Human Target Fic: Distraction Part 2 (Constellation Series)
Title: Distraction (Part 2 of 2)
Author: tree979
Summary: Guerrero is concerned that Chance finds their new client a bit too distracting and Winston is driven to distraction by both Guerrero and Ames. Ilsa just tries to keep up! Case fic
Fandom: Human Target
Characters: Chance, Guerrero, Winston, Ames, Ilsa, OC
Rating:T
Genre: General
Series: Fouth fic in The Constellation Series
Permission to archive to WWOMB: Yes
Notes:All the fics in the Constellation Series are adapted from a much longer fic called Comfort. The main difference is that whilst Comfort is a slash fic, the stories in the Constellation Series are not. Mostly they are one-shots that can be read alone, but I will also be adapting the longer case-fics that make up quite a large chunk of Comfort.
I am (re)posting these fics for two main reasons: 1. Not everyone likes slash and 2. Comfort is quite a long fic, so not everyone has the time or inclination to wade through it all!
If you have already read Comfort you'll find a lot of the Constellation Series is basically the same, so feel free to skip it.
Disclaimer. does not belong to me. no money made in this.
Chapter 5
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Outside the gazebo was pandemonium. Winston had managed to commandeer a walkie-talkie and was trying to coordinate the Mcvey's security, herding the guests into the house, away from the gunfire. Their orders had been to protect the Mcveys at all costs and they were resisting their new instructions, but when Winston flashed them a fake FBI ID, they reluctantly fell into line. There was a chance that whoever cut the security feed was still in the house, so Winston sent a couple of security guards to check the room that held the house's surveillance hub. They reported back that the equipment had been trashed, but there was no sign of the intruders.
There was no time to check the entire house, but as Alison was the intended target and the cameras were down, there was no reason to believe that Seymour or his men would linger inside. Chance was right, getting the guests indoors seemed the best option.
"Winston, give me a gun," Ilsa said.
He was busy directing the security staff to organise a search of the garden, so at first he didn't really take in what she was saying.
"A gun, Winston," she persisted. "Give me your gun!"
Her words finally seemed to register, and he turned to answer her. "You don't need a gun, Ilsa. You're safe enough here with me."
"But I'm not staying here, Winston," she said impatiently. "Ames is out there, unarmed! Guerrero is hurt! I'm not leaving them out there on their own!"
"Ames is a tough kid, she'll be fine…"
"This is not negotiable, Mr Winston! Give me your gun!"
Another shot burst of gunfire tore through the evening air provoking further panic and screaming amongst the guests. Ilsa decided to take advantage of Winston being distracted by the reports of a second gunman holed up in a tool shed that were coming through the radio. She crouched down and carefully lifted the leg of Winston's pants. As she had hoped, he was carrying a secondary firearm, and she delicately unsnapped the holster and slide the gun out. Winston was so distracted that he didn't realise what she done until he felt a slight pull at his ankle, but by then it was too late. Ilsa had slipped off her heels and run off into the darkness.
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Ames was trying very hard not to panic. She'd found Guerrero not far from the surveillance van, but he was out cold, and once she'd established that he was still alive and breathing, she didn't know what else to do. The shock of seeing Guerrero looking so lifeless meant that it took her a little while to put together what had happened. Once she had reassured herself that Guerrero was still alive, she checked on the body of the man lying a few feet away. The knife sticking out of his chest made it pretty obvious that he was dead, and the baseball bat nearby explained why Guerrero was unconscious.
Ames could hear bursts of gunfire coming from the direction of the party, so she checked the body for weapons, but he didn't seem to have a gun. She stood up and gave the body a good kick on Guerrero's behalf, but also to make herself feel better. That proved to be a mistake. The impact of her boot against the dead man's ribcage not only made her foot hurt like hell, it also forced more bloody foam from the man's mouth. Ames staggered away from the body and threw up by the side of the road. When she saw that there was blood on her boots she took them off and threw them into the bushes.
Something caught her eye, a small shadow on the road where there shouldn't have been one. She walked over and crouched down: it was Guerrero's gun. She picked it up and it made her feel a little less vulnerable. She went back to where Guerrero was lying and sat down on the asphalt next to him, unsure of what to do next.
"Ames! Have you found Guerrero?"
"Yes! He's by the van, but I can't wake him up!"
"Has he been shot? Is he breathing?"
"Yes, he's breathing. There's a guy with a knife in his chest too! It looks like he went after Guerrero with a baseball bat!"
She waited, hoping that someone would throw her a lifeline, to tell her what to do, but all she could hear was more gunfire and Winston shouting orders to the security staff. Chance and Winston were obviously in it up to their necks, which left her to help Guerrero, but how? Should she call 911? The police were probably on their way anyway, the gunfire can't have gone unnoticed, but the last thing Guerrero would want would be to end up in the hands of the authorities, and he was lying not six feet away from a dead body! Guerrero's prints were bound to be all over the knife, should she wipe it clean, or get rid of it? Or should she try and get Guerrero in the van and get them both out of there? Guerrero's face was bruised and bloody and he must have at least a bad concussion to be knocked out cold; could she even risk moving him?
When she heard Ilsa's voice over the comms link demanding that Winston give her a gun, she could have sobbed with relief, but she was absolutely not going to cry. She's heard the concern in Chance's voice earlier and she wasn't going to distract him further by crying.
"Ames! Are you okay?"
Ilsa seemed to appear out of nowhere and then she was there, holding Ames as she shook with the effort of not letting herself cry. Ames nodded.
Ilsa dropped to her knees and checked Guerrero's pulse and his breathing. She thought about slapping his face to try to bring him round, but it was already such a bruised and bloody mess that she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
"Guerrero? Guerrero, can you hear me?"
There was no response. Ilsa opened her clutch purse, relieved that she'd managed to keep hold of it despite the unfolding chaos of the evening, and pulled out her cell phone to dial 911.
"Are you crazy? Guerrero hates hospitals! And what about the body? He'll go apeshit if the cops turn up!"
"He needs a doctor, Ames! And he's in no position to argue! Let me worry about the police."
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Chapter 6
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Chance heard the exchange between Ilsa and Ames through his earpiece. Ames was right, Guerrero was not likely to appreciate waking up in the back of an ambulance, or worse, in police custody. Chance knew from personal experience that a concussed Guerrero was a potentially lethal Guerrero. He would fight with the ferocity of a wild animal, intent only on escape. Only when he had established that medical attention was an absolute necessity would he begrudgingly seek help, and even then it would be from one of his shady contacts who would ensure there were no records of Guerrero or his injury. Chance had to be there when he woke up. He refused to even consider 'if' he woke up, Guerrero would wake up.
"Chance! The second gunman is down! Repeat: the second gunman is down! I'm on my way to question him. We should get a final number on how many men Seymour had with him!"
"I hear you, Winston," Chance said softly, trying not to give his position away. "Keep your eyes open for Seymour!"
The gazebo was almost empty now, save for a few party guests still cowering under the tables, too scared to move. The last few gunshots had come from a different direction, off to one side and towards the back of the gazebo. Chance had hidden Alison's parents at the back of the tent, assuming that Seymour would come from the direction of the initial gunfire, but now he was doubting that assumption. His priority had been to hide Alison and get her parents off the stage so they weren't such an obvious target, but now he was concerned that they were in harm's way with only Mr Mcvey's small calibre pistol to fight Seymour off.
Keeping low to the ground, Chance broke cover and ran to the corner of the stage. There was a gap of about three feet between the side of the stage and the wall of the gazebo. Chance kept low and pressed himself against the side of the stage so that he wouldn't cast a telltale shadow against the canvas wall beside him, and crept silently towards the rear of the stage. He'd almost reached the corner when there was the crack of a gun firing followed by a scream.
"Alison! Where the fuck are you?" a man whose voice Chance didn't recognise shouted. "I know you're still in here, you stupid whore!"
Chance carefully inched towards the corner of the stage.
"Let my wife go and leave my daughter alone!" Mr Mcvey demanded in a slightly shaky voice.
"Shut the fuck up, old man... Alison!"
Chance heard a slightly muffled whimper, which he took to be coming from Mrs Mcvey. Judging from the acoustics of their voices, Chance gambled on the assumption that Seymour was standing closest to him with Mrs Mcvey held in front of him at gunpoint and Mr Mcvey stood opposite. He carefully took a quick glance around the corner to confirm he was correct: he was.
"Don't come out baby! Stay where you are!"
Shit, Mrs Mcvey had just confirmed that Alison was still inside the gazebo and within earshot. Chance couldn't risk shooting Seymour until Mrs Mcvey was clear. Seymour could fire out of reflex, or Chance's own bullet could pass through him and hit her. He needed a distraction.
"I'm coming out! Please don't hurt my mom!" a small voice said from within the stage.
When Chance heard the sound of the floor panel scraping across the stage, he dove forward and shouted "Get down!". Seymour had turned toward the stage at the sound of Alison's voice, as Chance knew he would, giving him a clear shot, and at the sound of Chance's voice, he pointed the gun away from Mrs Mcvey, towards Chance.
Chance fired off three rounds before Seymour could even aim, and he crumpled to the floor, dead before he even hit the ground.
