a/n: it's been awhile! I'm in nursing school, so my free time is pretty much nonexistent, but I have missed writing! And I have been poked and prodded along to update by legalliz, so thanks to you, friend, for buzzing in my ear about finishing this.

SPOV

I make my way toward the conference room on the 5th floor of RangeMan, stopping periodically along the way to chat up one of the guys. I'm early, for once in my life, and the meeting doesn't start for another 10 minutes or so. It's a good chance to catch up with my friends.

There is one corner of the 5th floor that I avoid, though. Bobby and I haven't talked about my new 'taken' status yet; in fact, we haven't talked much at all. I still see him on a regular basis – he's as enamored as ever with Phoebe so I see him for a few moments here and there while he's picking her up from me or I from him, but he looks so sad that I can't help but feel guilty. And then I get mad at myself for the guilt, because as Lula keeps reminding me, I've done nothing wrong.

My stern talking-to falls flat when I see the Man Himself round the corner and head toward the conference room. He looks hang-dog depressed and I give up trying to talk myself out of caring and do what I should have done weeks ago – I stride purposefully toward him and take his arm, pulling him into an empty room and shutting the door behind us.

When I turn toward him, he looks skeptical, and I immediately see why. I've pulled us into Ella's supply closet. It smells faintly of lemon-scented dirty mop water and cleanser, and it's almost as tiny as the bathroom in my old apartment. So much for setting the tone for the way I want this conversation to go…

Still, I forge ahead. I'm Stephanie Plum! If I can live in a town where I was made famous by a poorly-written cannoli poem about me, I can have this conversation.

Except I forgot that I had no intention of having this conversation. It's spur-of-the-moment, which has always been my specialty, but now…I'm feeling sort of deflated.

"So. Ah, how's it going," I offer, rather lamely. Bobby sees it too, if the single raised eyebrow is any indicator.

"Fine?" His reply sounds more like a question than a response, so with a sigh I decide to just go for it.

"Listen, I'm worried about you. You're, I don't know…less…just less. You don't smile, you don't talk, you haven't tried to wrangle a dinner invitation out of me so you could hang out with me and Phoebe even when I made sure to mention that I was making sour cherry rice because I know how much you love when she makes that little sour pucker face-" I'm blathering and I know it, but it's like I unstoppered a drain and now the water swirling down is my anxiety manifesting in this outpouring of nonsensical chatter.

Bobby holds up a hand to stop me, and I do stop, grateful that he put the brakes on my rambling. "I didn't ask myself to dinner because I didn't think your boyfriend would like it," he says, his voice low. I can't help it; I flinch. I'd like to think the volume of his voice was soft because he didn't want the guys to find us skulking around amongst the trash bags and vacuum cleaners like a couple of weirdos, but there was no mistaking the pain that was present. I could ignore it, but what good would that do us? I pulled him in here because I don't want that for him.

"We can't do this to each other anymore," I whisper. I reach out and tug on his hand to make him look at me, and I almost wish I hadn't. I remember, with bone-deep clarity, how shredded I felt when I found out he'd left me, knowing I was pregnant. I remember the way Les or Lula would wince sometimes when I met their eyes, and I know the raw look in Bobby's eyes; 'one tortured soul knows another' and all that. I see what this is doing to him and I need to stop it. So, with a fortifying breath, I take the plunge.

"I don't want it to be like this," I choke out, then clear my throat. "I know it's been bad between us since Marta came to see you-" He opens his mouth to protest, to apologize, to plead his case – it doesn't matter, because I wave him off. "Please, let me finish," I plead, and he nods while his eyes search mine. "Since that day two months ago," I offer, and he nods his head ever so slightly, so I breath a sigh and press on. "It feels like it did when you first came back. Like we can't be in the same room together because there's not enough air for the both of us. I hated that feeling then, and I hate it now. I told you once before that I wanted to just move past everything, and I meant it then and I mean it now. I don't like seeing you like this, it's not fair and it's not okay, so can we just please get past the whole thing? I'm sorry I overreacted, you're sorry you slept with the skank with bad highlights, so we can be good again, right?" I try to make my voice sound cheerful and ignore the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me and the tears I can feel stinging my eyes. I'm upset to the point of tears and I can't figure out why, but I can't concentrate on that right now, because right now I just want Bobby to be happy again. I need him to be happy again. I'm clutching his hand, pleading for him to shake off this blue funk and just be Bobby again.

BPOV

I stare at Steph, completely at a loss for words. She thinks I'm unhappy that she's upset with me over Marta? I mean, I am, of course – I hate, absolutely hate that I hurt her again with my chickenshit actions, but that's not the reason I have to force myself out of bed these days. Stephanie being furious with me is a cut, neatly stitched; Stephanie telling me she was giving up on the possibility of a future with me, that she didn't want to try anymore to have our family whole and actually moving on with another man? That is a gaping, mortal wound. That's my lifeblood pouring out in a tidal wave on the ground. That's my happiness, my smile, my peace, gone. I've been hiding in the shadows of my life since she took that chance away, not because I'm an outlaw or a prisoner, but because there, I can live in the memory of what I almost had before I ruined it.

