Oh, Come Let Me Adore Her!

by Robot Zombie Pineapples

For the third year in a row, Ranger is spending Christmas Eve at Tank's house when carollers come to the door. Ranger wastes no time making his way out onto the porch, eager to see one particular caroller, and perhaps even talk to her this year. What happens next is something none of them would have predicted. Oneshot. AU. Babe. RPOV.

This story came to me while I was on my way to my final carolling gig for the year. A song (I Won't Be Home For Christmas by Blink-182) came on my Spotify playlist in the car and the muse seized on it immediately, forcing me to repeat the song over and over for the remainder of the trip until I could park and quickly jot the ideas down. I really enjoyed playing with Ranger and Tank's friendship dynamic in this one.

Oh, Come Let Me Adore Her!

"So, we're making this an annual thing now?" Tank asked when he opened the door to me, Pawla snuggled contentedly in his arm, purring loudly.

This would be the third year in a row I'd showed up on his doorstep on Christmas Eve with a six pack of his preferred beer and a store-bought pie. The first year had been a surprise visit. He'd been fresh off a mission, and a break up with his long-term girlfriend, not coping as well as he would have liked me to believe, and I didn't want him to be alone for the holidays since his family lived halfway across the country.

Last year, I'd found myself at a loose end when my family decided a week out to move the Christmas gathering to Florida to be with Abuela Rosa and the rest of the family there, since Rosa was unable to travel. I'd already approved time off for all the guys that wanted or needed it over the holiday period and had finalised the roster so that I was covering a majority of the time, ensuring that those that weren't taking time could still enjoy a Christmas with their own families. My original plan had been to drive out to Newark for the traditional Manoso Family Christmas Eve dinner and be back in Trenton to cover monitors for Christmas Day. A flight to and from Florida didn't fit into that plan. So, I found myself back at Tank's sharing beer and pie.

This year's Manoso Family Christmas Eve dinner happened a few days ago to accommodate the various travel plans of my siblings to visit in-laws. And if I'm being honest with myself, I was more excited than I should have been for the fact that I would once again be able to spend Christmas Eve at Tank's. Sure, he was my best friend and I enjoyed hanging out with him, but I saw him every day at work, and we regularly spent time together away from Rangeman when one or the both of us needed a break. My desire for spending the evening at Tank's house had nothing to do with the man himself. It had everything to do with a curly-haired, blue-eyed woman and the spark that had ignited in my chest and haunted my thoughts throughout the entire year.

I was laid out on the couch, eyes closed in an attempt to will my body to digest the excess pie I'd consumed a little quicker. I'd never admit to overindulging, but I was definitely feeling weighed down as I listened to Tank cursing over video game music as he navigated some new adventure on the Xbox.

"If it frustrates you so much, why do you keep playing it?" I asked, lifting my hand to blindly pat whichever cat had nudged it where it hung over the edge of the couch.

"It's relaxing," Tank said, sounding like he was speaking through gritted teeth.

I snorted. "Relaxing. Right." I opened my eyes to see what it was in the game that was giving him so much grief, but was instead met with a sight that was equal parts funny and concerning. Without turning my head, I had a decent view of the little Santa's village Tank always set up on the end table behind the couch, and from my vantage point, Meowthew, Tank's orange creamsicle cat was looming over the town. The low lighting of the room combined with the glow from the tiny, light- up village, made for a dramatic scene as it lit the cat's ominous - dare I say, villainous - posture from below in much the same way children with torches do when telling scary stories. I suppressed my laugh so as not to disturb Meowthew and brought my phone up to snap a photo. I'd send it to Tank later for his photo album.

The doorbell rang, and the cat scattered the figurines in its haste to get away. Tank sighed, paused his game and lumbered to the door, righting Santa in the middle of the chaos on his way. A moment later a cappella voices sang out Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and Tank's rumbling voice called for me to grab the cookies off the kitchen bench. The cookies he'd warned me not to touch when I arrived, like he thought there was a chance I might have. He knew cookies weren't my thing. I didn't do sweets most of the time, the few consistent exceptions being a pie at Christmas and the cake my mother makes for my birthday each year.

I took my time getting to my feet, and grabbing the plate from the kitchen so that by the time I'd made it to the front porch, Tank stood at the bottom of the steps, Pawla in his arms and a small smile on his face as he listened to the group on the sidewalk. I thought about rolling my eyes. For such a big guy with a dark military history, he was a sap of the highest order. He couldn't see an abandoned cat without adopting it. And apparently he made cookies for the carollers that came by his house every year.