Chance got to his feet and walked over to Seymour to check his pulse. As soon as he was satisfied that he was dead, he took the gun from his hand and ran out of the gazebo, leaving Alison in the arms of her relieved parents.
He didn't waste a second's thought on the man he'd just killed. The only thing going through his mind was that he had to get to Guerrero before he woke up mad enough to hurt any unsuspecting paramedics in the immediate vicinity.
----------
Chance reached Guerrero just as the EMTs were loading him into an ambulance on a gurney. He was still unconscious and Chance was struck by how small and helpless he looked, especially without his glasses, which he must have lost in the fight. He tucked Seymour's gun into the back of his belt and began undoing the restraints that secured Guerrero to the gurney, shoving the paramedics away as they tried to stop him.
"Sir, you need to let us do our job!"
Chance pulled his own gun and, without looking up, pointed it at the paramedic who had spoken. "No, you need to let me do mine."
The paramedics exchanged a look and one of them reached for his radio, but Ames saw what he was doing and trained Guerrero's gun on him. He froze.
"Enough!" Ilsa said with such an authoritative tone that even Chance stopped pulling at the straps on the gurney and looked at her. "Chance, allow them to load him into the ambulance."
"But…"
"You!" she said, ignoring his protest and pointing to the EMT who'd been driving the ambulance. "Take this man to this address. He is to be released into the care of Dr Clayton Dematteo and no one else. Do you understand me?" She held out a business card with nothing but a San Francisco address and telephone number on it. The medic refused to take it.
"We have to take him to San Francisco General. We're not a taxi service…"
Ilsa realised that this probably wasn't the first time the paramedic had had a gun pulled on him.
"If you take him to San Francisco General, I will be forced to take measures, drastic measures to ensure his safety. Do you really want to be responsible for closing down the only Level One Trauma Centre for the city? There must be no record that you even saw this man. It is a matter of national security."
Ilsa could see the men were wavering as they exchanged a nervous look. She dipped her hand into her purse and retrieved four crisp one hundred dollar bills and added them to the business card she was offering the driver. It seemed to do the trick, and as the driver reached for them, Ilsa took his hand between hers as if they were shaking hands, and pressed the card and the cash into his palm.
"Her Majesty's government thanks you," she said, in a low, deliberate tone. The man's eyes widened slightly and he swallowed nervously. Ilsa nodded and released his hand.
Chance was staring at her, his mouth hanging slightly open with surprise.
"Go," she urged him. "They'll need you when he wakes up. Dr Dematteo has been briefed."
Chance nodded and climbed into the back of the ambulance, still looking slightly shell-shocked.
Ames waited until the ambulance drove away before speaking. "Ilsa! That was awesome!"
"It's the accent," Ilsa said, looking a bit distant. "There's something about a woman with a well-spoken English accent that a certain type of American men seem to be hard-wired to obey. It's almost a Pavlovian response really, they can't help it."
"But you had this all planned!"
"I take my responsibilities as Guerrero's employer very seriously. He refused to take the health insurance that I offered him, so I made alternative arrangements for him, in case of emergencies." Ilsa took out her cell phone and began scrolling through the numbers. When she found the one she needed, she hit the button to place the call. "Dr Dematteo? Yes, I'm fine, but we have a code G. He's arriving in an ambulance. Head injury. ETA ten, maybe fifteen minutes."
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Chapter 7
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Chance refused to let the EMT refasten the straps to keep Guerrero from rolling off the gurney. It meant that he had to crouch down beside him and hold him in place whenever they turned a corner, which was awkward, but still an infinitely better option than dealing with Guerrero's reaction to waking up and finding himself restrained. He begrudgingly allowed the EMT to attach a pulse oximeter to Guerrero's finger, but that's where he drew the line.
He studied Guerrero's face, searching for even the tiniest sign that he was about to regain consciousness. After about five minutes, during which the EMT sat in silence staring at Guerrero as if he were a bomb about to go off, Chance detected the slightest flutter of movement behind Guerrero's eyelids. He took the hand with the pulse oximeter and held it flat against his chest, and leaned in so his lips were almost touching his ear.
"Guerrero. Wake up, buddy," he murmured.
Guerrero's eyelids fluttered a little more noticeably, and the EMT took a penlight from his pocket and was about to check his pupil responses when Chance shoved him back in his seat.
"Not a good idea," Chance told him, before turning his attention back to Guerrero. "Do not freak out, Guerrero. Just open your eyes…"
Guerrero's eyes snapped open and he sat up, gripping his free hand around Chance's throat as if he was about to crush his airway. Chance didn't resist, he just calmly squeezed his other hand to his chest and waited for Guerrero's brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a few seconds, a long uncomfortable few seconds during which Chance could barely breathe, but recognition flashed in Guerrero's eyes and he let his hand fall away from his throat. He looked like he was about to say something, and Chance only just managed to grab a basin and shove it under his chin before he began to vomit.
"It's okay, buddy. I got you. " Chance said, pushing his hair out of his face.
Guerrero threw up a couple more times before they reached their destination, and between each bout of sickness he made it abundantly clear how he felt about hospitals and the medical profession in general.
"Just relax, okay?" Chance said. "You're not going to a hospital, but you need to get checked out. You were unconscious for nearly twenty minutes!"
Guerrero was still a bit too out of it to put up much of a fight, and that worried Chance. The ambulance finally stopped and the doors were thrown open by a professional looking man in his mid forties.
"I am Dr Dematteo, and this I take it is my patient," he said, looking at Guerrero with a wary curiosity. "I will take it from here, gentlemen."
Chance helped Guerrero down out of the ambulance. No one dared to suggest that he use a wheelchair. Chance had been expecting their destination to be an office, or even the doctor's own residence, but he was surprised to discover that they appeared to be in the grounds of a private school. As soon as Chance and Guerrero had vacated the back of the ambulance, it took off at speed. Chance was willing to bet that the EMTs wouldn't tell anyone about their strange patient.
"You must be Mr Chance," the doctor said. "Mrs Pucci speaks most highly of you. Let's get the patient inside, shall we?"
He led them inside a small brightly lit building, which Chance took to be the school's infirmary. The doctor took them through to an examination room and instructed Guerrero to sit down. Satisfied that he was not in a real hospital, and reassured by Chance and the doctor's insistence that there would be no record of his treatment, Guerrero reluctantly let the doctor examine him.
"Pupils equal and reactive," the doctor said shining a penlight in Guerrero's eyes. "That's a good sign."
"No shit," Guerrero grumbled, slapping the doctors hand away.
"Can you tell me your name?" the doctor asked.
"Fuck you," Guerrero muttered half-heartedly.
"Is he normally this belligerent?" the doctor asked Chance, apparently unfazed by Guerrero's behaviour.
"Yes," Chance replied. "If not more so. Trust me, for him, these are normal responses."
The doctor nodded. "What exactly happened? Mrs Pucci only told me it was a head wound."
"Baseball bat," Guerrero said. "And a lucky punch."
"So you remember what happened?"
"It's crystal fucking clear."
"May I?" the doctor was wise enough to ask before gently checking Guerrero's head for lumps and abrasions. "It seems your friend has been extremely lucky, Mr Chance. I'll need to see an x-ray to be sure, but I think after a few days rest he should be fine."
"No x-rays," Guerrero insisted. "I'm not going to a fucking hospital!"
"Not to worry. I have the facilities here to take x-rays."
----------
An hour later Dr Dematteo had examined the x-rays and finished checking Guerrero over.
"Normally I would recommend that you stay under medical supervision for the next twenty four hours so your condition can be properly monitored, but I understand that this will not be possible. However, you should not be alone for the next day or two. Someone will have to keep an eye on you."
"Not a problem, doc, Chance said. "He'll stay with me."
"I'm afraid I cannot offer you any pain relief with an injury of this nature, but if it doesn't improve over the next couple of days, you must return to see me or another physician."
Guerrero glared at the doctor, but didn't reply.
"Thanks doc," Chance said, because Guerrero obviously wasn't going to. "I'll see that he's okay."
"I believe there should be a car waiting for you outside."
Ames was waiting for them outside with the surveillance van. She'd changed back into her own clothes, but her feet were bare and rubbed raw. Chance raised his eyebrows and was about to ask her what had happened to her shoes, when she ran up to them as if she was going to hug Guerrero but thought better of it at the last moment, handing him his glasses instead.
"Is he okay?" she asked Chance as Guerrero wiped his glasses against the corner of his shirt and put them back on. "I mean, I know he's not okay, I can see that, but no lasting damage, right?"
"Doc recons nothing more than a concussion and bruising," Chance said.
"Dude, I'm right here!" Guerrero said sullenly. "I've got a headache but I'm still able to talk y'know."
Ames and Chance exchanged a look. If Guerrero was up to being snarky with them, it was definitely a good sign.
Now that he knew Guerrero was definitely going to be okay, Chance felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle in. Ames offered him the keys to van, but he shook his head.
"You drive. I'm beat."
"Are we going back to the office or…?"
"Guerrero is going to stay with me for a few days."
