A/N: Sorry, lazy start to this morning! This chapter is less heavy on dialogue and more on you know - everything else. I hope you like it!

Stephanie knew next to nothing about poetry, and for all intents and purposes, she intended to keep it that way. But, in a way that only Ranger could accomplish, she found herself a few months ago at home, flipping through a compilation of Carl Sandburg poems and actually reading them.

It was a stakeout in early June when Ranger and she sat watching a house, waiting for a drug dealer to come make a home delivery, when he brought it up. It was innocuous at first; Stephanie actually thought he was losing it when he started saying disjointed sentences. Finally, he revealed it was poetry he was quoting. She had made a flippant comment that she now felt bad about, but he had remained calm and stoic as always, just reminding her not to knock it until she tried it.

He knew she had never read any poetry more than the mandated poems in school. As if it wasn't obvious.

A month later she was in a book shop, intent on buying her mom new cookbooks for her birthday, when she saw a leather-bound book of poems by Carl Sandburg, a guy she had heard Ranger bring up more than once.

She saw it as an opportunity to better herself and to maybe understand Ranger a bit more. She also admitted to feeling slightly outclassed (which wasn't a foreign feeling at all to her) by Ranger being so cultured and worldly. A book of poems to flip through and quote occasionally didn't seem like that big of a task.

It laid by her bedside for another month or so, before a particularly bad day when she was hiding out from the world led her to picking it up, if just to give her something else to think about other than the train wreck of her life. She began reading it before bed, and she started to understand why Ranger liked the guy so much.

Sandburg wrote about a lot of industrial stuff, which she skipped over generally, but he also wrote about war. He wrote about losing brothers, about being a killing tool, about the effects afterwards. It hurt her heart to know that Ranger could empathize with these poems so much.

He also wrote about love occasionally, and she knew those were her favorites. It wasn't a simple love, but a complex one. In some poems it would never come to fruition, in others it spiraled out of control. In October she found herself, pencil in hand, going through the book as if it were a letter to someone.

She would circle things she found funny, or jot down tiny notes in the margins. Sometimes she wrote more than the page could hold, shoving her letters in until they became illegible. It was cathartic, almost, to be able to release some feelings and emotions in this way that she had never known possible.

She's not entirely sure when she decided to give it to Ranger. It was before the stocking idea; it was previously going to be his main gift. She started going through it, adding more personal notes, highlighting her favorite passages. She thought about erasing some of her more idle thoughts, but decided she'd keep them for him. He always did seem to like some of her more random idiosyncrasies.

She chose a Sunday because that way she could slip it into his stocking and disappear. She didn't have to see him (she had actually recruited Ella to put the wrapped book into his stocking) and she didn't have to witness any false reactions he might put on for her. It was a private thing, what she was doing, for both of them. She hoped it panned out alright.

If he had thought that Stephanie could not surprise him any more after the stocking idea itself, Ranger was at a complete loss with what he held in his hands.

When he unwrapped and saw the book of poetry, he thought it had been sweet enough. He was touched that she remembered a poet that he thought highly of and had quoted to her several times. The book looked well worn, and he wondered if it was an early edition. That idea was negated when he flipped to the first pages and saw that it was a fairly recent print, and yet, the spine didn't crack when he opened it. This book had been well loved.

He thumbed through quickly at first, to see which poems were included. He was sure he probably already had the same collection upstairs in his bookcase, but it was the thought that counted. He was flipping so fast that he didn't notice any of the notes until he slowed down to read one of his favorite poems.

In tiny scribbles, some of them so smudged he could barely read them, were notes. Notes upon notes of Stephanie's innermost thoughts. He skipped past his poem and continued going through the book, surprised to see notes on almost all of the pages, even if it was just a circle around a phrase and a smiley face. (How very completely Stephanie-like.)

He quickly took the book and headed back upstairs to 7, where he could read in peace and comfort. He actually had to tell himself to slow down; it would only serve to alarm the men if he ran past them and up to his apartment.

Finally settled on his couch with a mug of herbal tea next to him, he started to absorb the book. He read the first few pages, awed with Steph's fresh outlook on his favorites, before skipping to the poem he had almost read earlier.

It was titled 'Killers,' and Stephanie had clearly put it together as well, the parallels of the poem to his life. To his duty to his country.

I am put high over all others in the city today. I am the killer who kills for those who wish a killing today.

The first lines echoed deeply within him, as usual. Most days he feels like a killer. A hired killer, a righteous killer, a fair killer, but a killer all the same.

Stephanie had written, in her tiny, cramped script, a brief note underneath those two lines.

"You do what others can't, Ranger."

It's true; if everyone could kill such as him, the world would cease to exist. Most days, that is enough to keep him going. Other days, it is almost enough to make him stop.