As the final verse of the song started, I leaned a shoulder against the railing post at the top of the stairs and surveyed the group. They were one of the better roaming carolling groups I'd heard. They were certainly better than when my family insisted on singing carols after dinner every year.

The woman on the left end of the group caught my eye when she suddenly turned her head to the side, grinning so wide at the person next to her that I thought she might be fighting laughter. Her blue eyes were twinkling with amusement as her friend rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a smile, both of them continuing to sing despite whatever had caused the interaction. And when the song slowed to an end, they both cracked up, the blue eyed woman almost doubling over in her mirth, chestnut curls cascading over her shoulders from under her knit hat.

I was transfixed, barely registering as Tank took the plate of cookies from my hand, distributing them to the carollers and exchanging festive greetings. The woman took a gingerbread man from the plate, grinning her thanks and nibbling it delicately. Her eyes drifted to me as her friend engaged Tank in a brief conversation and she gave a little finger wave, our eyes catching for a stretched moment before one of the other carollers called out to her from further down the street.

I blinked once, twice, watching the curls bounce against her back as she jogged to catch up to the rest of the group, and then Tank was beside me, holding the plate out toward me.

"One left," he said, and I thought there was a hint of amusement in his voice, giving way to a soft snort when I took the last gingerbread man and bit the head off as I followed him and Pawla inside. But not before I craned my neck to catch one last glimpse of the blue-eyed caroller as they stopped at the next house.

"Well, my family keeps changing plans to make me free Christmas Eve, and you keep deciding not to go home for Christmas, so this seems in the spirit of the holiday, but it's as annual as you want it to be," I told Tank now, giving him a slight rise of the eyebrow. "Also, you should know that if you turn me away now, I'm taking the beer and pie with me."

He narrowed his eyes like he didn't believe me, and turned on his heel, leading the way back into the house. Pawla jumped out of his arms as he passed the couch, landing with a slight cloud of white hairs before circling twice and settling in a ball in the middle of one of the cushions.

"I made lasagne," Tank informed me, pulling a family size foil tray from the oven and setting it on the counter next to a salad bowl and two plates that were already set out and waiting. He'd been expecting me. "I used my mom's recipe."

I sent him a crooked smile over my shoulder as I removed two beers from the pack and put the rest into the fridge. "I thought your mom's name was Talesha, not Michael Angelo," I said, nodding at the box sticking out of the trashcan.

"She learned it from her Uncle Michael," he replied without missing a beat, committing to the bit. "Just like your mama learned that pie recipe from Tia Sara Lee."

"Touché."

He served up generous slabs of lasagne while I stuck the pie in the still hot oven so it would be ready to eat after dinner, and we took our plates to the table. We ate in silence for several minutes, until Tank brought up his usual Christmas Eve dinner conversation topic: "What's your favourite moment from the last year?" Still such a sap.

Usually, we would recount our most entertaining or rewarding captures, but tonight my thoughts immediately cast back three hundred and sixty-four days to last Christmas Eve. The woman with the laughing blue eyes. Not a day had gone by without her creeping into my thoughts. I wish I'd gotten her name at least so I could have looked her up, satisfied my curiosity. Got her out of my system.

My wayward thoughts - the ones where I imagined what she looked like without her Christmas sweater and jeans, writhing in my bed - must have shown on my face, because Tank slapped a hand on the table beside his plate, grinning eagerly at me. "You dog!" he exclaimed, taking a chug of his beer and leaning his forearms on the table to give me his full attention. "Who is she? What's she like in the sack?"

I swallowed my mouthful, shaking my head. No way was I sharing the lack of details I had for the woman who had occupied my thoughts in increasingly x-rated ways throughout the year. "I don't kiss and tell," I reminded him.

He mirrored my head shake, disappointed but not surprised. "One day you'll find someone you wanna gush about," he said, lifting another forkful of lasagne to his mouth and leaving an opening for Meowthew to jump up onto his lap. As always he automatically started scratching the cat under the chin, giving soft little praising noises when it started purring and butting its head against Tank's meaty hand.

