A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I've never had so many positive reviews, and for only four chapters! Thank you all so much!

By the way, I changed the rating from T to M because I realized that, eventually, this story will become very M-rated material. Hehehehe. :P

"Good morning."

Ross nearly dropped the spatula in his hand. Unnerved that he hadn't heard Erin descend the stairs, he turned to her, spatula clutched awkwardly between his fingers, and involuntarily drank in Erin's disheveled hair, her basketball sleeping shorts, and her askew t-shirt. She yawned, eyelids fluttering lazily and settling down into a half-closed position, and stretched, fingers reaching to the sky.

"Is that breakfast?" she asked, arching her back before relaxing and letting her arms fall back down on at her sides.

Ross glanced at the various pans, bowls, and plates he had spread out on the spacious, granite kitchen countertop. The steel, some tarnished, most brand-spanking-new, glinted in the early morning light. Ross put the dirtied spatula into the large bowl, scraped clean of all flour, and set it aside, revealing a plate stacked high with pancakes. Ross's gaze flicked over to Erin, whose eyes had lit up with almost a childish pleasure.

"You made pancakes!" she exclaimed, stepping into the kitchen and reaching for a clean fork nearby. "Just goes to show that a scary looking hunk of a man can cook."

"Not very well," Ross amended, sliding the plate over to Erin. "The table's set up."

"You don't look like the guy that cooks and eats pancakes." Erin took the plate and set it in the middle of the table, mildly amused to find two sets of plates set up. "I can't believe you made pancakes."

"Only because this is the first time I've seen enough variety in a pantry to actually make food."

"That so?"

"I got tired of eating take-out and frozen dinners, that's all." Ross heaped the last few pancakes onto a separate plate and joined Erin at the table, one hand carrying pancakes, the other carrying maple syrup.

Erin smirked and tossed a few pancakes onto her plate, reaching for the syrup with her free hand. Pouring a generous amount of the sugary, viscous liquid onto the cooked batter set before her, she cut a large slice out of the first pancake and shoved it into her mouth. Light and airy, just as it should be, the pancake, coupled with the sweet maple syrup, made Erin's mouth water. She swallowed thickly and turned to Ross, eyebrows rising in surprise.

"These are exceptional!" Erin gave him a broad smile, revealing a set of near-perfect teeth. "Better than what I would've made for breakfast. I can't cook to save my fucking life. I just hope I never have to take a job that involves cooking, else I'd be screwed so hard I wouldn't be able to walk out of it alive. The only things I know how to cook are eggs, cereal, oatmeal, macaroni and cheese, and grilled cheese sandwiches."

Ross grunted, savoring the pancake, surprised that he had actually created a good meal. Erin devoured three more pancakes, heaped a fourth on her plate, and dove in, as though she hadn't eaten in years. Ross watched her out of the corner of his eye, noting her mannerisms and complete disregard of etiquette and table manners. She nodded her head in approval occasionally, as if carrying conversations on with herself in her head and agreeing with them. At one point, she glanced up at Ross, met his gaze. Ross stopped chewing, focused on her eyes. He sensed she was trying to deliver a message in unspoken words, and he was just out of reach, unable to decipher her code. Her brown irises drew him into their swirling pools, captivating Ross as he struggled to reach beyond the bordered up windows of her pupils.

For a brief, brief moment, he was granted access. The windows flew open, revealed Erin's soul to the bone. No longer did Ross see the smart-ass, sarcastic, and precocious woman that he had met the night before. A timid woman sat in her place instead, plagued by negative thoughts and bad memories, driven by burdens and obligations. The lines that marred her face deepened. They were not the lines a young woman should have; rather, they were of a woman twice her age, taking the first stumbling steps into her early fifties, already filled to the brim with experiences of all types. In her eyes, she was a woman grown small, defiant but close to defeat, determined but weary enough to drop dead in the middle of a conversation. There sat a woman shoved too quickly into adulthood, denied of the golden years of her youth. There sat a woman whose soul was straggling along, dying a little more each day. There sat a woman who believed in fighting and war and death, who desperately wanted peace and serenity and life, yet still craved the delicious flavor of adventure and adrenaline. There sat a woman just like Ross.

