Disclaimer: This isn't mine. If it had been, I would have ensured that Ranger were perpetually naked.

I never really understood Ranger's attraction to running, or any form of exercise, as a general enjoyment. I actually never understood running as anything other than a "healthy" form of personal torture.

Really, I had assumed that he did it solely for the purity and benefit of his glorious temple of a body.

Until this moment.

It had nothing to do with preserving physicality.

It was power over mentality.

I now knew that it was about the pacing of his breath, the drumming of his heart, the warmth flooding his muscles; the control and strength of his body, though exhilarating in a painful way for me, was the appeal; it allowed you to escape.

Running—it forced me to focus on the physical state of my body and allowed me to figuratively outrun the demons plaguing my concentrations. I was free and in control of that freedom, because I knew it would last as long as I kept moving.

I'm not sure how long I ran, or even how far, but after enough time had passed for my legs to start burning, I heard a long, measured pace coming up behind me. I pumped faster, pushed harder, even after realizing that I recognized the step behind me. Tears sprang to my eyes, because I knew that no matter how fast I ran, escaping any feeling for the man behind me was utterly impossible.

The legs fell in long, fast strides, even in tempo in a manner that is difficult to explain. I liken it to the way one would expect any military man to run. Ranger's runner's-step is unmistakable.

I was panting hard and sweating in large, salty droplets. But the pain was real, and I welcomed it, needed it to erase the emotions that I wasn't ready to deal with.

We ran away from our own problems, together in physicality, but separated by many evils of circumstance. Or maybe he was chasing me, as he remained following, rather than joining next to me, allowing me to escape on my own, but not alone.

I suppose running can be likened to how our relationship had always been; even when we were together, we were alone. And alone, we were still together.

It was a very long time, at least that I can recall, before I stopped moving, very suddenly, without really willing myself to.

I just stopped.

In the middle of the sidewalk in a neighborhood that I didn't recognize, I stopped and stared at the perspective view in front of me.

He halted directly behind me.

For extended moments, the only sound between us was our ragged panting.

"Babe?" he finally said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I leaned backwards into his body, but refused to look at him; I couldn't look at him yet.

"You didn't leave me the roses," I said breathily, still fighting the burning of my lungs.

"No," he replied, though both of us knew he didn't need to. "We'll find out who did."

"I thought it was you. You always leave me a single rose for my birthday, for Christmas and for Valentine's Day," and then another detail dawned on me and I sighed internally. "You thought the last one was from Morelli, the one you saw in the apartment the day of the explosion. That's why you asked me about being back together with him."

He didn't answer; we both understood his silence was confirmation enough.

We stood like that for a while more.

"Did you see the envelope?

"It will be in my office when we get to Haywood. I didn't want you to be alone."

I decided that this was a good thing on a number of levels.

There was more standing, more leaning against him for support. My lungs were still burning from the unexpected exertion, but I'd managed to catch my breath.

"What do you want to do, Babe?"

I considered answering reasonably, but couldn't. "I want to stand here forever, right in this spot with you, and forget everything that's supposed to be right but isn't."

"You would get tired of standing," he said, a tentative smile playing in his voice.

"You would hold me up, Batman." I leaned further into him and left a certain emphasis on his name.

His arms fell over my shoulders and pulled me close as he moaned in affirmation. "In that case, that sounds perfectly fine to me."

We could have stayed in that very position for all of eternity. But life doesn't stop for anyone, no matter what's going on around them; and business never stops for Ranger.

After a long time the cell phone in his pocket began to buzz, which scared me as it vibrated against the cheek of my ass. We both laughed as I jumped away and then returned like a yo-yo to the safety of his body, winding my arms around his waist this time, finally facing him eye-to-eye.

"Yo," he answered, using his free hand to brush back the hair from my face as we stared at one another for the first time since he'd started following me. He listened to an entire speech of information, which made me wonder which of the Merry Men was talking so much.

