Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.

"No one ever told you suicide by slit wrists is one of the most excruciatingly painful ways to die?" Guerrero didn't really expect an answer from the whimpering bundle in the bathtub. Even to him, a man who had not only seen but also caused a couple of horrible things in his life, the sight of her cramped fingers, seized up into claws, her uncontrollably shaking body, the blood-drenched clothes and, yes, the unmistakable stench of urine (most suicides lose control of their bladder some time during the process), was bordering on stomach-turning.

The most logical thing for him to do in this situation would have been to simply turn around and walk away. Given the amount of blood she had already lost, she wouldn't last much longer. Job done without actually getting one's hands dirty. Who could ask for more?

The second, less logical but still somewhat comprehensible reaction would have been to draw his gun and put her out of her misery with one well-aimed shot.

What he actually did was take a towel, tear it into pieces and use them as makeshift bandages to stop the bleeding.

That didn't make any sense at all. Not even to him.

As he lifted her out of the tub she opened her eyes. Her already ragged, labored breathing sped up and she started to hyperventilate.

"Breath slowly", he growled at her. "You are already close enough to a seizure. In and out. Slowly. Like I do." He put her down on the bathroom floor with her back against the tub. "In and out." To focus her attention he squeezed her shoulder in the rhythm of his own breathing.

After checking that his bandages had really stopped the bleeding, he went to get his emergency surgery kit. On the way to his car he wondered if it had started like that with Junior, too, when he had been sent to take out that woman from the docks - a sudden, unforeseen feeling that THIS wasn't what he had signed in for.

Junior.

Months had passed since their parting in the cabin and still not a day went by he didn't think of him.

"I had heard the pain faded away after the first cut", she whispered hoarsely as he returned.

"I guess by now you've figured out yourself that that's total bullshit", he replied. He held up a syringe. "This is a painkiller. I'll try and stitch your wrists together again as best as I can, but you'll need a blood transfusion."

He gave her the injection and started to work.

"How do I get a blood transfusion?", she asked timidly after a while.

"I know a guy working in the hospital's morgue. Will be our next stop, once I've made you look half-way presentable again." As soon as he was done stitching he unceremoniously put her back in the bath tub, undressed her till she was completely naked and turned on the water. She still had no control of her hands so it was up to him to dry her up and get her dressed with fresh clothes.

"I couldn't run anymore", she said. "But I didn't want you to take that last bit of control away from me."

"You call that "control"?", he asked, pointing at her still slightly convulsing hands.

"Why are you doing this?", she demanded to know. "For the past two weeks all you wanted to do was kill me."

Many answers would have been possible. For example that he just hated her to go in this ugly, utterly humiliating way after putting up an – he had to give credit where credit was due – impressive fight. Not many people managed to escape him for fourteen days.

Or that letting a target leave through the back door was against his professional pride.

But "Nobody deserves to die like that" was what he replied without really thinking. Only when the words had already left his mouth he realized what he had just said.

Oh boy. He definitely had the bug.