Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement
A/N: This is dedicated to veniceit - probably not what you had hoped for, sorry...
Winston stomped into the office's kitchen and planted himself in front of Guerrero. "Did you slip something into my coffee?"
Ames switched off her mp3player and removed her earphones. This promised to be interesting.
"Not today." Guerrero arched a questioning eyebrow at Winston.
"Chance is sitting in his living-room and doing paperwork – it has to be a hallucination!"
Guerrero put down the apple he had been chewing on, left the kitchen and went upstairs. Indeed, Chance was sitting on his sofa, sorting through papers on his coffee table.
"Look at me, dude."
Without warning, Guerrero shone a light into Chance's eyes with a pocket lamp from his key ring.
"What…?"
"Just checking, bro." Guerrero went back to the kitchen, leaving Chance rather puzzled and half-blinded.
"His pupils react normally", he told the others. "Can't be a concussion."
"Wasn't he supposed to have dinner with that Barnes woman this evening?", Ames asked no one in particular. "Awww, it's his fear of getting attached that's getting in the way again. This is so heartbreaking. He's afraid of losing those dear to him…"
"I don't think that's the problem this time", Winston muttered, eyes resting on Ilsa who had just stepped out of the elevator, heading straight for her office. The very upright way she walked, the strict click-clacker of her heels and the stiff way she pursed her lips didn't bode well. In a mood like this she loved to go through their expense accounts or other tedious stuff.
Sure enough, only a couple of minutes later she called Guerrero into her office. "Could you explain to me, Mr. Guerrero, what Mr. Chance did with a concert harp, a fish tank and a kangaroo costume on the job in Santa Fe he took without my acquiescence six months ago? And, more importantly, why I'm supposed to pay for it?"
Her voice had that sharp edge to it that every man who was together with a woman for longer than a week quickly learned to fear.
Not Guerrero, of course, but generally speaking.
Winston, for example, was ducking at his desk although he couldn't even make out the words – her tone alone was enough.
"Why don't you ask Chance himself?", Guerrero replied, totally unfazed. "He's upstairs, writing some of the reports you requested."
Ilsa was way too surprised to guard her reaction. "I thought he was having a date with that FBI agent", she blurted out.
"Apparently he had other priorities." Nodding briefly, Guerrero walked off.
Pretty baffled, Ilsa leaned back in her chair. Now, what was this…?
After several minutes of contemplation she finally straightened herself, reached for her phone and dialed a rather long number. "Section Chief Palmer and I are old friends, I don't need an appointment to talk to him", she told the secretary on the other end of the line. "Just tell him Ilsa Pucci is calling."
Her old Oxford fellow student, now FBI Section Chief, was on the phone in no time. "Regarding that transfer we talked about, Charles...", Ilsa began, slightly embarrassed, "I don't think the Marshall Pucci Foundation branch office in Turkmenistan needs the permanent presence of an FBI agent after all…."
A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for taking the time to leave comments on outdoor experience and - especially, for I was kind of nervous about that - out of happiness!