"Marchenko is a go," Ranger finally replied, still staring into my eyes. I wondered how he was able to focus on his conversation and search through the recesses of my mind at the same time. "File the paperwork and have them sign it tomorrow morning. Secondly, I need you to call Bobby and let him know that if I can have him working the control room tonight, he can have that Friday shift off. For the Jorgensen case, make a note for the morning shift to call Hector in for Flir analysis; he's the only one who works those and I won't be liable for any miscommunications. Tell Ram he can meet Tank on the mats at 0400 for that one. As for the final matter, we'll discuss it at tomorrow's briefing. I want Rodriguez to bleed from his eyes before he steps away from that computer."

With that, he ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"We can't stand here forever," I said, looking up at him and feeling more secure than I thought was normal.

"No, we can't."

It's no secret that that night I had slept upstairs on floor seven, Ranger's apartment, high above the city of lights and sounds that were so familiar, yet so dark compared to the place I'd lived my entire life.

When we'd returned to Haywood in the Cayenne, I don't know whether or not anyone expected me to accompany Ranger to five to review the contents of the manila envelope, a collage of photographs that I was still unable to speak about. But I wasn't there; I didn't show.

I went straight to seven and buried my salty body in a mountain of soft, perfect sheets, and drowned my mind in the comfort of slumber.

Ranger left me to the safety of his chambers to face the evidence himself, kissing my shoulder and whispering a soft "Babe" against my skin, before disappearing through the doorway like smoke.

It was just after two in the morning when I awoke to cool sheets beside me and an empty apartment.

I dressed quickly, tossing on a pair of charcoal colored sweatpants of mine and a black tee shirt of Ranger's over my body. I slipped on my boots on my way out the door.

It wass completely irrational to go looking for him at such a late hour, but I didn't want to be alone; I'd felt alone for too long, and wanted at least the comfort of his body next to mine while I slept. I felt entitled to that much after the events of the afternoon.

I made my way down to five, a floor constantly bustling with the noises of intelligent superhero-like men planning and plotting on how to take down the bad guys. Tonight, though, I was greeted only by the humming of computers and a small waves from four young men that I didn't recognize monitoring the control room.

I made my way to his office, which I found eerily dark and empty.

I walked back to the control room.

"Excuse me?" I asked, not really directing my words at any particular one of them.

The youngest of the group, who looked probably 18 or 19 at the very most, inclined his head to show he was listening, but did not take his eyes off of the screens in front of him. He was firmly built, if a little lanky, and had shaggy, curling hair the color of pennies. A long, ragged scar ran down the right side of his face from his temple to his jawline, but he was attractive nonetheless.

"I'm looking for Ranger," I announced.

"Basement," he replied with a lilt in his voice.

"Thanks."

Of course he would be in the gym at two a.m.…

And that's where I found him.

The elevator doors opened opposite where he was sitting against the wall, forearms resting atop his raised knees. His hands were taped for punching and his shirt was drenched under the arms and in a 'V' shape down the front of his chest.

I watched the hard, heavy fall and rise of his breathing as I approached, and began to notice the streams of sweat pouring down his face and into his collar.

I stood in front of him, waiting for his vacant eyes to find my face. When they did, I nearly crumbled.

Not because of the pain or vulnerability behind his eyes, but because I found none at all; all I saw was stone, and it tore me to pieces.

"Hey," I said, squatting in front of him so that we were eye-level. "Come to bed," I told him, attempting to sound stronger than the front he was putting up.

He didn't answer. He just continued to vacantly stare at me. It was evident he'd seen the photographs, and was using exercise as his scapegoat, which is what he does for everything.

Of all the times I've seen Ranger act on baser survival instincts to keep us alive, or known him to have been involved with killing another human being, or of the instances he'd come to me haunted by the events of a mission he'd just returned from, I'd never been afraid of him, or what he was capable of, because I knew without a doubt that he'd keep me safe, that he and I were going to be okay.

I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something was wrong, and I was suddenly quite afraid for where this was going to end up.

