A/N: Right now this story takes place before the series. Not giving any specific dates, mostly because I don't have any idea exactly how long ago this would be or how long a time will pass before the story ends. Also, there probably won't be any of that action-movie stuff, so if you want something more exciting, you'll have to look elsewhere. Same goes for those of you who do not like lemons. Oh yes, there will be lemons.

Disclaimer: Don't own Human Target. Don't own Guerrero. Don't sue me.

Guerrero needed a drink. He'd just made what was probably the most idiotic decision of his life and he decided to commemorate the occasion by going on a bender. Decades of life-preserving paranoia kept him from having a regular hangout where anybody with a grudge could track him down, but fortunately the city had no shortage of bars. Guerrero drove around aimlessly until he found one whose parking lot wasn't too crowded, pulled into an available space, got out of his car, and headed for the glass-fronted doors. Inside was a thin layer of smoke dispersed by overworked ceiling fans, dim lighting, and some kind of oldies rock all but blotted out by the constant drone of dozens of conversations. A totally unremarkable establishment; just the way Guerrero liked it. He wended his way through the crowded revelers to the bar, glad to see he would have some elbow room. Guerrero hated being squeezed in. He liked to have enough space to maneuver should things get hairy.

"Help ya?" the twenty-something bartender shouted over the noise. The man wore a black T-shirt and numerous piercings on various parts of his face. There was a list of numerous brands of beers and hard liquors hanging on the wall behind him. One particular name stood out for Guerrero.

"I'll have a Riley's."

"You wanna glass?"

"No."

The bartender retrieved a bottle from the fridge beneath the bar, popped off the cap, and passed it over. Guerrero nodded his thanks and took a swig. He hadn't intended to start off with something as mild as a beer, but could never pass up a Riley's Red Ale when it was available. He took another swig, then turned to put his back against the bar, elbows resting on its scarred surface, and scanned the crowd. An old habit, searching for possible threats. As far as the other patrons were concerned, however, the unassuming little man with the glasses didn't exist, and that was fine with him. After a few minutes he focused his attention on the women. Maybe he'd find something other than alcohol to take his mind off recent events. Guerrero never had any trouble picking up random chicks, no matter how far out of his league. The same techniques he'd developed throughout his career to manipulate and disarm a mark proved every bit as effective for recreational purposes. So far, though, he wasn't too thrilled with his prospects. There were plenty of gorgeous and even passably attractive women, but none of them really did it for him. They all looked pretty much the same after a while; slender bodies clad in skimpy clothes that showed off plenty of flawless skin, feet crammed into tight stilettos (How could they walk in those things?), hair elaborately styled to look natural, carefully applied makeup. Barbie dolls. Probably had about as much going on upstairs as the plastic figures they resembled.

When the hell did he get so picky all of a sudden? What did he care whether they could hold a semi-intelligent conversation as long as they were good in the sack? Guerrero rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, took another drink from his beer. God, he was a mess. Bad enough he probably made an enemy of the Old Man, now he couldn't muster the enthusiasm to get laid. What was wrong with him? Immediately a name popped up: Junior. Ever since he severed ties with the organization nobody was the same. The Old Man eyed his remaining "boys" with suspicion while pining over his abandonment from the man who, in every way but blood, was his son. Baptiste struggled vainly to fill the void while at the same time growing increasingly bitter with the knowledge that he would never measure up in the Old Man's eyes. And Guerrero … for the first time in his life he found himself doubting his actions. He became less and less inclined to follow through with the assignments given to him. It wasn't that he suddenly cared for the people he was ordered to kill … but now each time he carried out the task he would get a flash of that moment when Junior had him at the end of a gun, the certainty that he was about to die, and that brief, terrifying urge to beg for his life.

