Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
Guerrero weighed his cell phone in his hands. Shannon was in LA. He could make it there in a couple of hours. She had told him in no uncertain terms she wasn't willing to continue their little arrangement, yes, but he knew how to push her buttons. If he really wanted to, he could make her cave in.
Question was, did he really want to?
A night with Shannon would definitely provide some much needed stress relief.
But…
A low beep from his security system startled him from his thoughts and alerted him to a visitor. Guerrero got up and glanced at the security cam's hidden monitor. Something between an audible exhalation of breath and an exasperated snort escaped him as he saw who was making her way up the staircase of the apartment house he holed up in.
Damn.
Ilsa.
Of all people.
A clear case of be careful what you wish for. Shannon would have definitely been the easier solution.
... ... ...
"If Chance gives up any more of my hideouts, I'll have to kill both of you." Guerrero opened the door before Ilsa had a chance to knock.
"Given today's revelations, you could plead "not guilty" afterwards." Ilsa slipped past him into his apartment, shrugging out of her coat and throwing it over one of his chairs in the living-room area before he could object.
The message was loud and clear: She was planning to stay.
Guerrero, however, felt the anger that had been building up inside of him ever since Peale's visit slowly approaching boiling point. "Your idea of a joke?", he asked.
His voice was so icy cold, it made Ilsa stop dead in her tracks. She had figured making light of Peale's comment would somehow ease the tension – Guerrero had always been so open about his violent side… apparently she had been wrong.
"Peale is an idiot", she quickly tried to repair the damage. "Like Chance said, there's no scientific evidence that people with XYY-syndrome are more likely to harm others than normal people. It's a cliché, invented by the media and novelists who were too lazy to do proper research. A modern day version of the werewolf theme. Aside from that we don't even know if Peale's theory is true in the first place. If I were you I'd make a DNA test as soon as possible. An acquaintance of mine owns a private laboratory, it would be easy to…"
"Do you think Peale is right, Ilsa?"
Caught off-guard by the question, she didn't manage anything but a shocked stare.
Guerrero wasn't expecting an answer anyway. "You didn't contradict Peale when he made his murder gene assumption. You're berating him now, but back in the conference room? Not a word from you. Guess that's all I need to know."
Ilsa opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated. He was right, she should have said something. How in the world had he managed to register her silence in such an emotionally challenging moment?
"I needed to process the whole situation first!", she tried to defend himself.
"This DNA thing is a convenient explanation, isn't it? How often have you told me that I'm crossing borders that should never ever be crossed? Now you know why – 'cause I'm a mad man. A freak who doesn't make his own decisions. Nature steers me. Like a puppet on a string."
This time Ilsa knew what to hurl back at him: "I wouldn't feel safe with a mad man!"
Now it was Guerrero's turn to pause in stunned silence.
"Kizuna", Ilsa said quietly. "No matter what your past is, no matter what any test results say, I feel safe with you." With shaking fingers she unbuttoned her blouse, turned her back to Guerrero and let the silken cloth slide down her left shoulder, revealing the tattoo she had been carrying ever since the Crane case.
At first Guerrero neither said nor did anything. But she could hear his breathing grow louder. Then she felt a calloused fingertip carefully, very carefully follow the lines of the tattoo. After a while the other fingertips joined the first one, brushed over her bare skin ever so lightly. In the end he covered the kanji with his palm, applying minimum pressure. Ilsa realized he could probably feel her heart beating wildly in her chest. He stepped towards her, his breath ghosting against her exposed neck.
"Leave", he whispered.
"No."
All of a sudden the warmth of his hand was gone and he was stepping away from her.
"I'm not going away", she insisted.
"The couch is not meant to be slept on and I'm no Chance, I'm not going to offer you my bed and spend the night in the armchair."
"I'll manage." Ilsa started buttoning her blouse. Only when she heard a door close behind her she turned around. Guerrero was gone, apparently he had retreated into what seemed to be his bedroom. She sighed and bent down to test the sofa. Oh my, was it even supposed to be sat on? She had never encountered a harder piece of furniture.
Ah well, she had come here to prove a point an prove it, she would. Maybe if she rearranged the pillows a little? She was just in the process of taking off her shoes when she heard the bedroom door behind her open again.
For a brief moment.
A folded blanket came flying out of it. It landed with a muffled thump on the couch.
And the door was closed again...
Frowning, she spread the blanket out. It was gray, it was prickly and it had a red hammer and sickle emblem embroidered into one corner.
Kizuna.
... ... ...
Guerrero didn't sleep a wink. The news about his father, himself and the possible consequences for his son alone would have been enough to keep him awake, but Ilsa's presence topped everything off. She had kept the kizuna sign…
With the help of the microphone he had installed in his living-room he listened to her every breath. From her respiratory rate he could tell she lay awake for a long time, probably waiting for him to open his door again.
No. Not like this. She deserved better. Way better.
Around three in the morning Ilsa's cell phone signaled. "Connie? How are you doing? Is everything alright with you? … You scared me! It's three o'clock in the morning here. … The time difference, Connie… The exchange of letters with Carson and Company? Yes, I do have a copy of them, but not here, I'm not at home, I…. Is it really that important?... Yes, I see that that would endanger the funding of the project… no, we wouldn't want that…I'll go and look it up…"
Guerrero heard her get up, fold the blanket…then there was a noise he couldn't identify…her footsteps towards the door… gone she was.
Curious, he got up, too, and entered the living-room. There on the sofa was the blanket, neatly folded, the pillows, put back the way he had them arranged…and a small parcel. Just a gray box, nothing special. He carefully lifted the lid, looked inside – and smiled, for the first time that day.
Gleaming at him in the semi-darkness of the box was the white glass pear from Ilsa's desk.
