Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: A big thank you to tree979 who prevented me from making a horrible plot decision at the very last minute!
~ kizuna means ~
The warehouse.
Outside the sun was setting. Judging from the sounds of the elevator, Winston had just reached the ground floor. Chance slumped down on the sofa, cocked his eyebrows and rested his eyes on Guerrero. "Spill it out."
His throat felt a bit dry and he looked around for a glass of water. When none was in sight he shrugged and turned his attention back to his friend, who was maintaining iron silence. "Winston's food in the fridge has remained suspiciously untouched lately. He's starting to gain weight."
No reaction from Guerrero.
"There's a scratch on the paint job of the ElDo… you haven't even tried to get hold of the perpetrator."
Something like irritation lit up in Guerrero's eyes.
Whoa.
"You didn't notice there was a scratch on the door?" Chance cleared his throat. Damn, he needed something to drink. But this was important.
Guerrero didn't reply.
"Now you're seriously creeping me out. You didn't notice that scratch?" Chance groped around the couch. Where was the bottle of Bourbon he usually kept here? "Well, don't worry, Winston and I had a word with the guy who did it. He's going to pay the bill."
Now it was Guerrero's turn to raise an eyebrow.
"It was Winston's idea." Chance really wished he had something to drink, his voice was getting more croaky by the minute. "Guess he wanted to make sure the guy wouldn't end up floating in the Bay with a cut throat…"
A dismissive snort from Guerrero.
"What? Suddenly your reputation doesn't matter anymore? What's gotten into you?" Chance studied him carefully, taking his time to watch his face, his posture, his hands…
"You are crept out!"
"Pregnant", was all Guerrero managed to say. Just a single word, but it carried all the weight he had felt for the past few weeks – as a pressure on his chest at night, a burden on his shoulders, a net around his heart.
For a long while, Chance said nothing, just let the information sink in. A shiver ran down his spine. Guerrero had always made sure he had no detectable weaknesses, no vulnerable spots that could be used against him.
This had to be, by his standards, a major disaster.
And Chance definitely didn't want to be in his shoes right now.
Protecting a child in the world they lived in?
A nightmare.
No use in pointing that out, though. Judging from his behavior lately, Guerrero had spent a lot of time mulling the issue over.
"You're not alone in this", he finally coughed, really wishing he knew where he'd put the Bourbon. "I've got your back and so does Winston."
A warning look, brief but very clear.
"No, I'm not going to tell him. But we've got your back."
Another warning look.
"I've got your back."
Satisfied nod. And the flicker of a smile.
"Let's hope it's not a girl…" Chance massaged his throat.
A questioning frown from Guerrero.
"Imagine she inherits your good looks…"
They both burst out laughing.
"Don't know about you, but I need a drink, dude." Guerrero got up, apparently knowing where to find the damn Bourbon.
Although everything in Chance screamed for something to quench his thirst, he stopped him nevertheless. "Who's the mother?"
"Dude…"
Chance shot forward, grabbed his wrist and grabbed it hard. "I want to know."
Guerrero struggled, tried to pull his wrist free.
The shattering sound of a glass crashing to the floor.
"I WANT TO KNOW!"
"Chance! Chance!" Guerrero's voice changed, became more high-pitched, adopted a British accent. His face morphed, took on female features...
The pounding of feet up a metal stairway.
"Dude, you're breaking Ilsa's wrist."
Chance opened his eyes, found himself staring at the concerned faces of Winston, Guerrero, Ames and Ilsa. Ilsa's was more contorted with pain than concerned, though.
"It's okay, bro, you're back home." Guerrero slowly bent over and started to pry his friend's fingers from Ilsa's wrist. Chance let that happen with surprisingly little resistance.
That should have tipped Guerrero off, but let's face it, they were all a bit shaken after the events of the past few days. Chance clutched his hand tight, entangled his fingers with his own and started twisting them in an extremely painful move.
"Get out of here. All of you", Guerrero managed to hiss through clenched teeth. The others reluctantly filed out, with Winston hovering on the threshold.
"Get out." Guerrero's voice was reduced to a strained whisper, more from the decision he had just made than from the pain.
He would not fight back. Goddamn gas and everything else was still messing with Chance's brain. He would surely not fight back.
The pain Chance was inflicting was so bad, Guerrero had no choice but to follow Chance's pull, allow him to slowly drag him down on the bed and take away his glasses. Damn smart bastard.
In slow motion Chance increased his hold of him to the shoulder region, twisted his whole left arm and pressed him down on the mattress, one knee pinning him firmly, putting pressure on the vertebra of the loin, the back's most vulnerable part.
"You knew", Chance coughed. "And you didn't tell me."
"Drink something, dude. Your throat must be killing you."
"How long?" Chance's coughing increased.
A big shadow, surprisingly quiet, slipped back into the room.
"We knew for a couple of days, not more. Come on Chance, drink this." Winston's hand on his shoulder, heavy, firm, reassuring. Chance reluctantly released Guerrero and glanced at the promising looking glass of water Winston was offering him.
"You spiked it?"
Winston shook his head. "No."
Together with Guerrero he slowly turned around Chance, gradually pushing him back into the sheets. Chance sipped at the water, then emptied the glass completely. Blinking his eyes, he waited for some sort of drowsiness setting in.
Nothing happened.
"I'm going to get my notebook", Guerrero told him.