Guerrero scowled and pushed those gloomy thoughts to the back of his mind. Dammit, he didn't come to this bar to brood. He came to distract himself from his problems, give himself a few hours' reprieve. He forced his eyes to wander down the length of the bar in an aimless search for some kind of distraction and came to a halt on a solitary figure. Sure, she was surrounded by lots of other people, but everything about this chick spoke of isolation. Unlike the other women Guerrero passed over, this one was dressed in jeans and a baggy long-sleeved shirt. Her wavy mouse-brown hair fell to just above her shoulders. And she was drinking a Riley's Red Ale.

Before Guerrero knew it he straightened from his slouch and headed towards her. The woman noticed him when he'd closed a little more than half the distance between them. He saw surprise at the realization that she was his destination, then a shy smile. Guerrero smiled back, a mild expression calculated to make him seem nonthreatening. Must have been pretty effective, because the woman's own grin widened in response. Guerrero perched himself on the stool beside hers. "Hey."

"Hi," she said. She looked uncertain, as if she'd never really engaged in conversation with a stranger before. She didn't wear any makeup, Guerrero noticed. He could see all the little flaws others strove to hide: a couple of pockmarks on her forehead, a mole on her lower jaw, the wrinkles beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. She was probably in her mid-thirties, not much younger than Guerrero.

He indicated the bottle in her hand with his own. "Looks like we're the only ones drinking this."

She smiled. "I'm really not a beer drinker. Actually, I'm not a drinker at all, but it's my dad's birthday today. He would've been sixty. Riley's was his favorite, so I'm having one in his honor." She took a drink from her bottle. "What's your name?"

"Guerrero."

She raised an eyebrow. "Just Guerrero?"

"Yeah." He met her gaze steadily.

She shrugged. "Okay, Just Guerrero. I'm Riley."

Now it was his turn to lift an eyebrow. Riley smirked, lifted her beer bottle. "Told ya it was Dad's favorite."

It wasn't long before they got tired of shouting over the din and decided to take their conversation out on the patio. It was a chilly night outside, but at least it was quieter. Riley finished her father's beer and ordered something for herself. Guerrero was a little surprised she didn't order one of those fruity cocktails most chicks seemed to prefer, but instead asked for a Bailey's and coffee. She took a sip from the steaming mug and sighed happily.

"Thought you said you weren't a drinker," Guerrero challenged.

"I'm not," she grinned, "This stuff's gonna go right to my head, which is why I'm getting a taxi later."

"Or I could give you a lift."

Wariness crept into her expression. It made him wonder if she had a bad experience with a seemingly helpful stranger. Or maybe it was just him. He spent so much time making veiled threats, maybe he forgot to turn it off. He decided to change the subject.

"So, what d'you do?" Most times he couldn't care less about other people's lives when it wasn't important to his work, but he found himself genuinely curious about her.

Riley shrugged. "Nothing to get excited about. I work as a desk clerk at the library."

"Any hobbies?"

Her mouth twitched. "I read."

Guerrero snorted. Riley shrugged again, stared at the contents of her mug. "I'm really not an interesting person," she confessed, "I lead a very dull life. I mean, if this'd been any other day I would be at home finishing a novel or watching a movie. I'm such a homebody, if I didn't have a job, I'd probably never leave my apartment."

Guerrero found it interesting how her earlier confidence slipped away when she talked about herself. Most women he'd met wouldn't shut up about themselves and their boring, frivolous lives. With Riley it seemed the last thing she wanted to talk about was herself.

She abruptly raised her head and met his gaze. "What about you? How d'you earn your keep?"

"I'm a hit man." Guerrero wasn't sure why he blurted it out. Maybe he wanted to see her reaction. Would she laugh it off like it was a joke? Would she edge away and make some lame excuse to escape him? Neither, as it turned out.

"Oh."

Guerrero cocked his head. "That's it? Just 'oh'?"

"Sorry. Lemme try again." She leaned towards him, eyes wide. "Really? How fascinating! Tell me more!"

He seldom laughed. Smirked, snorted, scoffed, but rarely laughed. He forgot how enjoyable it was. Riley laughed as well, hand clasped over her mouth, eyes dancing. It made her look twenty years younger, like a little girl.

