Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A couple of days later. Early evening. Emma Barnes' house.
Emma almost failed to hear the knock on the door, she was too busy tearing down the wall between kitchen and living-room with the help of a sledge hammer. Chance, however, was persistent and so, between two blows, she perceived the faint tock-tock after all.
"So you've decided to continue with the renovation yourself?", he asked, taking in her appearance thoroughly: Faded jeans, old T-shirt, hair in a loose ponytail. To his surprise she didn't smell of sweat, despite the high temperature in the room; apparently she was using one of these new deodorants that grow more intense the more the body heats up. Chance couldn't help but take an extra whiff of that delicious scent.
"As you said, I brought this upon myself." She took a sip from a bottle of water. "So I guess it's also my job to finish it myself." She offered him a fresh bottle. He accepted it.
"Guerrero said the video shows that you shot the BRM killer first in one foot, then in the other. Afterwards you proceeded to the kneecaps. First the right one, then the left one. According to Guerrero you pulled up a chair and watched him writhe at your feet for minutes on end. You waited half an hour before finally aiming at his head."
Emma turned away from Chance, staring off into the distance.
"Thirty minutes, Emma. With four non-lethal gunshots. That's torture."
When she didn't move, didn't show any sign at all that she had heard him, Chance stepped next to her. Only then he noticed that she was silently crying.
He gently took her by her shoulder and turned her towards him. Emma raised a little on her feet, apparently with the intention to kiss him, but he anticipated the move and cautiously but firmly redirected her face with this free hand. She ended up pressing it against his chest.
"You lost control", he said. "All you wanted was to stop him, but then somehow things spun out of control." His shirt was getting soaked from her tears.
Chance wrapped his arms around her and pulled her with him to the floor, almost cradling her.
… … …
Same time. San Diego. Outside an apartment house.
The young woman climbed out of her car and unstrapped her little daughter from the safety seat. Awkwardly balancing a bulging shopping bag and her kid, she slowly made her way to the building's front door. Predictably, she dropped her keys. She was just about to crouch downwards when a long not heard voice stopped her.
"Let me help you."
The woman wheeled around. "You!"
"It's been a while", Ames cautiously said.
"Not long enough!", the other woman snapped. She crouched down and grabbed the keys before Ames could touch them. "What the hell do you want?"
"Apologize", Ames whispered, barely audible.
For a long moment the young mother just stared at her. Then she laughed harshly. "You? Apologize?"
Ames didn't know what to say.
"After all you've done to me you think that's enough? An apology?" The child in her arms sensed her distress and started wriggling.
The woman stomped up the stairs to the building's entrance and inserted her key. She turned it so vehemently that it broke. "Oh no! Not another bill this month!"
"I can get the broken part out", Ames offered. "I can also get you another key. For free."
The woman watched Ames work in silence, the only sounds coming from her more and more upset getting daughter. When Ames was finished, she wordlessly entered the building. "The key would help", she said. Then she closed the door behind her.
Firmly.
… … …
The warehouse. Ilsa's office. Later in the evening.
Ilsa was sitting at her desk, staring at her phone. She needed to make those calls. All the material she and Guerrero had collected was totally worthless if she didn't make those calls. She needed to let the various board members know how far she was willing to go to keep her position. She needed to threaten them.
Threaten them.
People she had regarded as friends, once upon a time. People she had celebrated birthdays with, exchanged Christmas presents with… Guerrero had warned her that once she started putting them under pressure, friendship over even just a friendly relationship was not an option anymore.
"You can either be their blackmailer or their friend", he had told her.
So was she really going to call Donald, old schoolmate of Marshall's, and hint at informing his wife about his very insightful credit card billing?
Ilsa glanced at the clock. Chance was gone for more than three hours now. He surely was with this bloody Barnes woman!
"He's not going to wave a magic wand and make it all go away, Ilsa", she reminded herself.
"But he would voice his opinion on my plans. He would either support me or think of something else. He would be here."
She was feeling terribly alone.
Images of Chance and that Barnes woman crept up in her mind, unbidden. She tried to push them aside – it was his decision, his alone. If he was more interested in that ruddy agent, so be it.
And then suddenly she felt angry.
Very angry.
Angry enough to call Donald. And Erica. And Sebastian. And all the others…
To hell with them!
… … …
The warehouse. Almost midnight.
Chance wasn't extraordinarily silent when he exited the elevator, but as soon as he noticed the light in Ilsa's office, he switched into silent mode.
She was sleeping, hunched over her desk. That didn't look comfortable at all. She looked terribly exhausted. Guerrero had told him about her plan to remain head of the Marshall Pucci Foundation. He felt an intense pang of guilt. She wouldn't have to fight if it weren't for her involvement with the team – and he had left her alone. His first impulse was to walk over to her, pick her up and carry her to the couch in the lounge so she could stretch out.
On the other hand, she had shown very finely tuned sensory perception lately and he had Emma's deodorant all over his shirt.
She'd never believe his version of how it got there.
Quietly as a shadow Chance made his way upstairs, into his bedroom and got rid of his shirt. He was already on the verge of putting on a fresh one when he realized that she would notice the fresh smell of the washing powder and conclude that he had changed to hide something from her. He grabbed a used, sweat stained shirt from a pile of unwashed laundry. Yes, this smelt right.
He went back downstairs again, silently, silently, gently picked up Ilsa from her awkward position and carried her into the lounge. As he proceeded to lower her on the couch, she turned in his arms and snuggled into him. She slept so peacefully, he didn't have the heart to put her down, so he carried her upstairs to his own couch where he could sit with her more comfortably.
Ilsa wasn't fully awake. Had she been, she would have immediately gotten up, hell bent on keeping her distanced boss image. Semi-conscious as she was, however, she remained in his arms, taking in the scent of his shirt and with great content not tracing a single whiff of Emma on him.
… … …
Ten years later. A dark alley somewhere.
She had noticed a while ago that she was being followed, but no matter how many turns she made, she couldn't shake her pursuer off. Finally she decided to seek direct confrontation.
"Okay, enough is enough. What the hell do you want?", she hissed, wheeling around at the same time and throwing her knife at him. Its mother-of-pearl handle gleamed briefly in the faint light of the lonely streetlamp on the corner.
He caught it with long-practiced ease.
"What did I say about not crossing my paths again?"
A/N: another-all-nighter: Couldn't kill that cute cat! Humans, yes, but cats? Thank you for your comment!