I'm pulled from my musings when I feel Steph squeeze my hand. She looks so earnest that I know I need to afford her what peace I can; to draw this out would be selfish, self-serving, and I don't want to hold her back anymore. And so I smile and I agree, and I thank her for speaking with me. And when she steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck, I bite my cheek until I taste copper to stop myself from weeping at the pity of it all.

Steph takes great care in scoping out the hallway before she opens the door wide enough for her to exit. She throws a sheepish smile over her shoulder and it takes every reserve I have to return it. I feel like a man bound for the guillotine as I follow her into the conference room, my blank face firmly in place. My life, from here on, is going to be the blank face.

We settle around the enormous table, apart from each other. Our detour delayed our early arrival, and now we're just on time and are trying to plant ourselves wherever possible before Ranger comes in. We only have a few moments to glance at each other and share a quick smile – hers shaky, mine artificial – before Ranger strides into the room. The instant quiet that follows in his wake perks me up and I wonder, suddenly and for the first time, what Stephanie is doing at a meeting that Ranger called.

"Gentlemen," he begins, standing at the table head and queuing up the projector, "I've asked all of you, along with Stephanie here today to discuss this man," A face appears on the screen behind him as he hands a stack of papers to his immediate right and left. Everyone takes one and shuffles the shrinking pile down the line, toward my seat as Ranger continues.

"Emil Lipnicki, also known as Ernst Lipnicki, also known as Stan Brown. Emil is on a Federal Bond that has, as of 0900 today, been revoked. His international rap sheet includes blackmail, terrorist threats, kidnapping, rape, and suspected murder. He is currently being sought after for charges that include human trafficking and possession with intent to distribute."

"How the Hell did this guy get bail?!" Hal looks outraged, and we all know why – he's a gentleman at heart, and any crime where a woman is the victim strips away the 'gentle' from the 'giant'.

Ranger looks grim. "His release was lubricated by a well-greased official palm. He is dangerous, he is most likely armed, and he is RangeMan's skip. We have intel that he'll be in Philly tonight to meet a forger for new papers. Emil means to skip town, gentlemen; I mean to stop that from happening. Which is why," he goes on, shifting his focus across the table from me, "I've asked Stephanie here." I feel my gorge rise, because I can see where this is going.

Ranger leans forward and rests his weight on his knuckles, arms stiff against the table top, voice low and serious as he addresses Steph. "I know you don't do distractions anymore, and I fully supported you when you told me you were retiring because you're a mother; they're dangerous and dirty and you can't put yourself in harm's way with Pheobe to consider. But I would be negligent if I didn't at least ask you to reconsider. You're the best I've ever worked with, Stephanie, and I want this guy bad."

I feel panicky when I look at Stephanie and she's giving Ranger a look like she's considering it.

"What about Jeanne Ellen?" I blurt. Everyone shifts focus to me, so I seize my opportunity. "She's been doing distractions since Steph was pregnant, right? Why not use her?"

"Jeanne Ellen is shit," Tanks deep baritone carries over the crowded table, and all eyes shift focus to him, like they're watching the tennis match from Hell. "Our capture rate tanks when she's involved. We're currently sitting at a 65% success rate with her; when Bomber worked them, we were above 98%."

A low murmur of appreciation ripples through the bodies, and I feel my apprehension grow. I can't let this happen; I can't let Steph put herself in danger.

"If we know where he is, why don't we just nab him?" I counter, and Ranger grits his teeth together. He sees where I'm trying to take this, and he isn't having it.

"Because we have one chance with him," he growls, "and Stephanie is our best shot at luring him into a trap. Without her, our chances are 50/50. This guy is good at being bad, and if he so much as smells us coming he'll disappear." Stephanie is chewing on her bottom lip, staring at the sheet of paper Ranger doled out earlier, and I can see her brilliant mind analyzing Emil Lipnicki in only the way she can. She's honing in, ferreting out his weaknesses, and that can only mean she's actually considering it. I'm desperate at this point to keep her safe, so I pull out the big guns.

"We have a daughter!" I blurt, and Steph's eyes fly to mine. Encouraged, I press Ranger. "This isn't just about Steph helping RangeMan catch a skip to get paid, we have Pheobe to think about!"

Ranger stiffens and every instinct in my body is screaming that I stepped over some line. His voice is scary-calm when he speaks.

"You think I'd ask Steph to do this for a check?" he murmurs, his eyes white hot and burning. "Fuck. You. I asked Steph to do this because she's the best I've worked with, and because he was trafficking girls. Little girls, some not much older than Pheobe. I want this guy in RangeMan cuffs tonight because if we lose him it's going to be more blood on my hands. You can take your shitty accusations and –"

"I'll do it." Her voice, soft as it is, still carries over Ranger's deadly low growl. I feel my stomach drop, even though I knew she would agree the second Ranger mentioned that Lipnicki was trafficking kids. When no one makes a noise, Stephanie repeats, "I'll do it. I'll help you catch this asshole. And you guys will all keep me safe while I'm doing it." She's talking to all the men seated in the conference room, but she's looking at me and I can't look away from her. We don't speak, and I don't hear what the voices planning the takedown near me are saying. I look at her, and she looks at me, and what we can't bring ourselves to say with our voices, we say to each other with our eyes.