Chance refused to let the EMT refasten the straps to keep Guerrero from rolling off the gurney. It meant that he had to crouch down beside him and hold him in place whenever they turned a corner, which was awkward, but still an infinitely better option than dealing with Guerrero's reaction to waking up and finding himself restrained. He begrudgingly allowed the EMT to attach a pulse oximeter to Guerrero's finger, but that's where he drew the line.

He studied Guerrero's face, searching for even the tiniest sign that he was about to regain consciousness. After about five minutes, during which the EMT sat in silence staring at Guerrero as if he were a bomb about to go off, Chance detected the slightest flutter of movement behind Guerrero's eyelids. He took the hand with the pulse oximeter and held it flat against his chest, and leaned in so his lips were almost touching his ear.

"Guerrero. Wake up, buddy," he murmured.

Guerrero's eyelids fluttered a little more noticeably, and the EMT took a penlight from his pocket and was about to check his pupil responses when Chance shoved him back in his seat.

"Not a good idea," Chance told him, before turning his attention back to Guerrero. "Do not freak out, Guerrero. Just open your eyes…"

Guerrero's eyes snapped open and he sat up, gripping his free hand around Chance's throat as if he was about to crush his airway. Chance didn't resist, he just calmly squeezed his other hand to his chest and waited for Guerrero's brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a few seconds, a long uncomfortable few seconds during which Chance could barely breathe, but recognition flashed in Guerrero's eyes and he let his hand fall away from his throat. He looked like he was about to say something, and Chance only just managed to grab a basin and shove it under his chin before he began to vomit.

"It's okay, buddy. I got you. " Chance said, pushing his hair out of his face.

Guerrero threw up a couple more times before they reached their destination, and between each bout of sickness he made it abundantly clear how he felt about hospitals and the medical profession in general.

"Just relax, okay?" Chance said. "You're not going to a hospital, but you need to get checked out. You were unconscious for nearly twenty minutes!"

Guerrero was still a bit too out of it to put up much of a fight, and that worried Chance. The ambulance finally stopped and the doors were thrown open by a professional looking man in his mid forties.

"I am Dr Dematteo, and this I take it is my patient," he said, looking at Guerrero with a wary curiosity. "I will take it from here, gentlemen."

Chance helped Guerrero down out of the ambulance. No one dared to suggest that he use a wheelchair. Chance had been expecting their destination to be an office, or even the doctor's own residence, but he was surprised to discover that they appeared to be in the grounds of a private school. As soon as Chance and Guerrero had vacated the back of the ambulance, it took off at speed. Chance was willing to bet that the EMTs wouldn't tell anyone about their strange patient.

"You must be Mr Chance," the doctor said. "Mrs Pucci speaks most highly of you. Let's get the patient inside, shall we?"

He led them inside a small brightly lit building, which Chance took to be the school's infirmary. The doctor took them through to an examination room and instructed Guerrero to sit down. Satisfied that he was not in a real hospital, and reassured by Chance and the doctor's insistence that there would be no record of his treatment, Guerrero reluctantly let the doctor examine him.

"Pupils equal and reactive," the doctor said shining a penlight in Guerrero's eyes. "That's a good sign."

"No shit," Guerrero grumbled, slapping the doctors hand away.

"Can you tell me your name?" the doctor asked.

"Fuck you," Guerrero muttered half-heartedly.

"Is he normally this belligerent?" the doctor asked Chance, apparently unfazed by Guerrero's behaviour.

"Yes," Chance replied. "If not more so. Trust me, for him, these are normal responses."

The doctor nodded. "What exactly happened? Mrs Pucci only told me it was a head wound."

"Baseball bat," Guerrero said. "And a lucky punch."

"So you remember what happened?"

"It's crystal fucking clear."

"May I?" the doctor was wise enough to ask before gently checking Guerrero's head for lumps and abrasions. "It seems your friend has been extremely lucky, Mr Chance. I'll need to see an x-ray to be sure, but I think after a few days rest he should be fine."

"No x-rays," Guerrero insisted. "I'm not going to a fucking hospital!"

"Not to worry. I have the facilities here to take x-rays."

An hour later Dr Dematteo had examined the x-rays and finished checking Guerrero over.