The windows slammed shut in an instant, however, before Ross could comment. Erin's smile wavered on her face, her gaze dropping to the half-eaten pancake still left on her plate. She forced the rest of it down, not one to leave anyone's cooked food uneaten, and quickly stood to her feet, intending to put her dishes in the sink. Ross's eyes followed her as she went through the motions, cleaning and drying the dish, putting it away in the cupboard; the fork, once cleaned, back into the drawer. Barney made himself swallow the rest of his pancake, stood to his feet and went to the sink. Erin reached for his plate, tried to take it from his hands to wash it. He shook his head and did it himself, still eyeing the woman as she stepped aside and glanced around uncertainly, lost for a second in her own home.

"I'll take the rest of the pancakes to the boys," Ross said, snapping the silence in half. "They'd be glad for a change of pace."

"They could always go to IHOP," Erin stated, stacking the leftover pancakes onto a bigger dish in order to be Ceram wrapped easier. She stretched the thin, sticky plastic taunt over the breakfast food.

"They don't like to spend their money on good food." Ross couldn't help but chuckle quietly to himself. "It seems bikes and babes are more important than money."

"Is that what you believe?"

"No."

"Then what do you do with your money?"

"Pay off my bills."

"Touché." Erin grabbed the bottle of maple syrup, capped it. "Got any family, Ross?"

"No."

"No parents? No brothers or sisters? No kids?"

"Don't have time for kids." Ross dried his dish and set it back into the cupboard, glancing over his shoulder to find Erin looking at his back, one eyebrow arching high on her head, a queer look entering her eyes. Ross cleared his throat, continued, "Parents died of cancer. Mom was one helluva smoker, and Dad was an alcoholic. I'm their only kid."

"D'you turn out like them?" Erin asked, putting the stack of pancakes into a plastic bag that she had magically procured.

"Who, Mom and Dad?" Ross shook his head and leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. "I don't smoke, not after I saw what it did to my mother. I drink sometimes. You know, when we've done a job and stuff."

"And you don't have any addictions whatsoever?"

"Well…" Ross glanced away, thought for a moment. "Not a normal addiction, if that's what you're asking."

"You're addicted to the job." It was a statement, not a question. Erin tied the top of the back into a simple knot and absentmindedly scratched at one of her breasts. "You're addicted to the action and the adventure and the adrenaline. 'Cause you could've quit by now, couldn't you? But you haven't, 'cause you're addicted."

"Something like that."

"Aren't we all…" Erin suppressed a yawn and stared at the floor, her words reminding Ross of what Christmas had said the night before about the job, about how the mercs, having done the job for the longest time, no longer had any control over whether or not to quit.

"What happened to your family?" Ross heard himself ask, and he wondered if it was just to keep the young woman talking. He realized he liked the sound of her voice, his throat growing dry as he acknowledged the epiphany as though it were common sense.

"Nothing special. Brother died in a car accident, parents died over the grief." Erin shrugged. "I wasn't around much, anyway…I think that made it worse for my folks."

"I would think your parents would've kept on living for you."

Erin shook her head tentatively. "No, I was the firstborn, the independent, the child they didn't have to worry about 'cause I was fucking smart enough to keep myself out of trouble. By eighteen, I was out of their lives. Not by choice, really…" Erin shrugged again, scuffed her bare heel against a wooden floor panel. "Since they didn't have to worry about me, you know, they didn't pay much attention to me. You know that saying that the first child is the favorite? It's a bunch of bullshit. The parents spend too much time fussing over the other children that they forget about their perfect firstborns. How fucking great, you know? And it was funny, 'cause they thought I wouldn't get into trouble, that I was the most perfect child in the whole fucking world…and they were wrong." She shook her head, laughed bitterly to herself. "So wrong. If they only knew." She snapped her head back, looked at Ross, then over his shoulder. "I'm gonna get dressed, that way we can go and fed those hungry boys."