"So," Guerrero said once the laughter died down, "you don't believe me."

Riley took a drink from her mug. "I don't know if I do or not. But I'm not worried if it's true."

He frowned in surprise. "Why not?"

She shrugged. "I know I don't matter enough for someone to want me dead."

He stared at her for a long time. She didn't look away, even though he could tell she was getting uncomfortable.

"I quit today."

She frowned. "So … you're not a hit man anymore?"

Now it was his turn to shrug. "I dunno. But I left the organization I worked for."

"How come?"

He stared at the empty beer bottle in front of him, scooted it aside with the edge of his hand like a slo-mo karate chop. "A while back somebody else quit. He was the Old Man's favorite. The Old Man's the boss," he explained.

"Yeah, I kinda guessed as much," she smiled.

Guerrero continued, "Anyway, Junior, the guy who quit, he was protecting somebody he was supposed to kill, so the Old Man sent me after 'em. We fought, but I wasn't really giving it my A-game, y'know? So Junior got the best of me. Had a gun pointed right at me. He could've shot me—I would've shot me—but instead he let me go." It was such a vivid moment in his memory; staring down the barrel of that gun, knowing he was about to be killed not by an enemy, but by the one guy who didn't treat him like a freak or an exploitable asset. Somebody he considered a friend, maybe even a brother. And then he looked in Junior's sad eyes and realized he wasn't going to die after all. That act of mercy left its mark on him. How could he go back to blithely following the Old Man's orders after that? He couldn't.

Riley lowered her eyes, pursed her lips in thought. "You know what?" she said a moment later.

The corner of Guerrero's mouth quirked. "What?"

"I think I do believe you."

And yet, two drinks later, she still took him up on his offer for a ride home. As it turned out, her apartment was only a few blocks from the bar. She could've walked there if her legs had been steadier. Riley lounged in the passenger seat, eyes half closed. The alcohol hit her unaccustomed system like a ton of bricks, almost putting her to sleep. Once Guerrero found a place to park, he helped her out of the car. She walked slowly, leaning against him a little for balance. "My place's on the second floor," she told him, her words only a tad slurred. She seemed more tired than drunk.

As they ascended the stairs to the second floor, Guerrero thought how odd it was for him to be escorting a woman back to her place without the intention of sleeping with her. It wasn't as if he'd never taken advantage of girls who had a few too many—he wasn't burdened with much in the way of a conscience—but the thought of doing that to Riley felt wrong somehow. That was when he realized that he actually liked her. He could count on one hand the number of people he could honestly say he liked, and with them it took months or even years to get to that point. He'd only known Riley for a few hours and he already thought of her as something like a friend. He felt comfortable with her; didn't feel the need to hide behind a smokescreen of lies and flippant remarks. And though her life might me small and dull, she certainly wasn't. Most of the time when Guerrero found himself in conversation with someone he wanted to stab a fork in their eye in the first five minutes. Riley possessed an unfeigned honesty he found oddly refreshing.

"This's me." She indicated a door, fished a set of keys from her pocket. Once the door was unlocked instead of opening it she turned towards Guerrero, eyes gazing down on the keys she fiddled with nervously. "Um … you wanna come in? N-not to … I mean …" She winced at her own awkwardness, forced herself to look at him. She saw amusement in his expression, but thankfully no irritation or impatience. She bit her lip, a nervous habit Guerrero found endearing. "I don't have any experience with this," she confessed.

Guerrero smirked. "You don't say."

Riley laughed and some of her awkwardness eased. Guerrero reached out and took her hand. "Just say what you're thinking," he prompted.

Riley swallowed. "I want you to say with me tonight." She blushed.

A long pause. "Okaaay."

"But," her fingers tightened around his, "I don't think I'm ready to have sex with you yet." Her blush deepened. She cleared her throat. "This's really awkward."

"Yeah," Guerrero chuckled. He gently ran his thumb back and forth across her knuckles.