"Please don't look at me like that. Please come to bed. We can deal with this together in the morning."

Without answering, he rose lithely to his feet, keeping eye contact with me.

I stood too and waited for him to make a way for the elevator.

But he didn't.

He just stood there and stared.

"Please—"

"We can't do this, Stephanie."

I was frozen for a few moments, stunned by words I didn't completely understand.

"What are you talking about? I'll sleep on the couch if you don't—"

"I think that our personal relationship has escalated into territory that is… inappropriate." His stance was tall and masculine, as if he were posturing me in order to make me submissive to this idea.

Any confusion or hurt I was feeling mutated into hot, uncontainable anger— I don't do submissive.

But still, I suppose it wasn't anger.

No.

Anger was the wrong word.

Passion.

All the emotions that washed through me rushed together in a violent passion.

Passion was coursing through me, and I was going to let it voice itself loudly; I wouldn't have been able to fight back otherwise.

"No," I said, pointing an accusatory finger into his chest. "You do not get to do this. You do not get to decide that this… this relationship we have, however you want to define it, is over just because you're afraid or confused or overwhelmed with all of this. This is not something you get to do on your own—especially after today."

"The subject really isn't up for discussion. I just thought that you should be aware that our relationship needs to undergo some drastic—"

"You listen to me, Ricardo Carlos Manoso. I don't care who you are, or even who you think you are. I don't care about your boat loads of money or your drool-worthy face, or your stupid muscles. I don't give one flying fuck about who you are to the military or to the government and I don't give a shit that you're in charge of an army of ex-military… security… assassin… mercenaries—or whatever. I really don't even care if you consider yourself my boss." My finger continued poking his chest for emphasis. "But you need to get it through your head right now that you are in no way, shape, or form the sole executor of me or your relationship with me. This, no matter how much you don't want it to be or how much you fight it, is a partnership. You don't make executive decisions in a friendship, Ranger."

He crossed his arms over his massive chest, knocking my finger back.

"I can't do this, Stephanie."

I put my hands on top of his folded forearms and attempted to soften my tone, tried a different approach.

"We can get through this stuff, okay? It's just another bump. Don't do this. Please don't leave me now. I need this..."

He unfolded his arms and grabbed the tops of my shoulders, turning our bodies and slamming me into the cushioned wall he'd just been leaning against. I was surprised, a little shaken, but mostly unhurt. His hands moved to trap me between them, his strong palms splayed against the wall behind me.

"I'm trying to tell you, Stephanie, that this is something I can no longer do with you."

"What is 'this' supposed to mean, Ranger?" I said, my voice as loud as his was quiet. "Do you even know? How are we supposed to render a relationship we can't even define?"

"We have to."

"You owe me a reason."

He stared at me firmly and I watched his hard eyes bare into me while he thought.

"I do not."

I leaned my face forward; he was close enough to kiss. It wasn't until this moment that I noticed how intimately pressed our bodies were. Any other conversation and we'd be a couple pairs of pants and a wiggle or two away from some hot gym sex.

"You are afraid."

His wall fell then, displaying so much pain, frustration, so much angry hate that I was frightened for just a moment—then I remembered I was staring at my friend, my love, my constant protector, Ranger.

"Of course I'm afraid," he replied, his voice deathly quiet. It was the equivalence of a loud, violent tantrum for Ranger.

"You're afraid because you love me."

The words came out loud and fast before I could stop them and then hung in the air between us, finally relieved to be released from the ethereal limbo of unspoken-ness that we'd grown so accustomed to. Having said it aloud was a new, dangerous sensation neither of us knew how to handle.

"Anything I feel for you is irrational and unproductive, Stephanie."

Essentially: he loved me, but he didn't want to. That idea reflected my feelings for him—my life would be much simpler without loving this deeply conflicted man. And though I didn't want to love him, fact was that I did. But my feelings could be rationalized, and they probably made me a better person in some way.

