Inspired by a meme I shared on the Janet Evanovich Facebook Group (search it by name to join if you haven't already) and the ensuing comments that followed.

As always, I don't own the characters or the world. I'm just borrowing them for my own amusement. (And this one really did amuse me to write :D)

Ducks Gone Wild

Part 1: Where are the ducks?

It had been a horrendous week. Between the scheduled need to show a physical presence down on Stark Street, and the fact that Stephanie Plum had once again managed to get into the middle of a situation that she really ought to have kept her nose out of, therefore resulting in extra protective surveillance, panic stations, and a kick-the-door-down-guns-a-blazing style rescue, in that order, Tank was exhausted. As he sank into his custom-made, ergonomic, leather office chair he let out a sigh, relieved for once to be able to settle in at his desk and complete some of the paperwork that had begun to resemble a small mountain in his in-tray.

Ranger had returned from his latest government mission last night, just in time to take the role of comforter for Steph, and while he'd given Tank instructions that he would remain offline until further notice, Tank wasn't as annoyed as he usually was. Maybe he was getting old. Maybe he was just tired. Either way, he was looking forward to sorting out the roster for a change.

Ordinarily, he'd be pulling his metaphorical hair out, chomping at the bit to be out in the field instead of staring at the spreadsheet of availability, but today it was just what he needed. Just some time to put some ducks in a row.

He took a grateful sip of the coffee he'd grabbed from the breakroom before retreating to his office, and clicked the icon to open up the rostering program, but before he'd filled even one shift, his phone pinged with a notification.

"So help me, God," Tank muttered under his breath, lifting the device from his belt. "If this is another crisis…"

He didn't bother finishing his sentence as he stared at the screen, gritting his teeth and breathing heavily through his nose to try to calm the anger rising inside. He was lucky Rangeman provided phones that had been designed to be virtually indestructible or his might have crumbled in his hand.

*o*

Across town, as safely ensconced in the apartment of one Stephanie Plum as it was possible to be, Ranger and Steph sat side by side on the couch. Their fingers were entwined and resting atop Ranger's thigh as he used his thumb to stroke the back of her hand, enjoying the weight of her body where it leaned against his shoulder.

They had spent the night, after Steph had taken a long hot shower to rid herself of the events of the past twelve hours, just holding each other. Ranger was still suffering fatigue from both the mission and the injuries he'd sustained from a wayward machete, and Steph's adrenaline let-down had hit hard, resulting in a lot of sleeping happening in the bed that would usually not have occurred with them both in it. It hadn't been until this morning that they'd had a chance to really talk about what she'd been through, and as usual, Steph was dishing out the negative self-talk in spades.

"I'm a disgrace of a human being," Steph bemoaned after reflecting on all that had happened. "I wish I had my shit together like you."

Surprise struck Ranger's expression like the first wave of heat from an opened oven door fogging a person's spectacles, causing him to pull back and take a moment before he could proceed. "Me?" he questioned.

"Yeah," she replied, tilting her head back to look at him. "You're a successful businessman; the owner of a security company with branches in three states. I'd say you have your ducks in a row."

He shook his head slowly, holding her gaze. "Babe," he said in the gentle tone that always seems to come out when one is correcting the delusions of a loved one. "My ducks are absolutely not in a row." He'd had some time to reflect on his life while waiting to be released from the veteran hospital and knew this for certain, because if his ducks were in a row, he'd have figured out how to have a proper relationship with the woman moulded to his side. "At this point, I don't even know where my ducks are," he added.

Steph opened her mouth to protest the statement, but as tends to happen whenever the pair managed to scrape up a cosy moment alone, she was cut off by Ranger's phone alerting him to a new notification.

He let out a growl that had once caused a renowned drug-lord to wet his pants, and wrenched the phone from his hip, stabbing at the phone with his finger until the text message from his cousin appeared on the screen. "Well," he said, somehow mustering up the strength to contain the eye roll he felt was not only justified, but almost necessary at this point. "Turns out I do know where some of my ducks are, and I need to go bail them out of lock up."