And with that, she turned on her heel and hurried from the room, round ass jiggling slightly in her shorts. Ross waited for a moment, then pushed himself away from the counter and followed her up the stairs, trying to simultaneously be aware of his surroundings and think about what Erin had just told him. He stood in the doorframe of her room, expecting Erin to tell him to step outside so he wouldn't see her undress. To his surprise, she didn't. As though he wasn't there, she stripped herself down to underwear and bra, shoved her sleeping clothes beneath her pillow, tugged the sheet tight over the mattress. She hummed to herself, the melody vaguely reminiscent of an old-time film score, and glanced out the window, pushing up one of the slats to get a better look outside.

"It's gonna be hot today," she commented. "Sun's already high in the sky and letting out the funky light you only get on hot days."

Resuming her off-key humming, Erin stepped into a pair of short jean shorts, pulled on a gray tank top. Her tattoo showed only at the edges, writing hidden from view again.

"What's it say?"

"Huh?" Erin glanced over her shoulder at Ross, a hairbrush clenched in one hand.

"The writing on your tattoo. What does it say?" Ross repeated, gesturing towards Erin's shoulder blade.

"The Ravenous," Erin answered, her reply hesitant, curt. "Now, um, do you want to stand in the bathroom while I take my morning shit, or are you okay standing in the bedroom?"

Ross waved her away, still stunned by the woman's coarse and brusque language. The Ravenous, he thought, watching her as she slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. An old team, The Ravenous, trouble…who is this chick?

The toilet flushed, and Erin emerged, hair pulled back into a loose, lazy braid, all traces of sleep washed from her face. She tossed her brush onto the bed, stooped down and tugged on her boots, lacing them on tight. As she brushed by Ross, she grabbed the thin sunglasses on the table beside the door, hooked it on the front of her shirt. Ross shut the bedroom door behind her, made his rounds through the house, feeling, indeed, like a bodyguard, and hastened down the steps, ears picking up Erin's determined stride across the wooden floor. He sensed she was creating the loud sounds on purpose, just to alert him of her position in the house. For that, Ross was grateful – it made the surveillance just a tad bit easier. He heard the crinkle of plastic just as his feet reached the last step, along with the faint jingle of keys and the scuffing of boots.

"Can I walk?" Erin called from the kitchen, shutting one of the cupboards.

"What?"

"Well, it's a stupid idea to ride a motorcycle with pancakes your lap, don't you think?" Erin stepped into the adjoining hallway, fixed Ross with an intrigued stare. "I like to walk every morning. Please, don't fuck my routine up. I really like those walks."

Ross was tempted to argue. An odd weariness settled between his shoulders, however, preventing him from opening his mouth. He nodded his head, stepped into the garage, Erin hurrying before him. He slung himself over the motorcycle, revved up the engine as the woman opened the garage door and stepped into the early morning, the brisk, dewy breeze caressing her cheeks and flicking up askew hairs on her head. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, face turned to the sky. Ross backed the motorcycle out of the garage slowly, a puzzled look threatening to etch itself into his features permanently. Solemnity settled into Erin's features, her lips moving slightly, ever so slightly. For a full two minutes she stood there, praying to the sky.

"My morning routine," she explained, once she had relaxed and glanced at Ross's quizzical gaze. "Doesn't mean I'm religious, though. I got too much of that when I was young."

And off she went, taking long, leisurely strides, covering a surprising amount of ground despite her five-foot-four frame. Ross waited until she was well ahead of him before rolling the motorcycle down the sloped driveway and guiding it onto the asphalt. He rode at a moderate pace, one slower than usual, one eye on the road, the other on Erin. The woman hefted the bag of pancakes in one hand, maple syrup in another. Head held high, she waved to the occasional neighbor, offered pretty smiles to many she passed. A dog nipped at her heels, tail wagging, eager to play. Erin laughed, took a moment to scratch the dog behind the ears.

"Now, you go back to your owner, okay?" Ross heard Erin say to the dog. "We can play another day."