She nodded and climbed into the driver's seat. Guerrero sat up front and Chance got in the back. He knew Guerrero must be feeling like a passenger in his own life after being carted off in an ambulance against what everyone knew to be his wishes, so he let Guerrero take the front seat without complaint. They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Chance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the front seats and asked what had happened after he left.
"Well, when the cops showed up Winston and Ilsa had to do some pretty fast talking," Ames explained. "But the fact that Seymour's guys killed Alison's protective detail didn't exactly win Seymour and his pals much sympathy. Besides, all the bad guys are dead so it's not like there will be a trial or anything. Winston's pretty certain that the whole thing should be wrapped up pretty soon."
"They're all dead?" Chance asked. "I thought Winston had one guy for questioning."
"Nuh-uh," Ames said shaking her head. "He bled out before the paramedics arrived. He did confirm that there were just three guys plus Seymour though."
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.
"So what happened?" Ames asked. "One minute you're kissing Alison frickin' Mcvey and the next all hell breaks loose!"
Chance gave Ames a quick rundown as to what had happened in the gazebo and how he took Seymour out.
"So you got to be the hero again then," Ames said, with a strained little smile. Chance could see that she was struggling to keep the conversation light and easy, but there was an underlying tension to her body language that screamed that she was far from okay.
"Yeah, I guess," Chance shrugged. "It is kinda in my job description."
"So are you going to see Alison again?" she asked playfully.
"No, I don't think so. She's not really my type."
"You should so call her!" Ames said. "She was like, all over you on the dance floor! Not to mention that she stuck her tongue down your…"
"Just, shut the fuck up!" Guerrero snapped. "I get it! Chance saved the day! Everything is just hunky-fucking-dory! No big deal!"
Ames went very pale, and her mouth hardened into a thin line as she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She took a hard right and slammed on the breaks, bringing the van to a screeching halt in a side street.
"Ames, what the…" Guerrero started to ask.
"IT IS A BIG DEAL!" she screamed at him. "It's a big fucking deal because when I saw you one the ground, not moving I thought you were fucking DEAD, you asshole!" The two men sat in shocked silence for a moment, and Ames rested her head on the steering wheel taking deep shuddering breaths as she tried to fight the tears that threatened to start falling.
"Well, I'm not," Guerrero said.
Ames sat back up, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah, I can see that now, you douche."
"There's no need to get all pre-menstrual about it, jeez," Guerrero muttered.
"Fuck you," Ames replied, throwing the van into reverse and getting them back on the road back to the office.
"You might wanna consider waterproof make-up if you're gonna make a habit out of bawling your eyes out. You're putting Chris Crocker's eyeliner to shame right now, dude."
Chance smiled as tension in the van lifted as Ames and Guerrero bickered with each other all the way back to the office.
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Chapter 8
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When they got back to the office, Guerrero slunk upstairs to Chance's quarters without saying a word.
"A thank you would be nice!" Ames called after him.
"He'll never show it, but he does care," Chance said.
"Yeah, well that was so obvious, what with all the bitching and name calling on the way home," Ames grumbled.
"Isn't that kind of normal for you guys, though?" Chance asked. "You wind him up, and he insults you back?"
"Yeah, I guess," Ames shrugged. "But after what happened…"
"You ever think that this is his way of showing you that everything is fine? That there's nothing to worry about?"
Ames thought about that for a moment. "You guys are so emotionally retarded."
Chance gave her one of his 'what can you do?' shrugs.
"I'm going home," Ames said. "And I'm taking tomorrow off!"
Chance called Winston, to check in and let him know that Guerrero was okay.
"Why am I not surprised?" Winston said. "That man has more lives than a cat!"
He considered calling Ilsa too, but Winston said that he'd already taken her home and she'd spoken to Dr Dematteo already. Chance sighed as he hung up the call. It seemed that there was nothing left for him to do but take care of Guerrero.
He decided to take Guerrero a cup of tea. He'd probably need to re-hydrate after being sick so many times, and besides, taking him something would give him some kind of purpose. Chance was physically and emotionally drained, so maybe observing the social niceties of offering a guest a drink would do something to force some kind of normality onto the situation. Chance doubted it, after all this was Guerrero he was dealing with, but it couldn't hurt to try.
Chance took the tea upstairs, along with a box of crackers in case Guerrero felt up to eating something, but rather than heading for the bedroom, Guerrero had stretched out on the couch in front of a wildlife documentary on the TV. He looked up when Chance walked in and accepted the tea and crackers without a word. Chance shoved Guerrero's legs out of the way and sat down next to him on the couch.
"You were a little hard on Ames," Chance said, when it became apparent that Guerrero was content to sit in silence. "You really scared her tonight."
"Serves her right for yelling at me," Guerrero said, apparently unaware of how juvenile that made him sound. "In case you hadn't worked this out, a baseball bat to the head tends to leave you with a bit of a headache."
"You kinda scared me too," Chance said. Guerrero turned to look at him, but Chance's gaze was still fixed on the images on the TV of penguins swimming for their lives as they were chased by orcas.
"Ames is a drama queen," Guerrero grumbled, staring at the TV again.
"It doesn't mean you should take it out on her, though. Why are you so angry? So the guy with the baseball bat got the jump on you, so what? Shit happens!"
"Yeah, well that particular shit shouldn't have happened!" Guerrero scowled. Chance glanced over at him and it suddenly struck him just how angry Guerrero was, and that it wasn't really directed at Ames. She'd just had the misfortune of being nearby and annoying at the wrong moment. The person Guerrero was really angry with was himself.
"What really happened, Guerrero?" Chance asked. "Why did that guy get the jump on you?"
Guerrero ignored him. Chance waited, but Guerrero seemed to consider the subject closed. He sat there for a while longer, watching him drink his tea, before turning his gaze back onto the TV, trying to figure out why he was so pissed. Guerrero was usually fairly stoic about getting injured. In their line of work getting hurt from time to time was part of the job, but he seemed to be blaming himself for getting knocked unconscious, and that was very unusual. Chance considered that maybe he was annoyed because he'd been taken out by a guy with a baseball bat when he was armed with a gun, but he ruled that out pretty quickly. They both knew from experience that superior fire-power was no guarantee of success. So what was it that was bothering him?
Chance thought over the evenings events, searching for a clue that would explain Guerrero's behaviour. Guerrero had seemed fine when Chance had dinner with Alison, he'd even recommended the lamb, and he'd been right, it was very good. There had been a small problem with the comms being too loud that Guerrero had blamed on Winston, but Chance put that down to Guerrero's ongoing mission to drive Winston crazy. When he'd been dancing with Alison at the party, Guerrero had actually encouraged him to ask her out, but Chance had caught the sarcastic edge to his voice that clearly signalled to him that Guerrero did not approve of her.
What happened after that? Alison dragged him onto the stage, the cameras went down, Guerrero went to check on them, getting attacked as he left the van and Alison had kissed him in front of the baying crowd. He thought about the sequence of events for a few moments before he realised that the order was all wrong. Guerrero had begun cursing as Alison was kissing him, and it had been immediately after the kiss that he'd said the cameras had gone down. So the last thing Guerrero had seen on the monitors before they died, and he ran head first into a guy with a baseball bat, had been Alison kissing him…
Slowly realisation began to dawn. Guerrero had only started really yelling at Ames when she persisted in asking Chance about seeing Alison again…
Could it really be that simple? Was Guerrero worried about him getting involved with Alison? If he'd been distracted by seeing them kiss on the monitor, it could explain why Guerrero was so annoyed. If he'd been distracted by idle speculation, letting his feelings override his keen sense of self-preservation like that would definitely make him angry with himself.
To be fair, Chance's love life had been a thorn in both their sides. Guerrero had had to deal with the fall-out from Chance's relationship with Maria no less than three times, and Chance was well aware that the tension between himself and Ilsa was something that Guerrero could happily live with never having to hear about again. And then there was Katherine Walters, the woman who was responsible for them nearly killing each other.
Chance turned to Guerrero, ready to challenge him with his theory, but Guerrero had nodded off. Chance sighed, his questions would have to wait. Between the concussion and the exhaustion, Guerrero was unlikely to be receptive to the idea of talking about Chance's love-life.
Chance fetched some clean sweatpants and a t-shirt from his bedroom, and dumped them on Guerrero's lap. Guerrero groaned and opened his eyes.
"Dude, I was sleeping.." he protested.
"Yeah, well you're not sleeping on the couch tonight," Chance said firmly. "Put those on and get to bed."
"I'm fine on the couch."
"Bed, Guerrero. You're injured, and sleeping on the couch really isn't going to do you any favours."
Guerrero still refused to move.
Chance sighed. "I'm way too tired to argue about this right now. I'm going to take a shower, and if you're still on the couch when I'm done, I will fucking carry you to bed if I have to!"
Guerrero frowned, but the threat seemed to do the trick. He dragged himself to his feet and pushed past Chance, heading for the bedroom.
Chance showered quickly but thoroughly. He didn't want to leave Guerrero on his own for any length of time in case he had any bright ideas about driving himself home with a concussion. Chance was glad to wash away the lingering scent of Alison's cloying perfume from his skin. He needed to scrub away every last trace of the Matthew King persona so he could feel like himself again.
