Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: I can't believe I'm actually finishing this – this is the longest thing I've EVER written and I would have never come so far if not for the wonderful people who helped me along the way. Thank you niagaraweasel, veniceit, PocketSevens, plasma22 and tree979, thank you so much. Without your suggestions and continuous support I would have never been able to pull this off. A big thank you also to all my other reviewers, you have no idea what feedback means to me, it puts a smile on my face and carries me through dreadful days. Last but not least, THANK YOU to all my silent readers who bore with this story for so long. I cannot put into words what a joyful experience this has been.
…and because this has been so much fun, I've decided to write a fourth season. It will be called "Isamu means" and it'll start next Monday. Maybe you'll give it a try, too?
Ilsa insisted on paying for Sergej's funeral, much against Guerrero's wishes. They had another standoff, this time loud, long and fierce, with everyone realizing at some point that this was not really about the payment issue but about certain other, recent events.
"Have you ever seen Guerrero actually arguing with someone?", Winston asked, munching. He was sharing a packet of crackers with Ames.
"Must be a first", Chance agreed, watching thoughtfully the back and forth between his friend and Ilsa through the glass walls of her office. Discussions of the slamming doors kind were usually not Guerrero's thing at all. Not that many people would have had the guts to stand up against him anyway.
At least not without sufficient armament at hand.
They couldn't understand everything that was being said. Ames had suggested slipping a bug in, but Chance had vetoed the idea, stating something about right to privacy.
"And Guerrero would notice…", Winston had added. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if he found out you'd been spying on him."
Ames could only agree with that.
In the end, to absolutely everyone's surprise, Guerrero gave in. Ilsa paid the funeral. Was he, with this concession, also saying that she had been right about something else?
Let's not interpret too much into it. When he left Ilsa's office, the air between them didn't feel cleared at all.
Sergej was buried on a brisk Friday morning, with whitish fog from the Bay obscuring most of the graveyard, as if the world around them had suddenly disappeared.
To Daisy, in the midst of her pregnancy, it surely felt that way. She was standing with Sergej's family, his brother's wife holding her tight throughout the service. She'd stay with them for the next few months.
As Sergej's urn was slowly lowered into the ground, Guerrero played Toby Keith's "Crying for me" on his saxophone.
Ames knew the lyrics. She tried sobbing quietly, but to her it felt as if they were not only burying Sergej, whom she had barely known, but also something else, a future that might have been. She couldn't help but cautiously peering at Chance, again and again, wondering how he was feeling now.
She wasn't the only one.
He had forbidden Guerrero to track Philippa any further and ever since they were all anxiously on the lookout for signs that might give away how he was dealing with the situation.
Remarkably well, it appeared.
He seemed to be more upbeat again, some of his old mischief was back, judging from yesterday's incident with Carmine, the tax inspector and the hidden dog biscuits. Oh boy, could the dog be insistent when food was on the line…
But a new client was scheduled to come by at noon today and the big question was, how suicidal would Chance behave while working a case? Would they have to worry every time he got involved in some physical action?
After the funeral they headed to the office together. Still more than an hour to go before their client was set to arrive. Ilsa mumbled something about paperwork, Winston started rummaging in the kitchen, Guerrero switched on a laptop in the conference room.
Ames was in a bit of a loss till Chance slapped her on the back. "Why don't you change into something more practical? I'll give you a training lesson." The light in his eyes was still missing. He had taken on a look of – resignation? That sounded too negative to describe his state.
Stoic was the word, Ilsa decided as she watched Ames and Chance getting ready to spar. Apparently Chance had accepted that he was who he was, that he couldn't force anything, not through sacrifice, not through violence, neither redemption nor peace nor being a father. Maybe the memory of the Crane and his son, Isamu, played a part, too, or the sight of pregnant Daisy whose child would grow up fatherless. Maybe he had decided that all he could do was accept things as they were and strive to make himself a better man.
"Food will be ready in thirty, so don't get yourselves killed beforehand", Winston yelled from the kitchen. "Ilsa, no oversea conference calls. Guerrero, that's my laptop!"
The sound of the doorbell interrupted everything, but they weren't overly concerned. Probably just their client, a bit early. Guerrero checked the security cam.
His next words brought everything to a screeching halt.
"Chance, it's her. And she's not alone."
Not even waiting for Chance's reply, Guerrero buzzed the front door open and sent them the elevator.
… … …
Of course Philippa had dug around – she had barely escaped what probably would have been her death. A painful, prolonged death. Naturally she had wanted to find out more about the people who almost provided it.
Christopher Chance. The guy you go to when no one else can help.
At first she had laughed when she had heard that phrase – the Christopher Chance she had met had certainly not come across as someone willing to give everything, even his life, for the safety of a client. But the reports had been many. And they matched with the original description JuJu had given her of the man she had met and fallen head over heels in love with.
"He's the best thing that's ever happened to me!"
A week later however, that had sounded a lot different. Philippa briefly closed her eyes as the conversation she had had so many years ago with Juliet came back to her mind.
"He's an assassin!"
"Well, he told you about it – don't you think this indicates he might want to, I don't know, change his ways?"
"Does that matter? He killed people for a living!"
The many reports about Christopher Chance saving this client and that implied that he had indeed changed his ways. But that wasn't what had made her come back to San Francisco, to this place again.
He had cut her ties.
Philippa had watched her surroundings very closely after fleeing from the warehouse. No more attempts to track her down, nobody following her, nobody watching her online activities.
He had really set her free. He had given her a choice. For once she hadn't been forced to act somehow, blindly stumbling from one obstacle to the next.
He had given her a choice.
… … …
The elevator doors slid open. Out stepped a lanky boy, short blond hair, blue eyes. Half-shrugging his shoulders, he stopped and stared at them, cautious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Carmine slowly trotted towards him.
"Hey…", he said.
FINIS OPERIS