The dog barked, and Erin went onward. The shop loomed into view. Erin threw her shoulders back, head still poised confidently, and strode in through the garage, Ross zipping up behind her and parking his bike next to the others. As she approached the cluster of men, Gunner elbowed Toll Road awake, grunting, "She's here," and Hale jabbed his finger into Yang's side. Tool, perched on his tattoo seat, stood up, gave Erin a big grin.

"Heya, pretty lady," he said. "Whatcha got there?"

"Breakfast," Erin replied, setting the plastic bag onto a nearby table. "Ross made pancakes."

"Ross?" Hale cried. "Made pancakes!"

"I was hungry for something decent," Ross growled, glaring at the men's astonished faces. "She had pancake batter in the pantry. I didn't want to pass up a good opportunity."

"You can cook?" Gunner asked, eyebrows arched in surprise; Ross nodded.

"The pancakes are excellent," Erin said, revealing the towering stack of fluffy pancakes. She removed a set of paper plates, plastic knives and forks, and napkins.

The moment she peeled the Ceram wrap from the plate, the men were on their feet in an instant, clustering close around her for various reasons. Even Yang hurried to the table, mouth watering as the warm, tantalizing smell of the pancakes wafted underneath his nose. Erin laughed and distributed plates and napkins, greedily coveting the plate of food until the men, aside from Tool and Ross, had utensils in their hands.

"Got your hands washed?" she asked; the boys looked at her in disbelief. She chuckled. "Just kidding."

"Save me some big ones, hot stuff!" Tool exclaimed, turning to Ross. "How was it?"

"How was what?"

"Last night. How was last night?"

"I got some info on her."

"Oh? Like what?"

"I'll tell you later." Ross waved the man off. "Go eat your pancakes."

As Erin heaped the food onto each man's plate, Christmas drove his bike into the garage, tugged his helmet off, and looked up to see the cluster of men laughing and cussing good-naturedly. Lee dismounted the motorcycle hesitantly, edging around the men to reach Ross. The smell of the pancakes tickled his senses, and his stomach growled audibly, his mouth watering. Ross couldn't help but chuckle at the look of confusion on Christmas's face.

"I made pancakes," he explained to the Brit.

"Where's Erin?"

"In the middle of that."

"What?" Christmas turned to the churning mass of large men, caught a glimpse of a braid. "They're not eating her alive, are they?"

Ross shook his head. "She'd probably bite their fingers off before they'd get a chance." He glanced at the men as they left the table one by one, plates heaped high with pancakes drenched in syrup. "Feeling better, Lee?" he asked, noting the relaxation that had settled somewhat into Christmas's face.

"A bit, yeah." Christmas rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Erin for a moment as she plopped a few pancakes onto an empty paper plate and drizzled syrup on them. "I slept some."

"Good." Ross punched Lee lightly on the shoulder. "Don't you dare go crazy on me, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry. I'm not there yet."

"You look hungry."

Christmas turned to look at Erin, who had spoken up from beside him. She offered him a soft smile, one eyebrow raised as if daring Lee to challenge her statement. She lifted the plate of pancakes towards him.

"Ross made pancakes," she said. "They're pretty damn good. Do you want some?"

Christmas took the plate from Erin's hands, their fingertips brushing slightly. Throat tightening, he felt the odd anger rising up in his chest, threatening to explode out of him as a never-ending string of cusswords and blasphemies.

"Um, thanks," he managed to say.

"You're welcome."

"Heya, gorgeous, is that a tat I see?"

Erin laughed, rolled her eyes, glanced at Ross. "Oh, boy, here it comes." She left Ross and Christmas to talk and eat, sauntering over to Tool. "Yes, Tool, it's a tat."

"And you didn't even fucking tell me you had one!" Tool shook his head, swallowed his mouthful of pancake. "I was hoping you had virgin skin!"

"Yeah, well, it's the only one I got." Erin shrugged, smirked.

"Well, come on!" Tool waved at her with his hand. "If you got it, you gotta show it!"