He towelled himself off, slipped on an old pair of sweat pants and walked through to his bedroom to check on Guerrero. He was already fast asleep and Chance simply didn't have the mental energy to give his theory any more thought. He flopped into the armchair in the corner of the room and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
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Chapter 9
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Chance work up with a serious crick in his neck, wondering why he'd fallen asleep in the armchair when he had a perfectly comfortable bed at his disposal. He groaned, digging his fingers into the knotted muscles of his shoulders for a moment before he remembered that Guerrero was supposed to be asleep on the bed. It was empty.
He swore colourfully and at length as he threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, grabbing a pair of sneakers as he headed out in search of Guerrero. The kitchen was empty, but there was an empty mug that was still slightly warm to the touch, which meant that he hadn't missed Guerrero by much.
He sprinted down the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, and as he ran into the garage he spotted Guerrero opening his driver side car door.
"Hey!" Chance called out as he jogged over to him. "You're not supposed to be driving yet! The doc said you need to be watched for the next day or two. Keep an eye out for complications or whatever."
"Which is one of the reasons I don't usually ask anyone's opinion over something as trivial as a bump on the head, dude! I'm fine. Nothing a couple of asprin won't fix. Quit fussing!"
"You were out cold for like twenty minutes, Guerrero. Plus you chucked your guts up repeatedly. We both know those are signs of a nasty concussion, so why don't we just skip the argument and I'll drive you wherever you have to go, okay?"
Chance guessed that he was still feeling a lot crappier than he let on because he handed him the car keys without further protest.
"So where are we going?" Chance asked once the were both seated in the car.
"My apartment in Northbeach," Guerrero replied, removing his glasses and rubbing at his temples in a way that suggested Chance may have been right about just how rough he was still feeling.
Chance nodded. He knew Guerrero had a number of properties scattered around the city, but the one in Northbeach was the only one he'd ever visited before. He reasoned that Guerrero felt that he wasn't giving much away by having him drive him there. Guerrero glared at him when he insisted on following him up to the apartment whilst he grabbed a change of clothes and a few essentials, suspecting that the reason had more to do with yanking his chain than any real concern he was about to keel over. Actually Chance was more concerned that he might try and slip off on his own, but he played along with the idea that he was just trying to wind him up by grinning and making suggestions about how to make the place more handicap-friendly.
They stopped off at a sandwich shop on the way back to the office. Chance knew that, contrary to popular opinion, it was food that soothed the savage beast, not music. Guerrero tucked into his sandwich straight away, but Chance was going to have to wait. There was no way he could drive and eat at the same time, the sandwich he'd ordered was definitely a two-hander. So they sat in silence as Guerrero demolished a sandwich big enough to comfortably feed a family of four, and Chance was reassured that, despite the recent head trauma, there was nothing wrong with Guerrero's appetite.
"So, you ever going to tell me why you felt the need to run head first into a baseball bat or not?" Chance asked.
Guerrero grunted, but didn't reply.
"Just so you know, Alison isn't my type. Also I had everything under control so there was no need for you to worry."
"Yeah, well I've heard that one before. You didn't exactly seem focused on the job in hand."
"Okay, I may have been momentarily distracted..."
"And that always ends so well, doesn't it? I mean, you've never let a pretty face and a smokin' body distract you before, right?"
Chance didn't reply as memories of burnt cookies and past mistakes leapt unbidden into his mind. Alison Mcvey was a spoiled little rich girl who would never, could never affect him the way Katherine Walters had, but in the light of the mistakes he'd made with Maria and Ilsa, maybe Guerrero was justified in his concerns.
"Like I said, Alison isn't my type. Just do me a favour and look both ways next time."
The atmosphere between them was still tense when they walked out of the elevator to find Winston and Ilsa were there talking to Alison Mcvey.
"Speak of the devil," Winston said.
"Mr Chance, Alison just stopped by to thank you for your assistance at the party last night," Ilsa said.
"I hope she's here to settle her bill too," Guerrero muttered, getting a sharp look from Ilsa.
"Don't mind him," Winston smiled, trying to smooth things over. "He's concussed."
"And whose fault is that?" Guerrero grumbled, pushing past them to get to the kitchen.
There was an awkward pause.
"Mr Chance," Alison said. "I was hoping that I might take you to lunch, as a thank you for all you've done for me."
"I've actually got plans for lunch," Chance said, holding up the bag containing his sandwich.
"Oh, well… Perhaps dinner then?" she persisted.
"Actually Alison, my colleague was quite badly hurt by one of your ex-husband's friends. He needs someone to keep an eye on him and it wouldn't be right for me to hit the town when he's still recuperating."
"I can keep I eye on Guerrero," Winston said, he's eyes wide with disbelief that Chance would seriously consider passing up the opportunity to have dinner again with the attractive actress.
"No dude, you really can't," Guerrero's voice called out from the kitchen.
"I'm sure we could make alternative arrangements for someone to keep an eye on Mr Guerrero so that you could enjoy a well deserved night out…" Ilsa said, ignoring Guerrero's objection.
"That won't be necessary, Ilsa. Thank you for the invitation, Alison," Chance said smiling politely, "but I think after last night's excitement, I'll be staying home for the foreseeable future."
Alison blushed as it finally sank in that she was being given the brush-off. Chance was willing to bet that it wasn't something she was used to dealing with, at least not from the receiving end.
"Well, I'm glad we were able to help you, Alison," Ilsa said, a bit too brightly. "I know it wasn't exactly an ideal outcome…"
"Huh," Chance grunted.
Ilsa gave him an odd look.
"Six dead - including two cops - and one of our team injured," Chance said. "I think that's a hell of a long way from ideal."
"Yes, well under the circumstances…" Ilsa said, before Chance interrupted her again.
"We would have been working under much better circumstances if Alison had informed us beforehand that her ex-husband had a gang of cronies who were likely to back him up." The colour drained from Alison's face as Chance spoke, leaving her looking grey and sullen. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't feel like celebrating."
Chance walked out to the kitchen before Ilsa could stop gaping at his rudeness. Winston was a little quicker off the mark.
"Chance takes the loss of life extremely seriously, Miss Mcvey…"
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 10: Epilogue
----------
Guerrero was sipping a cup of tea when Chance walked into the kitchen and pulled up a chair.
"'Staying home for the foreseeable future'? Dude, that was harsh." Guerrero said. "I like it."
Chance flashed him a quick smile, before unwrapping his sandwich and getting stuck in. He had his mouth conveniently full when Ilsa stormed in a few minutes later, followed by Winston.
"Where the hell do you get off, talking to Alison like that? If you didn't want to have dinner with the poor girl, you only had to say!"
Chance pointed to his mouth, to indicate that he couldn't speak with a mouthful of food, whilst Guerrero sniggered into his mug of tea.
"Ilsa," Winston said in a soothing tone. "Chance could have been a bit more diplomatic but…"
"'A bit more diplomatic'! Really? You think so?"
"But, he has a point," Winston continued. "Six people died last night, and Alison turns up today, all sweetness and light, expecting to get a date? It's a little insensitive, don't you think? Especially as she used to be married to one of the men that died. I know she's your friend, but doesn't that strike you as a little bit callous?"
"Chance ought to sue her for sexual harassment in the work place," Guerrero added. "First she publicly mauls Chance when he's on the job, then she turns up here for a booty call? Not cool."
Chance almost choked on his sandwich.
Ilsa sighed and her indignation faded away, leaving her looking rather tired. "I suppose you're right. She is rather self-centred. I may have over-stated the case somewhat when I referred to her as a friend. I've met her on numerous occasions at various benefits, but I never really got to know her very well as a person. I shouldn't have asked you to take the case at such short notice, with such little information."
" Ah, don't worry about it. We've handled worse cases than that," Winston said reassuringly. "No real harm done."
"Seriously, dude? I get knocked out cold for twenty minutes and get dragged off in an ambulance to go see a freakin' doctor and that's 'no harm done'?" Guerrero said.
"Yeah, well you're still here and bitching about it, aren't you?" Winston said, deliberately baiting him.
Chance had swallowed his mouthful of sandwich, and he decided now was probably a good time to join the conversation before Winston and Guerrero really started arguing in earnest.
"Ilsa, you did the right thing in bringing us the case," he said. "If we hadn't been there, things could have been a lot worse."
"Thank you, Chance," she said. "I really needed to hear that. I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, it was uncalled for. I just hardly slept last night and… Oh Guerrero! I haven't even asked you how you're feeling! I'm so sorry!"
"I'm fine, Ilsa. Don't sweat it. I'll crash here for a couple of nights, just to be on the safe side, but I'm okay."
Ilsa nodded, but Winston frowned. "Did you just say 'to be on the safe side'? Don't tell me that a concussion finally knocked some common sense into that thick skull of yours!"
"It's no big deal," Guerrero shrugged. "I figured I'd have a movie marathon with Chance. Maybe check out the new releases on Netflix."
"Oh no! Not again! If you think you're going to charge more rentals to my account, I'll…"
"You'll what?" Guerrero deadpanned. "Change your password to the name of a childhood pet? Favourite colour? Name of the street where you grew up?"
Ilsa sighed heavily, rubbing at her temples as if she had a headache coming on. "I think I really should go home and catch up on my sleep."
