Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
"Take that shirt off, dude, or I make you take it off." Guerrero's voice was calm.
Like the calm before the storm.
"I'm not going to let you put ANY needles into me. NO WAY! Whom do you think you're kidding, you're not…ARGHHHHHH."
Winston found himself pinned to the ground in prone position, his legs and arms twisted in a simple but darn effective way.
"Okay, wiseass, you took me down, but how exactly are you planning to get to my wound? I'm still wearing my shirt!"
The distinctive snap of a jackknife silenced Winston.
Momentarily.
"What the hell are you doing with the knife? You're not seriously…? Don't you DARE!"
"Stop wriggling, dude, or I'll have to add more stitches."
A soft tearing sound confirmed Winston's suspicions. Guerrero was cutting the back of his shirt in half to get to the large gash right under his left shoulder blade.
"That was a genuine Supima cotton shirt!"
"It was soaked with blood anyway. You would have never gotten the stains out. Those massive amounts of iron and non-polar substances only react to ammonia-based cleaners. Ammoniac damages the structure of delicate fabric. Seriously not cool." Still keeping Winston firmly pinned to the ground, Guerrero put on rubber gloves and started meticulously cleaning the deep injury.
"So now you're an expert on spot removal, too?"
"Cleaning up afterwards comes with the territory, dude."
Winston would have tried bucking Guerrero off, but by now he had gotten to the needle part and truth to be told, he was good at stitching up wounds. Winston just didn't like how he had most likely gotten his expertise.
Grumbling a couple of expletives he relaxed and let Guerrero work.
"Wouldn't Winston be more comfortable sitting up?" Chance, hand still in the makeshift bandage he had improvised while Winston had dashed off from the explosion site with the van, came walking in and flopped down on one of the kitchen chairs.
Neither Winston nor Guerrero graced him with an answer. All he received were some very sinister looks.
Chance sighed. "So we're still having this argument?"
"You went off on your own", Winston growled.
"Walked right into a trap so obvious, you could have seen it from the moon. Seriously not cool, dude."
"Okay, look, I admit I might have underestimated the Martinez brothers' manpower a little… and, yeah, their alarm system, too… but I really would have managed on my own. You said you wouldn't help and I was fine with that." Chance made a point of not wincing as he slowly unwrapped the bandage.
"Dude, we found you tied up inside a heap of tires, drenched in gas, ready to be set on fire."
"I was already working on the problem." The burn mark on the back of Chance's hand was more serious than he had originally thought. The contact with the benzoline from the gas hadn't exactly helped the healing process. He had carefully cleaned the wound, but the raw flesh was still aflame from the chemical substance.
Ah well, Chance didn't mind the pain tonight. It kept his thoughts off other things.
Guerrero let Winston go, got up, walked over to the kitchen table, sat down in front of Chance and reached for his friend's hand.
Chance withdrew it. "I can handle that."
With lightning speed Guerrero's hand shot forward, grabbed Chance's wrist and pinned it to the table top. He looked Chance directly in the eyes. No words needed. Chance didn't struggle.
"We think you've already handled enough for today", Winston grunted, got up from the floor, too, picked up Guerrero's medical field kit and handed it to him.
"Granted, I might have made mistake or two…" , Chance admitted disgruntledly.
"MISTAKE? Chance, you weren't thinking straight! Not at all!", Winston finally exploded into the rant he had been holding back for past couple of hours. "You barged in there like some Mexican peddlers market Captain America pirate copy. Did the word "TRAP" even cross your mind?"
"The ex muddled your thoughts. Completely", Guerrero stated.
"Like Harry when he attempted to find that diamond ring in that riverbed", Winston added.
Chance rolled his eyes. "You two rehearsed this or something?"
"Whenever one of your exes comes into play, dude, things go south."
"Completely", Winston stated. "You even got us two agreeing. How much worse can it get?"
"Is there any point to your lecture…?" Chance rolled his eyes and then winced after all as Guerrero applied more iodine to the wound.
"I know you don't want to hear this Chance…", Winston began cautiously, "…but before you pull the I'm-a-mysterious-ex-assassin-with-a-dark-dark-past -so-leave-me-the-hell-alone-y'all act, hear us out. I'll put this as delicately as possible…"
"You've got to get a grip on your love life, dude."
Trust Guerrero not to mince words.
"Okay, that's it, did you two inhale something when the main building blew up?"
"Chance, I've known you for five years now. In those five years EVERY DAMN TIME one of your ex-girlfriends showed up you completely lost it – all caution went out the window, you risked everything just for the sake of old times!"
Winston wasn't really in the mood to mince words either. The gash on his back was painful despite the painkillers he had taken.
"You need a steady relationship, dude. With a normal chick."
Now Chance definitely had heard enough. He pushed his chair backwards and got to his feet. "Yeah, thanks Dr. G. And Winfrey, your input is appreciated, but I really don't…"
"Sit down, dude." Guerrero's voice was tinged with the implication that he could adopt other measures than simply asking.
"All your exes are handfuls, Chance", Winston tried again. "You always fall for the women with the shady past and the heavy-calibered gun in the purse. They usually come with two or three thugs trailing after. You help them out of the mess, they disappear, only to emerge again when they've managed to bury themselves in even deeper shit. You help them out again… they disappear… you mope around for a week, jaw set, play video games, jump at the next opportunity to go toe-to-toe with some heavily armed crew… Am I the only one seeing a pattern here?"
"Have your eyes checked." Chance was in serious five-year-old sulking mood now.
"Long story short: You're afraid to get hurt, dude, so you deliberately only choose the chicks that will soon be gone again. Best way not to get attached. Simple case of self-fulfilling prophecy. And quite the recipe to disaster."
Chance decided that he'd rather risk facing Guerrero's other measures than listening to this shrink crap any longer.
"You're both nuts!"
He stormed out of the room.
"Prove us wrong! Go out with a normal girl!", Winston yelled after him.