"Normally I would recommend that you stay under medical supervision for the next twenty four hours so your condition can be properly monitored, but I understand that this will not be possible. However, you should not be alone for the next day or two. Someone will have to keep an eye on you."

"Not a problem, doc, Chance said. "He'll stay with me."

"I'm afraid I cannot offer you any pain relief with an injury of this nature, but if it doesn't improve over the next couple of days, you must return to see me or another physician."

Guerrero glared at the doctor, but didn't reply.

"Thanks doc," Chance said, because Guerrero obviously wasn't going to. "I'll see that he's okay."

"I believe there should be a car waiting for you outside."

Ames was waiting for them outside with the surveillance van. She'd changed back into her own clothes, but her feet were bare and rubbed raw. Chance raised his eyebrows and was about to ask her what had happened to her shoes, when she ran up to them as if she was going to hug Guerrero but thought better of it at the last moment, handing him his glasses instead.

"Is he okay?" she asked Chance as Guerrero wiped his glasses against the corner of his shirt and put them back on. "I mean, I know he's not okay, I can see that, but no lasting damage, right?"

"Doc recons nothing more than a concussion and bruising," Chance said.

"Dude, I'm right here!" Guerrero said sullenly. "I've got a headache but I'm still able to talk y'know."

Ames and Chance exchanged a look. If Guerrero was up to being snarky with them, it was definitely a good sign.

Now that he knew Guerrero was definitely going to be okay, Chance felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle in. Ames offered him the keys to van, but he shook his head.

"You drive. I'm beat."

"Are we going back to the office or…?"

"Guerrero is going to stay with me for a few days."

She nodded and climbed into the driver's seat. Guerrero sat up front and Chance got in the back. He knew Guerrero must be feeling like a passenger in his own life after being carted off in an ambulance against what everyone knew to be his wishes, so he let Guerrero take the front seat without complaint. They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Chance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the front seats and asked what had happened after he left.

"Well, when the cops showed up Winston and Ilsa had to do some pretty fast talking," Ames explained. "But the fact that Seymour's guys killed Alison's protective detail didn't exactly win Seymour and his pals much sympathy. Besides, all the bad guys are dead so it's not like there will be a trial or anything. Winston's pretty certain that the whole thing should be wrapped up pretty soon."

"They're all dead?" Chance asked. "I thought Winston had one guy for questioning."

"Nuh-uh," Ames said shaking her head. "He bled out before the paramedics arrived. He did confirm that there were just three guys plus Seymour though."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

"So what happened?" Ames asked. "One minute you're kissing Alison frickin' Mcvey and the next all hell breaks loose!"

Chance gave Ames a quick rundown as to what had happened in the gazebo and how he took Seymour out.

"So you got to be the hero again then," Ames said, with a strained little smile. Chance could see that she was struggling to keep the conversation light and easy, but there was an underlying tension to her body language that screamed that she was far from okay.

"Yeah, I guess," Chance shrugged. "It is kinda in my job description."

"So are you going to see Alison again?" she asked playfully.

"No, I don't think so. She's not really my type."

"You should so call her!" Ames said. "She was like, all over you on the dance floor! Not to mention that she stuck her tongue down your…"

"Just, shut the fuck up!" Guerrero snapped. "I get it! Chance saved the day! Everything is just hunky-fucking-dory! No big deal!"

Ames went very pale, and her mouth hardened into a thin line as she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She took a hard right and slammed on the breaks, bringing the van to a screeching halt in a side street.

"Ames, what the…" Guerrero started to ask.

"IT IS A BIG DEAL!" she screamed at him. "It's a big fucking deal because when I saw you one the ground, not moving I thought you were fucking DEAD, you asshole!" The two men sat in shocked silence for a moment, and Ames rested her head on the steering wheel taking deep shuddering breaths as she tried to fight the tears that threatened to start falling.

"Well, I'm not," Guerrero said.

Ames sat back up, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah, I can see that now, you douche."

"There's no need to get all pre-menstrual about it, jeez," Guerrero muttered.

"Fuck you," Ames replied, throwing the van into reverse and getting them back on the road back to the office.

"You might wanna consider waterproof make-up if you're gonna make a habit out of bawling your eyes out. You're putting Chris Crocker's eyeliner to shame right now, dude."

Chance smiled as tension in the van lifted as Ames and Guerrero bickered with each other all the way back to the office.