Chance smiled and took another bite of his sandwich. It was good to be back to business as usual.
THE END
Author: tree979
Summary: Guerrero is concerned that Chance finds their new client a bit too distracting and Winston is driven to distraction by both Guerrero and Ames. Ilsa just tries to keep up! Case fic
Fandom: Human Target
Characters: Chance, Guerrero, Winston, Ames, Ilsa, OC
Rating:T
Genre: General
Series: Fouth fic in The Constellation Series
Permission to archive to WWOMB: Yes
Notes:All the fics in the Constellation Series are adapted from a much longer fic called Comfort. The main difference is that whilst Comfort is a slash fic, the stories in the Constellation Series are not. Mostly they are one-shots that can be read alone, but I will also be adapting the longer case-fics that make up quite a large chunk of Comfort.
I am (re)posting these fics for two main reasons: 1. Not everyone likes slash and 2. Comfort is quite a long fic, so not everyone has the time or inclination to wade through it all!
If you have already read Comfort you'll find a lot of the Constellation Series is basically the same, so feel free to skip it.
Disclaimer. does not belong to me. no money made in this.
Chapter 5
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Outside the gazebo was pandemonium. Winston had managed to commandeer a walkie-talkie and was trying to coordinate the Mcvey's security, herding the guests into the house, away from the gunfire. Their orders had been to protect the Mcveys at all costs and they were resisting their new instructions, but when Winston flashed them a fake FBI ID, they reluctantly fell into line. There was a chance that whoever cut the security feed was still in the house, so Winston sent a couple of security guards to check the room that held the house's surveillance hub. They reported back that the equipment had been trashed, but there was no sign of the intruders.
There was no time to check the entire house, but as Alison was the intended target and the cameras were down, there was no reason to believe that Seymour or his men would linger inside. Chance was right, getting the guests indoors seemed the best option.
"Winston, give me a gun," Ilsa said.
He was busy directing the security staff to organise a search of the garden, so at first he didn't really take in what she was saying.
"A gun, Winston," she persisted. "Give me your gun!"
Her words finally seemed to register, and he turned to answer her. "You don't need a gun, Ilsa. You're safe enough here with me."
"But I'm not staying here, Winston," she said impatiently. "Ames is out there, unarmed! Guerrero is hurt! I'm not leaving them out there on their own!"
"Ames is a tough kid, she'll be fine…"
"This is not negotiable, Mr Winston! Give me your gun!"
Another shot burst of gunfire tore through the evening air provoking further panic and screaming amongst the guests. Ilsa decided to take advantage of Winston being distracted by the reports of a second gunman holed up in a tool shed that were coming through the radio. She crouched down and carefully lifted the leg of Winston's pants. As she had hoped, he was carrying a secondary firearm, and she delicately unsnapped the holster and slide the gun out. Winston was so distracted that he didn't realise what she done until he felt a slight pull at his ankle, but by then it was too late. Ilsa had slipped off her heels and run off into the darkness.
----------
Ames was trying very hard not to panic. She'd found Guerrero not far from the surveillance van, but he was out cold, and once she'd established that he was still alive and breathing, she didn't know what else to do. The shock of seeing Guerrero looking so lifeless meant that it took her a little while to put together what had happened. Once she had reassured herself that Guerrero was still alive, she checked on the body of the man lying a few feet away. The knife sticking out of his chest made it pretty obvious that he was dead, and the baseball bat nearby explained why Guerrero was unconscious.
Ames could hear bursts of gunfire coming from the direction of the party, so she checked the body for weapons, but he didn't seem to have a gun. She stood up and gave the body a good kick on Guerrero's behalf, but also to make herself feel better. That proved to be a mistake. The impact of her boot against the dead man's ribcage not only made her foot hurt like hell, it also forced more bloody foam from the man's mouth. Ames staggered away from the body and threw up by the side of the road. When she saw that there was blood on her boots she took them off and threw them into the bushes.
Something caught her eye, a small shadow on the road where there shouldn't have been one. She walked over and crouched down: it was Guerrero's gun. She picked it up and it made her feel a little less vulnerable. She went back to where Guerrero was lying and sat down on the asphalt next to him, unsure of what to do next.
"Ames! Have you found Guerrero?"
"Yes! He's by the van, but I can't wake him up!"
"Has he been shot? Is he breathing?"
"Yes, he's breathing. There's a guy with a knife in his chest too! It looks like he went after Guerrero with a baseball bat!"
She waited, hoping that someone would throw her a lifeline, to tell her what to do, but all she could hear was more gunfire and Winston shouting orders to the security staff. Chance and Winston were obviously in it up to their necks, which left her to help Guerrero, but how? Should she call 911? The police were probably on their way anyway, the gunfire can't have gone unnoticed, but the last thing Guerrero would want would be to end up in the hands of the authorities, and he was lying not six feet away from a dead body! Guerrero's prints were bound to be all over the knife, should she wipe it clean, or get rid of it? Or should she try and get Guerrero in the van and get them both out of there? Guerrero's face was bruised and bloody and he must have at least a bad concussion to be knocked out cold; could she even risk moving him?
When she heard Ilsa's voice over the comms link demanding that Winston give her a gun, she could have sobbed with relief, but she was absolutely not going to cry. She's heard the concern in Chance's voice earlier and she wasn't going to distract him further by crying.
"Ames! Are you okay?"
Ilsa seemed to appear out of nowhere and then she was there, holding Ames as she shook with the effort of not letting herself cry. Ames nodded.
Ilsa dropped to her knees and checked Guerrero's pulse and his breathing. She thought about slapping his face to try to bring him round, but it was already such a bruised and bloody mess that she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
"Guerrero? Guerrero, can you hear me?"
There was no response. Ilsa opened her clutch purse, relieved that she'd managed to keep hold of it despite the unfolding chaos of the evening, and pulled out her cell phone to dial 911.
"Are you crazy? Guerrero hates hospitals! And what about the body? He'll go apeshit if the cops turn up!"
"He needs a doctor, Ames! And he's in no position to argue! Let me worry about the police."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 6
----------
Chance heard the exchange between Ilsa and Ames through his earpiece. Ames was right, Guerrero was not likely to appreciate waking up in the back of an ambulance, or worse, in police custody. Chance knew from personal experience that a concussed Guerrero was a potentially lethal Guerrero. He would fight with the ferocity of a wild animal, intent only on escape. Only when he had established that medical attention was an absolute necessity would he begrudgingly seek help, and even then it would be from one of his shady contacts who would ensure there were no records of Guerrero or his injury. Chance had to be there when he woke up. He refused to even consider 'if' he woke up, Guerrero would wake up.
"Chance! The second gunman is down! Repeat: the second gunman is down! I'm on my way to question him. We should get a final number on how many men Seymour had with him!"
"I hear you, Winston," Chance said softly, trying not to give his position away. "Keep your eyes open for Seymour!"
The gazebo was almost empty now, save for a few party guests still cowering under the tables, too scared to move. The last few gunshots had come from a different direction, off to one side and towards the back of the gazebo. Chance had hidden Alison's parents at the back of the tent, assuming that Seymour would come from the direction of the initial gunfire, but now he was doubting that assumption. His priority had been to hide Alison and get her parents off the stage so they weren't such an obvious target, but now he was concerned that they were in harm's way with only Mr Mcvey's small calibre pistol to fight Seymour off.
Keeping low to the ground, Chance broke cover and ran to the corner of the stage. There was a gap of about three feet between the side of the stage and the wall of the gazebo. Chance kept low and pressed himself against the side of the stage so that he wouldn't cast a telltale shadow against the canvas wall beside him, and crept silently towards the rear of the stage. He'd almost reached the corner when there was the crack of a gun firing followed by a scream.
"Alison! Where the fuck are you?" a man whose voice Chance didn't recognise shouted. "I know you're still in here, you stupid whore!"
Chance carefully inched towards the corner of the stage.
"Let my wife go and leave my daughter alone!" Mr Mcvey demanded in a slightly shaky voice.
"Shut the fuck up, old man... Alison!"
Chance heard a slightly muffled whimper, which he took to be coming from Mrs Mcvey. Judging from the acoustics of their voices, Chance gambled on the assumption that Seymour was standing closest to him with Mrs Mcvey held in front of him at gunpoint and Mr Mcvey stood opposite. He carefully took a quick glance around the corner to confirm he was correct: he was.
"Don't come out baby! Stay where you are!"
Shit, Mrs Mcvey had just confirmed that Alison was still inside the gazebo and within earshot. Chance couldn't risk shooting Seymour until Mrs Mcvey was clear. Seymour could fire out of reflex, or Chance's own bullet could pass through him and hit her. He needed a distraction.
"I'm coming out! Please don't hurt my mom!" a small voice said from within the stage.
When Chance heard the sound of the floor panel scraping across the stage, he dove forward and shouted "Get down!". Seymour had turned toward the stage at the sound of Alison's voice, as Chance knew he would, giving him a clear shot, and at the sound of Chance's voice, he pointed the gun away from Mrs Mcvey, towards Chance.
Chance fired off three rounds before Seymour could even aim, and he crumpled to the floor, dead before he even hit the ground.
