami news stations, or media stands that might at a future port of call include newspapers for sale which could give us away. I found surprisingly little to link the inside of the ship to the outside world. It seemed the cruise line also shared the opinion that if you were on a ship: you were on vacation! And nothing about the real world—or it's news, was relaxing!

Course that didn't mean some of the staff might not be alerted, but they were so busy running around like scurrying ants in matching pressed uniforms I doubted they registered our faces, let alone remembered them a moment later.

We made it to our room under Julie's careful navigation and I have to admit I was completely lost. I don't think I could have found my way back to the surface if my life depended on it. I instantly thought of Titanic and shuddered trying to remember how to breathe while Julie laughed at me and reminded me that we were in the tropics. Guess I said some of that out loud.

We dropped off our suitcases and then Julie grabbed the map and pocketed a room key while I slipped on in my tiny clutch and we went off to explore the ship that would be our get-away driver at a cool twenty miles an hour over the open ocean straight to our next destination and the PO boxes I'd arranged under my fake ID. Then we'd see what the situation looked like, maybe we'd stay for a while—or maybe it would be better to call up the pawn shop and have those passports sent ASAP and hit the airways for parts unknown.

Julie joined me staring out over the rail of the ship in a sea of other vacationers—some already celebrating the beginning of their vacations with fruity and colorful drinks in hand. She looped on elbow through mine forearms braced against the rail and leaned her head against my shoulder silently for a time. When Miami was little more than a line on the horizon and the open ocean was upon us Julie smiled. It was the first honest to God smile I'd seen on her face and it was breathtaking in the same way a Ranger smile was.

"We made it Mom," Julie whispered still grinning at me, and it took my frazzled nerves and tired brain wore out from our crazy day of high stress a few seconds to realize what she'd called me. And then I had trouble breathing around the warm fuzzy pressure expanding inside my chest and the lump in my throat. My eyes watered and I hugged her tight and pressed a kiss to her ridiculous boy hair overcome with an immense wash of relief.

As we left the deck to enjoy our first dinner on board still linked arm-in-arm I realized that for the first time the word didn't fill me with an overwhelming sense of doom like it always had when Joe had asked me when I was going to settle down and be the mother of his kids. With everything I'd walked away from, everything I'd just given up somehow I didn't feel like I'd lost myself, I felt like I'd found something I didn't even know I possessed. And it made me feel proud of myself for maybe the first time ever.

Hearing Julie call me Mom gave me a responsibility I'd truthfully already taken on, a purpose when I felt like I was drifting and didn't know where to turn; it gave me strength. The drive to see this through—no matter what.

I looked at Julie, and thought of Ranger. I would do anything for the two people I'd loved more than I ever thought possible from the moment we'd met.

Where ever he was out there in this great big world, I hoped he knew;

I understood now.

No price, Ranger.

No price.


TBC...