"Like you gush about your cats?" I questioned pointedly. He hadn't been in a serious relationship since Heather had cleared out all her stuff and left a note on his refrigerator while he was on that mission three years ago. Luckily, she'd still been compassionate enough to stop by regularly and feed the cats until he returned stateside, but between the mental toll the mission had taken and the abrupt end to the four year relationship, Tank had been pretty devastated. I hate to think what would have happened if she'd decided to take the cats with her.

Tank had fostered his first kitten after his second solo mission for the government, when he'd been struggling with returning to civilian life, constantly on edge, prepped for a fight or flight response to literally anything that happened. From a leaf falling from a tree in the corner of his vision to a car backfiring a block away.

Cleocatra had passed away several years later after a long struggle with cancer. Tank had been a wreck for weeks, ultimately honouring the black cat's memory by having her ashes put in an Egyptian-style urn. Black and gold with a cat head lid. He kept it on a shelf in the kitchen next to the sink, and I had a feeling he still occasionally spoke to it when he was having trouble processing events in his life.

"Meowthew and Pawla are all the pussy I need in my life right now," Tank assured me. "But you met someone. And from the tension you've been decking the Rangeman halls with of late, I'd say you're not yet permitted in her panties."

I forked a cherry tomato into my mouth, holding steady eye contact while I chewed and swallowed, daring him to needle me further. He was right, in a roundabout way. While I hadn't technically met the woman, she had occupied my mind more than I would normally allow. And I definitely was yet to get inside her pants.

I inwardly cringed at that. The crude thought sitting ill with me. I didn't know her, but my instinct told me she deserved better than me merely slipping her zipper down and bringing us both some pleasure. I needed to know her on a soul level.

Dios, was I turning into a sap now too?

When my mouth was empty once more, I cleared my throat, and my thoughts, and launched into my favourite work-related moment of the year: when my cousin had slipped in dog shit while chasing down a skip and managed to seize the guy on the way down, dragging him back and under him until he could press his face into the excrement.

"He could have at least wiped it off before shoving him into the back seat!" Tank exclaimed, fighting fresh laughter in order to sound as indignant as he had been when he'd taken that same SUV out the next day and the smell hadn't hit him until he was on the highway. Apparently, the skip had rubbed his face against the seats while in transit and Lester hadn't noticed due to the dark colour of the fabric and the fact that his nostrils were already full of the scent of dog shit.

*o*

An hour later, we were halfway through the pie when the doorbell rang. Like last year, Tank let out a small sigh as he set aside what he was doing, making his way to the door with all the grace one would expect with his size. And like last year, a moment after he opened the door, the singing started. 'Let it Snow', I recognised, following Tank down the hall with the requisite plate of cookies from the counter before he'd even called back to me.

It took me a moment to search the blue-eyed angel out in the group, three in from the left end in the second row. Her curls were contained in two braids emerging from beneath her red knitted cap to hang over her shoulders. Instead of a Christmas sweater - or perhaps as well as - she wore a red pea coat over her jeans, a green and white scarf wrapped around her neck.

As I made it to Tank's side at the top of the porch steps, her red-painted lips split into a grin and she looked like she was struggling to continue to sing through a fit of laughter, her eyes sparkling as she shared a look with the person next to her. I had no way of knowing if it was the same woman who had made her grin while they sang Hark the Herald last year, since I'd taken no notice of anyone in the group but the blue-eyed beauty who had immediately captured my attention.

Eventually, she and the other woman regained their composure, plastering on serene smiles that almost matched those of their fellow choristers but for the mischief shining through. When the curly-haired woman turned her attention to the porch where Tank and I stood, though, our eyes met and her smile slipped into a more stunned, wide-eyed expression.

Rather than allow Tank to take the plate from my hands, I surged down the stairs ahead of him. "Beautiful," I praised. "Thank you so much. My friend made cookies to thank you for spreading your joy." Ostensibly, I was addressing the whole group, but I had eyes only for her. I offered the plate, holding it steady as a rush of gloved hands scrabbled for the baked goods. And all the while, my gaze was glued to hers, drinking in the blue that had lived in my memory for a full year.

She was the last to grab a cookie, hanging back until her compatriots had seized theirs and dispersed into little groups to chatter while they ate, some of them engaging Tank and Meowthew, while others just spoke among themselves. "Tell your friend thanks for the cookies," she said. "I look forward to them every year."