"I disagree."

He stared at me blankly.

"I hate that," I told him. "I hate that you shut me out the moment you realize that you can't convince me to opinionate myself parallel to your views!" My arms tried their best to embrace their argumentative Italian flailing within the space between our bodies. "I hate that you are allowed to hide everything about yourself while I stand here, completely transparent to you! You shut me out, throw up your walls, every single time you are afraid of being as vulnerable as I am; you try so hard to push me away. Why won't you… I don't understand why you would fight so hard not to feel something for me! We're great, Ranger! Aren't we? I mean, we aren't perfect, but working on it... we can fix this. Everything that's happening... I know it's a lot, and I'm sorry-"

He sighed and ran his palm down his face, interrupting me with his evident frustration. "I am a rational person, Stephanie." His voice was still quiet but had softened and warmed. "I operate under logistics and reasoning. It doesn't matter what I feel, or what I want as a result of those feelings, because emotions hold no rationality for a lifestyle that does not lend itself to a conventional, exclusive relationship with a woman." The hands beside my head moved to cup my cheeks and his eyes stared seriously into my own, begging for me to understand. "I shut you out every single time, because that's the only thing between us that I can still control. If you get in, Babe, you'll never get out. And I can't trap you in here with me." He tapped the side of his head.

I moved my hands to his forearms and closed my eyes; his usually blank face was so open, so beautiful, I felt as if I were intruding on a private expression.

"What if I don't want out?"

"That's not an option."

I opened my eyes to him and gazed through the deep, dark crevasses of his soul.

"Please, Ranger…" I whispered against his lips, two silent tears escaping my eyes. I was not above begging for him. I didn't want to loose this, and I was going to, I could feel him slipping through my fingers.

"Babe," he replied softly, so hurt by his own rejection.

I leaned up, reaching with my mouth, pleading with my eyes. He complied slowly at first, lightly resting his lips against mine, breathing into me, taking from me. I let the tip of my tongue dart out to brush against him, and in response his drew forward, requesting entrance. Before I could obey, he shoved against me, driving the wet heat of his mouth into mine in earnest, plunging into me violently in the most pleasurable of ways. I heard myself moan embarrassingly loud but could hardly bring myself to care.

He was everywhere, surrounding me in all of his glorious strength. I was lifted and wrapped my legs around his waist accordingly, tugging at the roots of his hair as my body was braced firmly between his and the wall behind me. Our panting grew loud and desperate with want, belying of the pleasures of every feeling pounding through our veins.

His hands drew up under my shirt, lightly, so lightly caressing the heated skin covering my breasts. I moaned again, frantically searching for more.

He slowed our kisses and eventually they ceased, though his thumbs continued to lightly brush over my soring, raised nipples.

He stared at me, leveling me with his eyes. This wasn't the business face of CEO Ricardo Manoso; this was not the street face of Ranger. I was staring back at the face of a man who hurt for the whole world, who only wished he had moments to crumble, who wanted to be able to tell me, without having to express genuine fear for my life, that he loved me beyond any reasonable doubt.

"Can we be done playing games now?" I whispered.

His voice was deeper than I expected when he answered, and still breathy in a dangerous way.

"This has never been a game."

"Then why does it feel like we're always losing?"

He leaned away, effectively loosening my support and causing me to drop my legs to the floor. Then his hands lowered to his sides; my breasts were instantly hit with the loss of his touch and began mourning with a terrible ache.

Without answering he turned and began walking towards the locker room.

"That's it?" I asked in a voice more shrill than I'd intended.

"That's it," he replied in a deep, dead tone, not turning around to say it as he pushed through the door to the locker room.

A/N

... Oh? Did I do that? Yeah... I did. o.O

I hope all of your lives are wonderful, and that the last couple weeks have been kind to you. Thanks for being the best readers anyone ever had; I seriously doubt I would be confident enough to post any of this without the support you've all overwhelmed me with. I'll post again soon! Take care until then. :)