Chance got to his feet and walked over to Seymour to check his pulse. As soon as he was satisfied that he was dead, he took the gun from his hand and ran out of the gazebo, leaving Alison in the arms of her relieved parents.
He didn't waste a second's thought on the man he'd just killed. The only thing going through his mind was that he had to get to Guerrero before he woke up mad enough to hurt any unsuspecting paramedics in the immediate vicinity.
----------
Chance reached Guerrero just as the EMTs were loading him into an ambulance on a gurney. He was still unconscious and Chance was struck by how small and helpless he looked, especially without his glasses, which he must have lost in the fight. He tucked Seymour's gun into the back of his belt and began undoing the restraints that secured Guerrero to the gurney, shoving the paramedics away as they tried to stop him.
"Sir, you need to let us do our job!"
Chance pulled his own gun and, without looking up, pointed it at the paramedic who had spoken. "No, you need to let me do mine."
The paramedics exchanged a look and one of them reached for his radio, but Ames saw what he was doing and trained Guerrero's gun on him. He froze.
"Enough!" Ilsa said with such an authoritative tone that even Chance stopped pulling at the straps on the gurney and looked at her. "Chance, allow them to load him into the ambulance."
"But…"
"You!" she said, ignoring his protest and pointing to the EMT who'd been driving the ambulance. "Take this man to this address. He is to be released into the care of Dr Clayton Dematteo and no one else. Do you understand me?" She held out a business card with nothing but a San Francisco address and telephone number on it. The medic refused to take it.
"We have to take him to San Francisco General. We're not a taxi service…"
Ilsa realised that this probably wasn't the first time the paramedic had had a gun pulled on him.
"If you take him to San Francisco General, I will be forced to take measures, drastic measures to ensure his safety. Do you really want to be responsible for closing down the only Level One Trauma Centre for the city? There must be no record that you even saw this man. It is a matter of national security."
Ilsa could see the men were wavering as they exchanged a nervous look. She dipped her hand into her purse and retrieved four crisp one hundred dollar bills and added them to the business card she was offering the driver. It seemed to do the trick, and as the driver reached for them, Ilsa took his hand between hers as if they were shaking hands, and pressed the card and the cash into his palm.
"Her Majesty's government thanks you," she said, in a low, deliberate tone. The man's eyes widened slightly and he swallowed nervously. Ilsa nodded and released his hand.
Chance was staring at her, his mouth hanging slightly open with surprise.
"Go," she urged him. "They'll need you when he wakes up. Dr Dematteo has been briefed."
Chance nodded and climbed into the back of the ambulance, still looking slightly shell-shocked.
Ames waited until the ambulance drove away before speaking. "Ilsa! That was awesome!"
"It's the accent," Ilsa said, looking a bit distant. "There's something about a woman with a well-spoken English accent that a certain type of American men seem to be hard-wired to obey. It's almost a Pavlovian response really, they can't help it."
"But you had this all planned!"
"I take my responsibilities as Guerrero's employer very seriously. He refused to take the health insurance that I offered him, so I made alternative arrangements for him, in case of emergencies." Ilsa took out her cell phone and began scrolling through the numbers. When she found the one she needed, she hit the button to place the call. "Dr Dematteo? Yes, I'm fine, but we have a code G. He's arriving in an ambulance. Head injury. ETA ten, maybe fifteen minutes."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 7
----------
Chance refused to let the EMT refasten the straps to keep Guerrero from rolling off the gurney. It meant that he had to crouch down beside him and hold him in place whenever they turned a corner, which was awkward, but still an infinitely better option than dealing with Guerrero's reaction to waking up and finding himself restrained. He begrudgingly allowed the EMT to attach a pulse oximeter to Guerrero's finger, but that's where he drew the line.
He studied Guerrero's face, searching for even the tiniest sign that he was about to regain consciousness. After about five minutes, during which the EMT sat in silence staring at Guerrero as if he were a bomb about to go off, Chance detected the slightest flutter of movement behind Guerrero's eyelids. He took the hand with the pulse oximeter and held it flat against his chest, and leaned in so his lips were almost touching his ear.
"Guerrero. Wake up, buddy," he murmured.
Guerrero's eyelids fluttered a little more noticeably, and the EMT took a penlight from his pocket and was about to check his pupil responses when Chance shoved him back in his seat.
"Not a good idea," Chance told him, before turning his attention back to Guerrero. "Do not freak out, Guerrero. Just open your eyes…"
Guerrero's eyes snapped open and he sat up, gripping his free hand around Chance's throat as if he was about to crush his airway. Chance didn't resist, he just calmly squeezed his other hand to his chest and waited for Guerrero's brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a few seconds, a long uncomfortable few seconds during which Chance could barely breathe, but recognition flashed in Guerrero's eyes and he let his hand fall away from his throat. He looked like he was about to say something, and Chance only just managed to grab a basin and shove it under his chin before he began to vomit.
"It's okay, buddy. I got you. " Chance said, pushing his hair out of his face.
Guerrero threw up a couple more times before they reached their destination, and between each bout of sickness he made it abundantly clear how he felt about hospitals and the medical profession in general.
"Just relax, okay?" Chance said. "You're not going to a hospital, but you need to get checked out. You were unconscious for nearly twenty minutes!"
Guerrero was still a bit too out of it to put up much of a fight, and that worried Chance. The ambulance finally stopped and the doors were thrown open by a professional looking man in his mid forties.
"I am Dr Dematteo, and this I take it is my patient," he said, looking at Guerrero with a wary curiosity. "I will take it from here, gentlemen."
Chance helped Guerrero down out of the ambulance. No one dared to suggest that he use a wheelchair. Chance had been expecting their destination to be an office, or even the doctor's own residence, but he was surprised to discover that they appeared to be in the grounds of a private school. As soon as Chance and Guerrero had vacated the back of the ambulance, it took off at speed. Chance was willing to bet that the EMTs wouldn't tell anyone about their strange patient.
"You must be Mr Chance," the doctor said. "Mrs Pucci speaks most highly of you. Let's get the patient inside, shall we?"
He led them inside a small brightly lit building, which Chance took to be the school's infirmary. The doctor took them through to an examination room and instructed Guerrero to sit down. Satisfied that he was not in a real hospital, and reassured by Chance and the doctor's insistence that there would be no record of his treatment, Guerrero reluctantly let the doctor examine him.
"Pupils equal and reactive," the doctor said shining a penlight in Guerrero's eyes. "That's a good sign."
"No shit," Guerrero grumbled, slapping the doctors hand away.
"Can you tell me your name?" the doctor asked.
"Fuck you," Guerrero muttered half-heartedly.
"Is he normally this belligerent?" the doctor asked Chance, apparently unfazed by Guerrero's behaviour.
"Yes," Chance replied. "If not more so. Trust me, for him, these are normal responses."
The doctor nodded. "What exactly happened? Mrs Pucci only told me it was a head wound."
"Baseball bat," Guerrero said. "And a lucky punch."
"So you remember what happened?"
"It's crystal fucking clear."
"May I?" the doctor was wise enough to ask before gently checking Guerrero's head for lumps and abrasions. "It seems your friend has been extremely lucky, Mr Chance. I'll need to see an x-ray to be sure, but I think after a few days rest he should be fine."
"No x-rays," Guerrero insisted. "I'm not going to a fucking hospital!"
"Not to worry. I have the facilities here to take x-rays."
----------
An hour later Dr Dematteo had examined the x-rays and finished checking Guerrero over.
"Normally I would recommend that you stay under medical supervision for the next twenty four hours so your condition can be properly monitored, but I understand that this will not be possible. However, you should not be alone for the next day or two. Someone will have to keep an eye on you."
"Not a problem, doc, Chance said. "He'll stay with me."
"I'm afraid I cannot offer you any pain relief with an injury of this nature, but if it doesn't improve over the next couple of days, you must return to see me or another physician."
Guerrero glared at the doctor, but didn't reply.
"Thanks doc," Chance said, because Guerrero obviously wasn't going to. "I'll see that he's okay."
"I believe there should be a car waiting for you outside."
Ames was waiting for them outside with the surveillance van. She'd changed back into her own clothes, but her feet were bare and rubbed raw. Chance raised his eyebrows and was about to ask her what had happened to her shoes, when she ran up to them as if she was going to hug Guerrero but thought better of it at the last moment, handing him his glasses instead.
"Is he okay?" she asked Chance as Guerrero wiped his glasses against the corner of his shirt and put them back on. "I mean, I know he's not okay, I can see that, but no lasting damage, right?"
"Doc recons nothing more than a concussion and bruising," Chance said.
"Dude, I'm right here!" Guerrero said sullenly. "I've got a headache but I'm still able to talk y'know."
Ames and Chance exchanged a look. If Guerrero was up to being snarky with them, it was definitely a good sign.
Now that he knew Guerrero was definitely going to be okay, Chance felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle in. Ames offered him the keys to van, but he shook his head.
"You drive. I'm beat."
"Are we going back to the office or…?"
"Guerrero is going to stay with me for a few days."
She nodded and climbed into the driver's seat. Guerrero sat up front and Chance got in the back. He knew Guerrero must be feeling like a passenger in his own life after being carted off in an ambulance against what everyone knew to be his wishes, so he let Guerrero take the front seat without complaint. They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Chance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the front seats and asked what had happened after he left.