"You carol like this every year?" I found myself asking. Since when do I do small-talk? "It must feel nice to make people smile."

She hummed a contented sound with her hand up in front of her mouth to prevent me from seeing the half chewed gingerbread man when she spoke. "I've been carolling for a few years now," she said. "I think I remember you and your friend from last year. Though I recall the cat being white, not orange."

I nodded, letting a small smile lift my lips. "Pawla is inside. Meowthew got the honour of a trip out in the cold to enjoy the singing this year." And now I was readily revealing personal facts? Granted, they weren't personal facts about me, but ordinarily I wouldn't even have said that much. Keeping the details of my own life, along with those I cared for, under wraps had become second nature to me after years of running covert ops. To swing the attention away from myself (and Tank) I said, "You must enjoy it to keep coming back to it every year. It looked like you were almost laughing when I came out."

She snorted and cast a glance over to the woman who had shared the moment with her. "Oh, that? Mary Lou has a habit of screwing up the lyrics on the repeat. Instead of 'and I've brought some corn for popping' she gets her consonants mixed up and ends up singing 'porn for copping' half the time. Even after years of singing together I still crack up every time."

I chuckled. "It brings a whole new meaning to the song."

She agreed. And in the brief silence that lapsed between us, she chewed and swallowed another bite of her cookie. Our gazes held, and just as I was about to ask her name - or perhaps even stupidly offer up my own - one of the other carollers called and she and the rest of the group were suddenly tripping away to the next house. I watched them go. Kicking myself for not asking her name sooner. Fighting the urge to jog after her and demand it from her now. Could I go a-whole-nother year before seeing her again? Could I risk the possibility that she wouldn't come by next year? That my family would resume its normal Christmas Eve dinner tradition?

She glanced back at me as they were all lining up in front of the next house, longing in her eyes, and a wave of anxiety washed over me at the thought of never seeing her again.

"I understand now," Tank said, clapping a hand on my shoulder and squeezing tightly once before releasing me again. "That's the same caroller you made eyes at from the porch last year, right?" he asked, and he might have made some vague gesture in the direction of the group standing outside the neighbour's house, but I still wasn't able to drag my gaze away from her. "That's why you came over? To ogle unsuspecting altos?"

"Altos?" I asked, blinking and turning to peer at him.

"The blue eyed woman in the red coat that you have tunnel-vision for sings in the alto section," Tank explained, hugging Meowthew closer to his chest when the cat let out a plaintive meow. I may have told the woman it was Meowthew's honour to come out to visit the carollers, but the reality was that unlike his furry sister, he hated the cold. We had about thirty seconds before he started clawing and biting. "Did you at least get her name?" Tank asked, leading the way back inside.

I said nothing. It would give me away, but there was nothing I could do about it. I didn't get her name, so even if I claimed I did, any further interrogation from Tank would reveal the fatal lack of knowledge on my part.

Tank opened the door, and dropped Meowthew inside, turning to face me on the porch as the group next door started to sing Deck the Halls. "You're kidding," he said, surprise opening his features in a way I wasn't accustomed to seeing. He wasn't often surprised, and even when he was, he tended to hide it well, as most of my men did thanks to years of military training. Holding a neutral expression was a tried and true defence. Apparently he didn't feel the need to keep that defence up when it was just us, though. "You didn't get -"

His words cut off abruptly as the singing did the same, turning to screams of terror. I was dashing back down the steps and across the postage stamp lawn almost before my eyes registered what was happening. The carollers were scattering in all directions as the resident of the neighbour's house chased them with a baseball bat.

"What the fuck?!" Tank called pounding after me as I finally spotted the blue-eyed woman, her arms held up over her head in defence as she threw herself in between the bat and one of the older choristers who had been struggling to get away, taking a blow that wasn't meant for her with a sickening crack and an agonised cry.

I saw red. Charging the last few yards to where she cowered in the middle of the snowy street, the deranged batsman continuing to beat down on her, I tore the man away by the back of his sweater and had a split second of indecision, wanting to be sure the woman was okay, but also needing to deal out retribution for his actions. The rage won out long enough for me to punch him in the face and toss him aside as Tank approached, and then I turned to the woman collapsed on the asphalt.

My heart was beating wildly in my chest as I knelt down beside her, being sure to announce myself with a gentle word before laying a hand on her bicep. She didn't respond and the tension in my body ratcheted up another notch, if that was even possible. I tried calling to her a couple more times, before I decided to roll her over to check for injuries.

