Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
This was part of the job, too.
He knew the drill for years now. Whenever his injuries exceeded a certain level they decided to put him to sleep for a while. Dreamless, painless, supposed-to-be-healing, sleep.
Usually it was Guerrero who came with a syringe. Winston was not good with needles.
In the early years, back when he wore another name, he fought his friend in these situations, no matter how exhausted or in how much pain he was.
He never told him, but in the short moment (that could feel like forever) before he slipped off into the darkness of drug-induced slumber, they came to visit him.
A parade of ghosts, right by his bedside. His victims, saying hello.
Six years ago the stream of visitors suddenly stopped, replaced by only one person who came time and time again, cautiously stroking his face, whispering soft words of consolation.
Katherine.
Ever since she had started appearing, he embraced these situations, threw himself into danger recklessly and willingly, for he knew he would see Katherine afterwards. And maybe, maybe, if circumstances got out of hand one day and no needle would be needed anymore to put him to sleep because he would sleep forever anyway, she would take his hand and lead him away from it all, the pain, the regrets…
"You need some sleep, bro", Guerrero said and Chance merely nodded. A short prick. His friend left the room. He slowly turned to see if his visitor had already arrived and, sure enough, there was somebody sitting by his bedside.
"Would you like some water?", a British-accented voice asked quietly, strained with worry.
For a moment, Chance wanted to tell her to go away, to make room for his regular guest. But then gentle hands wiped the sweat from his forehead and lifted a glass to his lips.
A strange sensation of peace and calm suavely carried him over into restful sleep, fueled by a strange new realization with yet unknown implications.
Ilsa was real.