Erin rolled her eyes again, faced her back to Tool. Gunner, Toll Road, and Hale shifted in their seats, craning to get a better look. Erin pulled down the straps of her tank top and bra, revealing the wolf tattoo. Tool let out a low whistle, snatched up his glasses, perched them on his nose. He hurried over to Erin and began admiring the tat, his fingers delicately tracing the outline of the two wolves. He squinted, let out another low whistle, setting the other boys on edge. Hale nearly slipped off the edge of his seat, so hard was he straining to see the tattoo.

"Where'd you get this done?" Tool asked, tapping the tat.

"No place special," Erin replied, shrugging.

"This guy…" Tool shook his head, a third and final low whistle slipping past his lips. "The guy who did this is one helluva fucking artist!"

Ross shook his head inwardly at Tool's amazement and enthusiasm. Beckoning to Yang, he pulled Christmas aside, dropped his voice even as Tool interrogated Erin in hopes of determining the name of her tattoo artist. Yang swallowed the last of his pancake, tossed his plate down, hurried over to join Ross and Christmas.

"She belonged to an old team," Ross stated, glancing between Christmas and Yang.

"You're shitting me." Lee's gaze darted to Erin briefly; he shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me."

"That tattoo," Ross continued, drawing Christmas's attention back, "is the logo for her old team. The Ravenous is written right below the tat." He turned to Yang. "Did you look to see if she was part of another merc team?"

"It would've come up on the listing," Yang answered. "It automatically – wait." The Asian thought hard for a moment, mind concentrated on the barebones of the directory. "The directory automatically lists the merc teams in the state, not the country."

"She said she just moved here recently," Lee pointed out. "Could she be from out of state, then?"

"Possible." Yang nodded his head, eyed Erin out of the corner of his eye. "She doesn't sound like she's from the South or from the east coast," he muttered. "She doesn't have a foreign accent…she could be from Washington or Nevada…maybe even Arizona or Utah."

"Find out where she's from." Ross paused, listened to Erin mention something obscene, both unnerved and oddly pleased by the raucous laughter that burst out from the men. "Maybe we'll get more information on her."

Yang turned to go to the computer.

"Find out what happened to The Ravenous," Ross added, his voice just loud enough for Yang to hear. "I want names, a full history, everything."

The Asian nodded his head, disappeared into the back of the shop. Christmas looked down at the plate of pancakes in his hand and tentatively forked some into his mouth. His head bobbed in approval, and once he swallowed, he poked Ross's shoulder with the plastic fork.

"These are really good," he said, cutting off another slice of pancake to eat. "I didn't know you could cook."

"You never asked." Ross dipped a finger into Lee's pool of syrup, licked the sticky sweetness off his fingertip. "It's your turn tonight."

"For what?"

"Surveillance."

"Shit." Christmas, tempted to fling his plate of pancakes across the room, restrained himself, exhaled heavily. "I'm not making her any goddamn breakfast."

"Maybe she'll make you some," Ross suggested. "She says she can't cook, though."

"I wouldn't eat her cooking anyway." Christmas swallowed the rest of his pancakes, grimaced at the puddle of maple syrup still left on his plate.

"Give it." Ross took the plate from Christmas's hands. Saying nothing further, he lifted the plate to his lips, tipped it up, and drank the syrup that oozed off the Styrofoam. "It's the best part of having pancakes and waffles," he said, handing the empty plate to Christmas. "I'll watch her for the rest of the day, but you get her for the night and the rest of tomorrow."

Still recovering from the mixture of surprise and disgust that had risen in his chest, Lee snapped, "Fine," and glanced down at the plate, wondering how the older man had downed the syrup without anything to accompany it.

"What if I gave you and Christmas matching tats?" Tool exclaimed suddenly, eyes alight with a mischievous fire. "It'd be a fucking masterpiece! I'd paint half of the tat on you and the other half on Christmas, so you could only see the whole thing when you guys put your arms together or something. Ha!"

Christmas pivoted around wildly. "Hell no!"

"Hell yes," Tool countered, lips stretched into a smile. "I could paint 'Hell No' on you guys. You could have the 'No,' and hot stuff here could have 'Hell.' It'd be perfect!"

"Do you really want a knife up your ass, Tool?"

"If it means getting a tat on the both of your bodies, hell yes."