The movement must have roused her somewhat, whether because of the movement itself or the corresponding pain I didn't know, but she let out a low moan, her eyes fluttering. Despite her keeping her arms up to protect her head and face, her cheek looked like it was busted, a bruise already blooming below her eye. I reached out a hand - shaking with nerves, worry and adrenaline despite my years of training and experience - and laid it gently on the uninjured side of her face rubbing my thumb back and forth to provide stimulus to keep her fighting for consciousness.

"Stay with me, Babe," I said, loud enough for her to hear over the commotion and approaching sirens. "You're gonna get through this. I'll be right here beside you. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Her eyelids fluttered again, another moan escaping her and my heart clenched in my chest. I didn't like seeing her in pain, especially since there was nothing I could do about it. I didn't have the power to magically fix her broken arm, or whatever damage was causing her cheek to swell. Let alone any injuries I couldn't see.

Anger was still surging inside me, and with nowhere to direct it while I tried to comfort the woman, keep her fighting for consciousness, I had to push it down, contain it in that box it so hated being shoved into. I glanced over my shoulder at Tank, pleased to see he had the guy pinned underneath him. When our gazes met, he bore down on him a little harder, simultaneously sending two messages: one to the still struggling man, a message to cut it out, and another to assure me he wasn't gonna get away.

I returned my attention to the injured woman who somehow held my heart despite not knowing her name and only having spoken to her for the first time a few minutes ago. I needed her to be alright.

Movement out of the corner of my eye drew my gaze away from her face to find a woman with mousy blond hair and a worried expression creeping cautiously closer. It was the woman she'd been laughing with during the song earlier. The 'porn for copping' woman. "Is she- is she okay?" she asked when I cut my eyes to her.

"She will be," I replied with an authority I absolutely did not have. Because she had to be.

The blond woman was close enough to see my Babe's condition now, and let out a strained sob. "Oh, Steph!" she cried, her hands fluttering uselessly over her friend obviously wanting to take away the hurt as much as I did. She settled for brushing away a curl that had drifted onto Steph's cheek before settling her hands in her lap as she knelt beside her.

Police and paramedics arrived then, swarming the street and taking stock of the scene. It didn't take long for them to figure out that Steph was in need of the most medical attention, having put herself in the line of the attacker in order to save the other carollers; give them a chance to get away. I stayed with her and the blond woman as the paramedics did an initial check, gathering personal information from the blond - Mary Lou - that I instantly committed to memory.

She regained tenuous consciousness. Enough to let the paramedics know what hurt and where it was worst, but it was clear that keeping her eyes open was a chore. They strapped her to a gurney and I followed to the ambulance, not letting them leave until they told me which hospital they were taking her to. And then the ambulance was gone and Tank was looming beside me, his silent presence a comfort to my frazzled nerves.

"I'm heading to the hospital," I told him, starting back towards Tank's house.

"Did you get her name?" he asked, following behind. Of course he knew why I needed to go to the hospital when I wasn't injured.

"Stephanie Plum," I said, bounding up the stairs and into the house. Ignoring Meowthew and Pawla as they wound around our legs, begging for attention and for the door to finally be closed to the cold, since we'd left it open in our haste to take down the attacker, I pulled on my coat, took the time to lace my boots properly, and grabbed my keys from the side table.

"Merry Christmas," Tank called as I strode back out the door and down to my SUV at the curb. "I'll expect you to introduce me to your new girlfriend at Santos's New Year's Eve party."

I didn't acknowledge his words, too focused on my mission.

*o*

When I reached the hospital and gave the woman's name, fibbing that I was her fiance to get the information I needed, I was told she was in surgery and relegated to a waiting room. The nurse said she would let me know when she was moved to a room and I could see her. A while later, the blond woman (Mary Lou, I recalled) arrived and sat down beside me, rambling about how she had to stop by home to make sure her husband was going to be okay with the kids a while longer before she could come up to the hospital to be with her best friend.