*o*

As so often happened the day after a Stephanie Plum Grade disaster, Lester and his partner not only on patrol, but in life, found themselves pulling into the parking lot of one of the many fast-food restaurants the woman favoured. It had started as a friendly gesture. A delivery of grease, fat and carbs to the woman who had succeeded in giving an entire building full of war hardened men a heart attack, because they knew she found comfort in the foods. But over time, their presence had become less necessary as their noble leader finally seemed to be managing a cranial extraction. He hadn't progressed so far as to admit to having or being open to a relationship with the woman he loved, but the fact that he had consistently been there for her following her last six disasters spoke volumes.

It also left Lester and Bobby with a hankering for fast food and no excuse to partake in it.

On the second such occasion, it had dawned on them that the grease delivery had been as much about their own comfort as it had been for Steph, and they'd decided that even if they didn't have the excuse of a curly-haired, blue-eyed woman to consume foods that they would not normally seek out, they would allow themselves the indulgence anyway, because without the ritual of chewing on fried chicken wings the situation never felt truly resolved.

"Looks like Woody and Hal had the same idea," Bobby observed, pointing to the black SUV, identical to their own but for the license plate which identified it as the vehicle the pair in question regularly drove for patrols.

Lester was given no chance to reply, even if he had managed to pull up one of his trademark witty comments, because at that very moment both sets of eyes locked on the three police cars parked at jaunty angles at the entrance of the Cluck-in-a-bucket. "Shit," he said rather conversationally. "You'd think they'd have called for back up if something was going down in there."

Bobby made a noise that might have been agreement, but also might have been disappointment that they likely wouldn't be able to get their bucket of chicken any time soon if the restaurant was now a crime scene. He pulled up the police scanner, hoping to hear something that would clue them in to the situation unfolding inside the hallowed halls of Trenton's favourite fried chicken dealer. At the same time, Lester had pulled out his phone to call the control room back at Haywood.

They needn't have bothered with either.

Before Lester had even finished dialling, the doors to the restaurant opened allowing a convoy of cops to exit leading four cuffed men to two of the waiting vehicles. Two of the men were decidedly better equipped in the muscle department than the other, and that alone would have been a dead give-away for the identity of the pair had they not also been wearing the all-black uniform of a Rangeman employee.

Lester and Bobby were outside their SUV immediately, the move so unplanned and unacknowledged that it's quite possible they had teleported there on the strength of their thoughts alone. Witnesses nearby would deny that theory, however, as they distinctly saw the pair clambering out and yelling to each other in the process.

"What the hell did they do?!" Bobby exclaimed, his eyebrows taking an express elevator upwards to parts of his forehead they had never been before.

"I don't know, but I need photos for the end of year slide show," Lester returned gleefully, sprinting unhelpfully across the lot with is phone in hand, already snapping pictures as he went.

He reached the cop car just after the back door had been closed on his colleagues, but his approach had clearly not been missed, as they were staring out the window of the vehicle at him. Hal, the closest to Lester when he stopped in front of them, offered up an expression that was at once worried and nauseas, clearly concerned for the ramifications of whatever actions they'd taken to land them in their current predicament. Woody, on the other hand, leaned forward to peer around his partner, a murderous look in his eyes when he saw Lester, or more specifically, Lester's phone.

"Smile!" Lester encouraged cheerfully, snapping off half a dozen photos while Bobby spoke to a police officer nearby. The pair glared at him, but Lester had never been discouraged by such surly expressions before and he wasn't about to start now. Grinning to himself, he surveyed the works of art that were the photos he'd just taken, choosing the best and quickly and expertly forwarding it to every single member of the Rangeman Trenton office. 'Might need to send someone to cover Woody and Hal's patrol,' he typed before sending it off and looking up to wave at the men stuck in the car as it drove away.

Stay Tuned for Part 2 coming tomorrow.