"Well, when the cops showed up Winston and Ilsa had to do some pretty fast talking," Ames explained. "But the fact that Seymour's guys killed Alison's protective detail didn't exactly win Seymour and his pals much sympathy. Besides, all the bad guys are dead so it's not like there will be a trial or anything. Winston's pretty certain that the whole thing should be wrapped up pretty soon."
"They're all dead?" Chance asked. "I thought Winston had one guy for questioning."
"Nuh-uh," Ames said shaking her head. "He bled out before the paramedics arrived. He did confirm that there were just three guys plus Seymour though."
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.
"So what happened?" Ames asked. "One minute you're kissing Alison frickin' Mcvey and the next all hell breaks loose!"
Chance gave Ames a quick rundown as to what had happened in the gazebo and how he took Seymour out.
"So you got to be the hero again then," Ames said, with a strained little smile. Chance could see that she was struggling to keep the conversation light and easy, but there was an underlying tension to her body language that screamed that she was far from okay.
"Yeah, I guess," Chance shrugged. "It is kinda in my job description."
"So are you going to see Alison again?" she asked playfully.
"No, I don't think so. She's not really my type."
"You should so call her!" Ames said. "She was like, all over you on the dance floor! Not to mention that she stuck her tongue down your…"
"Just, shut the fuck up!" Guerrero snapped. "I get it! Chance saved the day! Everything is just hunky-fucking-dory! No big deal!"
Ames went very pale, and her mouth hardened into a thin line as she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She took a hard right and slammed on the breaks, bringing the van to a screeching halt in a side street.
"Ames, what the…" Guerrero started to ask.
"IT IS A BIG DEAL!" she screamed at him. "It's a big fucking deal because when I saw you one the ground, not moving I thought you were fucking DEAD, you asshole!" The two men sat in shocked silence for a moment, and Ames rested her head on the steering wheel taking deep shuddering breaths as she tried to fight the tears that threatened to start falling.
"Well, I'm not," Guerrero said.
Ames sat back up, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah, I can see that now, you douche."
"There's no need to get all pre-menstrual about it, jeez," Guerrero muttered.
"Fuck you," Ames replied, throwing the van into reverse and getting them back on the road back to the office.
"You might wanna consider waterproof make-up if you're gonna make a habit out of bawling your eyes out. You're putting Chris Crocker's eyeliner to shame right now, dude."
Chance smiled as tension in the van lifted as Ames and Guerrero bickered with each other all the way back to the office.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 8
----------
When they got back to the office, Guerrero slunk upstairs to Chance's quarters without saying a word.
"A thank you would be nice!" Ames called after him.
"He'll never show it, but he does care," Chance said.
"Yeah, well that was so obvious, what with all the bitching and name calling on the way home," Ames grumbled.
"Isn't that kind of normal for you guys, though?" Chance asked. "You wind him up, and he insults you back?"
"Yeah, I guess," Ames shrugged. "But after what happened…"
"You ever think that this is his way of showing you that everything is fine? That there's nothing to worry about?"
Ames thought about that for a moment. "You guys are so emotionally retarded."
Chance gave her one of his 'what can you do?' shrugs.
"I'm going home," Ames said. "And I'm taking tomorrow off!"
Chance called Winston, to check in and let him know that Guerrero was okay.
"Why am I not surprised?" Winston said. "That man has more lives than a cat!"
He considered calling Ilsa too, but Winston said that he'd already taken her home and she'd spoken to Dr Dematteo already. Chance sighed as he hung up the call. It seemed that there was nothing left for him to do but take care of Guerrero.
He decided to take Guerrero a cup of tea. He'd probably need to re-hydrate after being sick so many times, and besides, taking him something would give him some kind of purpose. Chance was physically and emotionally drained, so maybe observing the social niceties of offering a guest a drink would do something to force some kind of normality onto the situation. Chance doubted it, after all this was Guerrero he was dealing with, but it couldn't hurt to try.
Chance took the tea upstairs, along with a box of crackers in case Guerrero felt up to eating something, but rather than heading for the bedroom, Guerrero had stretched out on the couch in front of a wildlife documentary on the TV. He looked up when Chance walked in and accepted the tea and crackers without a word. Chance shoved Guerrero's legs out of the way and sat down next to him on the couch.
"You were a little hard on Ames," Chance said, when it became apparent that Guerrero was content to sit in silence. "You really scared her tonight."
"Serves her right for yelling at me," Guerrero said, apparently unaware of how juvenile that made him sound. "In case you hadn't worked this out, a baseball bat to the head tends to leave you with a bit of a headache."
"You kinda scared me too," Chance said. Guerrero turned to look at him, but Chance's gaze was still fixed on the images on the TV of penguins swimming for their lives as they were chased by orcas.
"Ames is a drama queen," Guerrero grumbled, staring at the TV again.
"It doesn't mean you should take it out on her, though. Why are you so angry? So the guy with the baseball bat got the jump on you, so what? Shit happens!"
"Yeah, well that particular shit shouldn't have happened!" Guerrero scowled. Chance glanced over at him and it suddenly struck him just how angry Guerrero was, and that it wasn't really directed at Ames. She'd just had the misfortune of being nearby and annoying at the wrong moment. The person Guerrero was really angry with was himself.
"What really happened, Guerrero?" Chance asked. "Why did that guy get the jump on you?"
Guerrero ignored him. Chance waited, but Guerrero seemed to consider the subject closed. He sat there for a while longer, watching him drink his tea, before turning his gaze back onto the TV, trying to figure out why he was so pissed. Guerrero was usually fairly stoic about getting injured. In their line of work getting hurt from time to time was part of the job, but he seemed to be blaming himself for getting knocked unconscious, and that was very unusual. Chance considered that maybe he was annoyed because he'd been taken out by a guy with a baseball bat when he was armed with a gun, but he ruled that out pretty quickly. They both knew from experience that superior fire-power was no guarantee of success. So what was it that was bothering him?
Chance thought over the evenings events, searching for a clue that would explain Guerrero's behaviour. Guerrero had seemed fine when Chance had dinner with Alison, he'd even recommended the lamb, and he'd been right, it was very good. There had been a small problem with the comms being too loud that Guerrero had blamed on Winston, but Chance put that down to Guerrero's ongoing mission to drive Winston crazy. When he'd been dancing with Alison at the party, Guerrero had actually encouraged him to ask her out, but Chance had caught the sarcastic edge to his voice that clearly signalled to him that Guerrero did not approve of her.
What happened after that? Alison dragged him onto the stage, the cameras went down, Guerrero went to check on them, getting attacked as he left the van and Alison had kissed him in front of the baying crowd. He thought about the sequence of events for a few moments before he realised that the order was all wrong. Guerrero had begun cursing as Alison was kissing him, and it had been immediately after the kiss that he'd said the cameras had gone down. So the last thing Guerrero had seen on the monitors before they died, and he ran head first into a guy with a baseball bat, had been Alison kissing him…
Slowly realisation began to dawn. Guerrero had only started really yelling at Ames when she persisted in asking Chance about seeing Alison again…
Could it really be that simple? Was Guerrero worried about him getting involved with Alison? If he'd been distracted by seeing them kiss on the monitor, it could explain why Guerrero was so annoyed. If he'd been distracted by idle speculation, letting his feelings override his keen sense of self-preservation like that would definitely make him angry with himself.
To be fair, Chance's love life had been a thorn in both their sides. Guerrero had had to deal with the fall-out from Chance's relationship with Maria no less than three times, and Chance was well aware that the tension between himself and Ilsa was something that Guerrero could happily live with never having to hear about again. And then there was Katherine Walters, the woman who was responsible for them nearly killing each other.
Chance turned to Guerrero, ready to challenge him with his theory, but Guerrero had nodded off. Chance sighed, his questions would have to wait. Between the concussion and the exhaustion, Guerrero was unlikely to be receptive to the idea of talking about Chance's love-life.
Chance fetched some clean sweatpants and a t-shirt from his bedroom, and dumped them on Guerrero's lap. Guerrero groaned and opened his eyes.
"Dude, I was sleeping.." he protested.
"Yeah, well you're not sleeping on the couch tonight," Chance said firmly. "Put those on and get to bed."
"I'm fine on the couch."
"Bed, Guerrero. You're injured, and sleeping on the couch really isn't going to do you any favours."
Guerrero still refused to move.
Chance sighed. "I'm way too tired to argue about this right now. I'm going to take a shower, and if you're still on the couch when I'm done, I will fucking carry you to bed if I have to!"
Guerrero frowned, but the threat seemed to do the trick. He dragged himself to his feet and pushed past Chance, heading for the bedroom.
Chance showered quickly but thoroughly. He didn't want to leave Guerrero on his own for any length of time in case he had any bright ideas about driving himself home with a concussion. Chance was glad to wash away the lingering scent of Alison's cloying perfume from his skin. He needed to scrub away every last trace of the Matthew King persona so he could feel like himself again.