"I called her mom and let her know what happened, but she said she was in the middle of dinner with Saint Valerie and her girls, so it would have to wait," Mary Lou explained angrily. She'd taken to pacing in front of me as she ranted, and I wasn't sure if it was because she wanted me to know, or because she just needed an outlet for her emotions, but I was grateful for any information she was willing to offer me about Stephanie Plum. "I can't believe Helen is going to sit there and have dinner like nothing is wrong while her youngest daughter is in hospital because she saved a bunch of people from a mad man with a baseball bat! Mrs Lebowski would be in a lot worse shape than Steph is in if she hadn't thrown herself under the bat so she had time to shuffle away."

I shook my head. I'd never met this Helen Plum woman, hell, I'd barely met her daughter, but I was pretty sure I didn't like her.

Eventually, the same nurse I'd spoken to earlier entered the waiting room, calling for the family of Stephanie Plum and informing Mary Lou and myself that she was out of surgery and being transferred to a room. We could visit with her in a few minutes.

Stephanie was still under anaesthetic when the nurse led us back, but she explained that it should start wearing off soon. The surgery to repair her arm had gone well, the damage to her face was nothing more than bruising and she would be kept in at least overnight for observation on the suspected concussion. Mary Lou and I entered the room, and I hung back while she approached the bed, aware that I was the interloper here. The only reason I knew Steph's name was because Mary Lou had given it to the paramedics and the police officers on sight.

I watched Mary Lou tuck some hair behind Steph's ear and longed to replace her fingers with my own, to feel the soft curls against my skin, to lean down and press a kiss to her slightly parted lips and see her blue eyes flutter open, like some kind of Sleeping Beauty bit. But I remained where I was at the end of the bed, fists clenched and tucked into my pockets to control myself.

Mary Lou dragged a chair over to the side of the bed and sat, holding Steph's good hand as she rambled just as she had out in the waiting room, but this time avoiding all mentions of Steph's apparently uncaring Mom. Before long, though, her cell phone began to beep. Once. Then again a few minutes later. And then a flurry barely a minute apart. She dug the device out of her purse and sighed at the screen as she read the texts she had received, leaning over to kiss Steph's forehead and murmur something before turning to face me for the first time since we'd entered.

"My eldest child is having a meltdown, the youngest has just vomited all over the dog, and my husband can't deal with it all on his own," she explained succinctly. "I have to go rescue him or the house will be in shambles before I know it, and I am not spending my Christmas day scrubbing vomit out of the sofa again. Will you -"

"I'm not leaving until she's awake," I assured her.

"Thank you so much," she gushed, surging forward to wrap her arms around me in a tight, unexpected hug. "She hates hospitals and I'd hate for her to wake up alone." Releasing me, she rummaged in her bag for a pen and a crumpled receipt, scribbling something on the back before shoving it into my hand. "This is my number. Will you text me when she's awake?"

I just nodded, stunned. I could count on one hand the number of times a stranger had spontaneously hugged me. She didn't appear to be at all intimidated by my muscles or the silence I'd maintained during our wait. And she was trusting me with her best friend's welfare. I didn't know whether to be impressed or concerned.

"Thank you," she said again, jamming the pen back in her bag and dashing over to the bed to give Steph another forehead kiss before hurrying out the door, a hasty, "Merry Christmas!" called over her shoulder.

Alone in the room with nothing but Steph's soft, even breathing to fill the sudden silence, I slowly made my way over to the chair Mary Lou had vacated and lowered myself into it, lifting the same hand she had held between hers and laying a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

"You are such a brave and caring woman, Stephanie Plum," I told her sleeping form reverently. How many people would throw themselves under a bat to save another person? I'd been in plenty of situations where I absolutely could have made a similar call, but had chosen to get the hell out of dodge instead. That made her such a better person than me, and I suddenly doubted my worthiness to even be sitting in this room with her, let alone the hubris of my intentions to ask her out. She didn't deserve my dark past tainting her light.

Ashamed, I released her hand, standing to leave once more when I remembered my promise to Mary Lou. I couldn't leave her alone, but I at least needed to put some distance between us. I turned on my heel to do just that, but found myself face to face with a man that was vaguely familiar.

"General Plum?" I asked, recognition dawning as I snapped to attention.

"At ease, soldier," he said, waving me away as he crossed to the end of the bed. His daughter's bed, I realised. General Frank Plum must be Stephanie Plum's father. The resemblance was there, unmistakable now that I knew to look for it. "The nurses told me my daughter's fiance was in here with her," he added, resting his hands on the foot board and casting his gaze from the woman lying in the bed to me. "I wasn't aware she was dating again."