He knew that most of the time, Stephanie was unaware of what she did for him. She oftentimes felt as if she were in his debt, that the monetary support he occasionally provided for her was somehow overshadowing everything she gave him. He knew, every day, that she gave him a gift he could barely describe, let alone thank her for. The fact that she understood what he did and didn't judge him for it, didn't let it influence any of her decisions regarding him – that was the amazing part about Stephanie that he loved.

He continued reading the poem, the lines echoing in his soul, his lips forming the words before his eyes caught up. He knew these verses, inside and out.

The last lines were where Stephanie wrote another note underneath. The body of the poem was bare of any scribbles, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The end, though…

"I am the high honorable killer today.

There are five million people in the state, five million killers for whom I kill

I am the killer who kills today for five million killers who wish a killing."

There were eraser marks and smudges and he could tell she put a lot of thought into what she would write there. In the end, her words were almost more than he could handle.

"I will do what you can't: I accept you. I forgive you."

It was a strange feeling settling over him.

He did not lead his life on a quest for forgiveness. There was no cosmic scorecard that he used as a tally for the lives he's taken versus the lives that he has saved. He was never looking for approval from someone else, least of all a woman that had never experienced the same things he had.

But her words struck something so deep inside of him that he didn't even know how to categorize them. Her acceptance was something that he instinctually knew that he had, but seeing it written down eased an ache that he had never acknowledged.

He had never wronged Stephanie. Well, that wasn't completely true. He had been asinine and dishonorable and a whole host of other things, but he had never intentionally hurt her. At first, he thought that's what her forgiveness was relating to. She was forgiving him for ever being a jerk to her, for making comments that would later come back to bite him in the ass, for ever making her doubt his sincerity and commitment to her, even if he couldn't make it official.

The more he read her lines over and over again, the more he started to question that. It didn't make sense why she would put that at the end of a poem about murder. He eventually just stared at it until it clicked for him. Her two lines were not as separate as they seemed.

I will do what you can't. I forgive you.

She knew that he battled with his actions internally, despite him never saying anything. He suspected the poems in the book had opened her up to this realization, and briefly questioned himself for ever mentioning Sandburg to her.

He knew that there were a lot of things in his life that he couldn't change. He accepted fate where it was necessary, and had resigned himself a long time ago to a life of darkness, followed by whatever realm of hell he fell into. He had done a lot of unthinkable acts in his time, and knew they would not go forever unpunished.

So yes, while he might not be looking for forgiveness from society, from Colonels and Majors, or from people who just simply would never understand why he did what he did, he was, in a sense, always looking for forgiveness from himself. He always hoped there'd be a day when he'd wake up and feel okay about everything, feel content with his life, with his choices.

It never happened.

But if he couldn't forgive himself, she would do it for him.

The next best thing.

He flipped through the book for hours, ignoring his calls, sending out the occasional text to the core team if they demanded a response.

He hadn't had a Sunday like this in a long time.

While a part of him ached to go see Stephanie, to crawl into bed with her or watch from shadows, he knew that he was too raw. Too exposed and too vulnerable. She had extrapolated what she wanted from the poetry, and was all too correct on some counts. He didn't regret anything and he certainly wouldn't change this gift for anything, but he did have some sort of preservation instinct.

No, he would see her tomorrow and get his bearings intact until then.

He also thought maybe the poems had affected her in much the same way, and perhaps she'd like a day to herself before being thrust back into real life.

He had witnessed the evolution of her reading, as the poems became more and more important to her, more symbolic. This was why he loved poetry in the first place. It can be as personal or impersonal as you'd like. You choose.

There was one poem which he suspected was a favorite to her. It had no writing around it, remained pristine save for the last line. It was, in fact, a poem that he would associate with Stephanie, although she seemed to be twisting the words for him. It was called "Joy," which always had and always will be a perfect word to describe Steph. She was joy personified, after all.

"Joy always,

Joy everywhere –

Let joy kill you!
Keep away from the little deaths."

She had underlined the last line about four times before writing, in tiny, almost illegible letters below it, "please."

Hours passed and he slipped his phone out, intent on calling her. He thought better of it eventually, and decided to shoot her a text. It was a very informal mode of communication, one that he usually didn't resort to with Steph, but decided this could be enough for today.

To: Stephanie

From: Ranger

What poem was your favorite?

He waited impatiently for a response. He hadn't thought that she'd be waiting for a 'thank you' text, or anything of the sort. His phone chimed a few minutes later, and he internally rolled his eyes with how fast he grabbed at it.

To: Ranger

From: Stephanie

Page 196. Whenever you're ready.

He flipped the book almost instantaneously, not even pausing to dwell on her words until he finished the poem. It was short, one of the shortest in the book with only 4 lines.

"THE single clenched fist lifted and ready,

Or the open asking hand held out and waiting.

Choose:

For we meet by one or the other."