He towelled himself off, slipped on an old pair of sweat pants and walked through to his bedroom to check on Guerrero. He was already fast asleep and Chance simply didn't have the mental energy to give his theory any more thought. He flopped into the armchair in the corner of the room and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 9
----------
Chance work up with a serious crick in his neck, wondering why he'd fallen asleep in the armchair when he had a perfectly comfortable bed at his disposal. He groaned, digging his fingers into the knotted muscles of his shoulders for a moment before he remembered that Guerrero was supposed to be asleep on the bed. It was empty.
He swore colourfully and at length as he threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, grabbing a pair of sneakers as he headed out in search of Guerrero. The kitchen was empty, but there was an empty mug that was still slightly warm to the touch, which meant that he hadn't missed Guerrero by much.
He sprinted down the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, and as he ran into the garage he spotted Guerrero opening his driver side car door.
"Hey!" Chance called out as he jogged over to him. "You're not supposed to be driving yet! The doc said you need to be watched for the next day or two. Keep an eye out for complications or whatever."
"Which is one of the reasons I don't usually ask anyone's opinion over something as trivial as a bump on the head, dude! I'm fine. Nothing a couple of asprin won't fix. Quit fussing!"
"You were out cold for like twenty minutes, Guerrero. Plus you chucked your guts up repeatedly. We both know those are signs of a nasty concussion, so why don't we just skip the argument and I'll drive you wherever you have to go, okay?"
Chance guessed that he was still feeling a lot crappier than he let on because he handed him the car keys without further protest.
"So where are we going?" Chance asked once the were both seated in the car.
"My apartment in Northbeach," Guerrero replied, removing his glasses and rubbing at his temples in a way that suggested Chance may have been right about just how rough he was still feeling.
Chance nodded. He knew Guerrero had a number of properties scattered around the city, but the one in Northbeach was the only one he'd ever visited before. He reasoned that Guerrero felt that he wasn't giving much away by having him drive him there. Guerrero glared at him when he insisted on following him up to the apartment whilst he grabbed a change of clothes and a few essentials, suspecting that the reason had more to do with yanking his chain than any real concern he was about to keel over. Actually Chance was more concerned that he might try and slip off on his own, but he played along with the idea that he was just trying to wind him up by grinning and making suggestions about how to make the place more handicap-friendly.
They stopped off at a sandwich shop on the way back to the office. Chance knew that, contrary to popular opinion, it was food that soothed the savage beast, not music. Guerrero tucked into his sandwich straight away, but Chance was going to have to wait. There was no way he could drive and eat at the same time, the sandwich he'd ordered was definitely a two-hander. So they sat in silence as Guerrero demolished a sandwich big enough to comfortably feed a family of four, and Chance was reassured that, despite the recent head trauma, there was nothing wrong with Guerrero's appetite.
"So, you ever going to tell me why you felt the need to run head first into a baseball bat or not?" Chance asked.
Guerrero grunted, but didn't reply.
"Just so you know, Alison isn't my type. Also I had everything under control so there was no need for you to worry."
"Yeah, well I've heard that one before. You didn't exactly seem focused on the job in hand."
"Okay, I may have been momentarily distracted..."
"And that always ends so well, doesn't it? I mean, you've never let a pretty face and a smokin' body distract you before, right?"
Chance didn't reply as memories of burnt cookies and past mistakes leapt unbidden into his mind. Alison Mcvey was a spoiled little rich girl who would never, could never affect him the way Katherine Walters had, but in the light of the mistakes he'd made with Maria and Ilsa, maybe Guerrero was justified in his concerns.
"Like I said, Alison isn't my type. Just do me a favour and look both ways next time."
The atmosphere between them was still tense when they walked out of the elevator to find Winston and Ilsa were there talking to Alison Mcvey.
"Speak of the devil," Winston said.
"Mr Chance, Alison just stopped by to thank you for your assistance at the party last night," Ilsa said.
"I hope she's here to settle her bill too," Guerrero muttered, getting a sharp look from Ilsa.
"Don't mind him," Winston smiled, trying to smooth things over. "He's concussed."
"And whose fault is that?" Guerrero grumbled, pushing past them to get to the kitchen.
There was an awkward pause.
"Mr Chance," Alison said. "I was hoping that I might take you to lunch, as a thank you for all you've done for me."
"I've actually got plans for lunch," Chance said, holding up the bag containing his sandwich.
"Oh, well… Perhaps dinner then?" she persisted.
"Actually Alison, my colleague was quite badly hurt by one of your ex-husband's friends. He needs someone to keep an eye on him and it wouldn't be right for me to hit the town when he's still recuperating."
"I can keep I eye on Guerrero," Winston said, he's eyes wide with disbelief that Chance would seriously consider passing up the opportunity to have dinner again with the attractive actress.
"No dude, you really can't," Guerrero's voice called out from the kitchen.
"I'm sure we could make alternative arrangements for someone to keep an eye on Mr Guerrero so that you could enjoy a well deserved night out…" Ilsa said, ignoring Guerrero's objection.
"That won't be necessary, Ilsa. Thank you for the invitation, Alison," Chance said smiling politely, "but I think after last night's excitement, I'll be staying home for the foreseeable future."
Alison blushed as it finally sank in that she was being given the brush-off. Chance was willing to bet that it wasn't something she was used to dealing with, at least not from the receiving end.
"Well, I'm glad we were able to help you, Alison," Ilsa said, a bit too brightly. "I know it wasn't exactly an ideal outcome…"
"Huh," Chance grunted.
Ilsa gave him an odd look.
"Six dead - including two cops - and one of our team injured," Chance said. "I think that's a hell of a long way from ideal."
"Yes, well under the circumstances…" Ilsa said, before Chance interrupted her again.
"We would have been working under much better circumstances if Alison had informed us beforehand that her ex-husband had a gang of cronies who were likely to back him up." The colour drained from Alison's face as Chance spoke, leaving her looking grey and sullen. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't feel like celebrating."
Chance walked out to the kitchen before Ilsa could stop gaping at his rudeness. Winston was a little quicker off the mark.
"Chance takes the loss of life extremely seriously, Miss Mcvey…"
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 10: Epilogue
----------
Guerrero was sipping a cup of tea when Chance walked into the kitchen and pulled up a chair.
"'Staying home for the foreseeable future'? Dude, that was harsh." Guerrero said. "I like it."
Chance flashed him a quick smile, before unwrapping his sandwich and getting stuck in. He had his mouth conveniently full when Ilsa stormed in a few minutes later, followed by Winston.
"Where the hell do you get off, talking to Alison like that? If you didn't want to have dinner with the poor girl, you only had to say!"
Chance pointed to his mouth, to indicate that he couldn't speak with a mouthful of food, whilst Guerrero sniggered into his mug of tea.
"Ilsa," Winston said in a soothing tone. "Chance could have been a bit more diplomatic but…"
"'A bit more diplomatic'! Really? You think so?"
"But, he has a point," Winston continued. "Six people died last night, and Alison turns up today, all sweetness and light, expecting to get a date? It's a little insensitive, don't you think? Especially as she used to be married to one of the men that died. I know she's your friend, but doesn't that strike you as a little bit callous?"
"Chance ought to sue her for sexual harassment in the work place," Guerrero added. "First she publicly mauls Chance when he's on the job, then she turns up here for a booty call? Not cool."
Chance almost choked on his sandwich.
Ilsa sighed and her indignation faded away, leaving her looking rather tired. "I suppose you're right. She is rather self-centred. I may have over-stated the case somewhat when I referred to her as a friend. I've met her on numerous occasions at various benefits, but I never really got to know her very well as a person. I shouldn't have asked you to take the case at such short notice, with such little information."
" Ah, don't worry about it. We've handled worse cases than that," Winston said reassuringly. "No real harm done."
"Seriously, dude? I get knocked out cold for twenty minutes and get dragged off in an ambulance to go see a freakin' doctor and that's 'no harm done'?" Guerrero said.
"Yeah, well you're still here and bitching about it, aren't you?" Winston said, deliberately baiting him.
Chance had swallowed his mouthful of sandwich, and he decided now was probably a good time to join the conversation before Winston and Guerrero really started arguing in earnest.
"Ilsa, you did the right thing in bringing us the case," he said. "If we hadn't been there, things could have been a lot worse."
"Thank you, Chance," she said. "I really needed to hear that. I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, it was uncalled for. I just hardly slept last night and… Oh Guerrero! I haven't even asked you how you're feeling! I'm so sorry!"
"I'm fine, Ilsa. Don't sweat it. I'll crash here for a couple of nights, just to be on the safe side, but I'm okay."
Ilsa nodded, but Winston frowned. "Did you just say 'to be on the safe side'? Don't tell me that a concussion finally knocked some common sense into that thick skull of yours!"
"It's no big deal," Guerrero shrugged. "I figured I'd have a movie marathon with Chance. Maybe check out the new releases on Netflix."
"Oh no! Not again! If you think you're going to charge more rentals to my account, I'll…"
"You'll what?" Guerrero deadpanned. "Change your password to the name of a childhood pet? Favourite colour? Name of the street where you grew up?"
Ilsa sighed heavily, rubbing at her temples as if she had a headache coming on. "I think I really should go home and catch up on my sleep."
Chance smiled and took another bite of his sandwich. It was good to be back to business as usual.
THE END