"It's just," Riley sighed, "I don't want to be alone tonight."

For some reason he didn't want to dwell on, neither did he. "Alright."

The apartment was a clutter of books stacked haphazardly on every available surface, discarded clothing, and a few empty cups left here and there. Guerrero snorted, "Looks like a college dorm room."

Riley laughed. "Yeah, sorry. Cleaning's not my forte." She yawned. "I'm really tired," she mumbled unnecessarily, "I'm gonna hit the hay."

Guerrero nodded. "Guess I'll crash on the couch."

Riley grimaced. "That couch's awful for sleeping on."

He shrugged. "Well, it's either that or the floor." He looked down at the unwelcoming hardwood.

Riley hesitated, then reached out to take his hand. "C'mon." She tugged.

Guerrero looked at her curiously. She smiled and tugged his hand again. "C'mon!" She led him into a darkened room, flipped the light switch with her free hand to illuminate a bedroom just large enough to hold a dresser and a single bed. "Neither one of us is all that big," she stated, indicating the bed, "There should be room enough."

Guerrero looked at her in surprise. "Seriously?"

"Sure. Why?" The barely suppressed grin told him she wasn't as naïve as she played at being.

He shook his head. "I don't get you. I tell you I kill people for a living and you invite me back to your place for a sleepover? In the same bed? Y'know, most people would think you had a deathwish or something."

"I don't have a deathwish," she said calmly, "I don't know why, but I feel safe with you. And … I've been lonely." She gave him a smile that was both sad and trusting. Guerrero couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him like that. It brought a feeling he couldn't name rising in his chest. He took a step closer to her, brought his free hand up to lightly touch her cheek. Riley trembled a little, but didn't pull away. She stared at him with liquid brown eyes. Guerrero leaned closer and brought his lips to hers. He felt a warm exhalation on his cheek as Riley exhaled. Her lips parted and her tongue slid out to meet his. Guerrero felt a strange flutter in his chest, something other than simple arousal. He released her hand and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Riley brought her own arms loosely around his neck. The kiss went on longer than either had intended and ended with great reluctance. Riley grinned. "That was nice. Your mustache tickles."

Guerrero chuckled. He realized he didn't mind that she was too tired to take this further. Just being close to her was enough. For now, anyway.

"Got a spare toothbrush?" he asked.

Riley nodded. "Matter of fact I do. Lucky thing I was frugal enough to buy a bargain pack." She slid out of his arms with a look of regret and showed him to the bathroom. While Guerrero brushed his teeth, Riley took the opportunity to return to her bedroom and change into a T-shirt and pajama pants. Guerrero stepped out of the bathroom and looked at her in her baggy nightclothes. He wondered if all her clothes were loose and frumpy. It was yet another aspect of her that intrigued him; this contradictory mixture of confidence and self-consciousness.

"My turn." She squeezed past him to the bathroom so she could brush her teeth as well. By the time she returned Guerrero had stripped down to his T-shirt and boxers and was pulling back he bed's covers. The clothes he'd shed were folded neatly atop the dresser along with his glasses.

Riley went to her nightstand to switch on the bedside lamp, then went to turn off the main light, leaving the room in a soft glow. She returned to find Guerrero already under the covers. They looked at each other for one awkward beat, then Riley pulled back the covers on her side and slid in. The moment her head rested on the pillow exhaustion seemed to sweep over her. Her mouth stretched in an expansive yawn. Afterwards she rolled her head to meet Guerrero's gaze. "Hey."

He smiled. "Hey yourself."

She bit her lip. "Um, would it be weird if I asked you to hold me?"

"Yes," he said. She laughed and turned onto her side, facing away from him. A second later she felt his arm go around her waist and she snuggled against his solid warmth. "Thank you."

"Go to sleep," he murmured, not unkindly. Riley reached over to switch off the lamp. In the darkness she whispered, "Good night, Guerrero."

"'Night," he whispered back.

Riley closed her eyes and soon drifted into sleep.