"She's no-," I started to say, but then realised I had no idea if that was true. "I lied to the nurses in order to be allowed in to check on your daughter, sir," I explained. "I was at the scene and saw the attack and was worried for her."

"But you're not her fiance?" he clarified.

I shook my head, still too shocked to release my stiff posture. I'd gone through Ranger school hearing tales of Frank Plum's daring feats, his gleaming successes. I never thought I'd meet the man in person, let alone in the hospital room of the woman I'd been fantasising about for a year. The woman who happened to be his daughter.

"Are you dating?" His posture was relaxed despite the intensity of his eyes - almost as blue as Stephanie's - boring into mine.

Another headshake, but this time I managed to find my voice again, feeling a little bolder. "No sir," I said. "We only met tonight, but I'd very much like the opportunity to get to know her better."

He scrutinised me for a moment longer before giving a short nod and gesturing to the seat beside the bed. "Sit back down, son," he requested, dragging the second chair to the opposite side and sinking into it after giving Stephanie's leg a fatherly pat. "What's your name?"

"Captain Ricardo Carlos Manoso, sir," I replied, offering my rank along with my full name. "Army Ranger."

He let out a little huff that reminded me of Meowthew. "Is that what your friends call you?" There was a familiar twinkle in his eye that suggested he was teasing me and I commanded myself to loosen my shoulders and relax.

"Just Carlos, sir," I offered, picking up Stephanie's hand again and rubbing my thumb over her knuckles.

He nodded, satisfied. "Well, Just Carlos," he said. "You can call me Frank."

We both lapsed into silence, then, the atmosphere feeling much too comfortable for having just met a man I'd looked up to when I was younger and admitted that I had feelings for his daughter before I'd even had a chance to let his daughter know of this development.

Hell, she didn't even know my name.

I managed to find my zone, the soft feel of her skin under my fingertips as I continued to stroke her hand anchoring me in the moment enough to be aware of my surroundings as my mind wandered aimlessly. I'm not entirely sure how much time had passed before I felt her hand grip mine back, a little moan escaping her throat as she started to wake up. I glanced from her fluttering eyelids to Frank's quietly snoring form, and stood from my chair so Stephanie wouldn't need to turn her head or strain her neck to see that she wasn't alone.

"Hey," she said when she managed to focus on my face. Her voice was croaky, but her lips pulled into a small smile at the sight of me. "My hero."

"Babe," I couldn't help the name falling from my lips. "You're the hero."

She grimaced, trying to push herself into a sitting position, but I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her and pressed the button on the bed remote to raise her head. "I think we were at different carolling attacks," she said. "I definitely remember you saving me."

"Only after you saved the rest of your group," I pointed out. "That was brave."

She shook her head, abruptly abandoning the action after a single turn and launched into a recount of how she didn't think the man's smile was genuine, his eyes appearing dead. It had made her antsy, and she spent the whole song feeling like something bad was going to happen until it did.

"He snapped and grabbed a baseball bat from beside the door and ran down the porch steps. Mrs. Lebowski can't run," she explained, "So I did what anyone would do and jumped in between her and the crazy bat-wielding guy so she could get away." She paused, a frown creasing the skin between her brows. Was she remembering the pain and fear she'd felt as the bat connected full force with her arms? "And then you pulled him off me," she said. "If it weren't for you and your friend, things could have been much worse."

We just stared into each other's eyes for a long moment. I don't know what she was thinking, but I was running through a thousand different scenarios in my head where Tank and I hadn't been there to subdue the attacker and things had ended badly for Stephanie. I wanted to promise her that I would always be there for her. I would protect her from every bad thing and person in the world. I wouldn't let her get hurt again. The words built up in the back of my throat like flood waters filling a dam, seconds from overflowing.

"Will you have dinner with me some time?" I asked instead. No reason to scare her off with the intensity of my thoughts.

A light laugh escaped her, but she didn't say no. Instead, she pointed out, "I don't even know your name."

Frank let us know he was awake at that moment by speaking up for me. "His name is Just Carlos, Pumpkin," he said, that same twinkle in his eye as I'd seen earlier, the one that matched his daughter's mischievous expression perfectly.

"Well, it's settled then," she said with another laugh, obviously recognising the hallmark of her father's joke. "Yes, Just Carlos, I'd love to have dinner with you some time."

End