“I swear to God,” Guerrero said, gritting his teeth, “If word of this ever, and I mean ever, gets out— ”
“You think I'm enjoying this?” Chance said. He plucked another garment off the rack, held it to his chest, then threw it aside. “Would you rather we were out there getting shot at?”
“Maybe.” Guerrero muttered. Then, “What do you think this is, a fashion show? Pick something!”
“Look, I have broad shoulders okay? It's not like I can just slip into anything.”
Guerrero snorted. “Broad shoulders? You and everyone else here. I think it's safe to say you've found the one place where you're guaranteed to find a dress in your size.”
He leaned past Chance, flicked past some of the flashier numbers, then yanked a gauzy green babydoll dress from its hanger and shoved it into Chance's arms.
“Here. Put it on, let's go.”
It took him a couple of tries, but Chance eventually managed to shimmy the dress down over his arms. “Hey, what do you know? It actually fits pretty well."
“Wonderful. Come on.”
Guerrero started towards the door.
Chance pointed to Guerrero's feet. Guerrero followed his gaze, shrugged, then looked back up. “Yeah, so?”
“I think the boots are going to be a little conspicuous, don't you?”
Chance jerked his thumb towards the wall of glittery, slinky shoes behind them.
“No. No way.”
“Come on, you know as well as I do that we're not walking out of here unless we look the part. And I don't know, Guerrero, I think you'd look good in slingbacks.”
“Dude, I'm about this close to killing something. Keep it up, and it just might be you.”
Ten minutes later a scowling, red-haired woman clad in sequins and pale orange chiffon tottered out of the entrance to Club Rozi, ignored by the hulking goons peering up and down the street. A few moments later a taller woman with a blonde wig that was too awful to even be called tacky exited as well, headed in the same direction as the first, trailing her by a few dozen yards. (More difficult than it sounded, since even with the mincing steps they were taking they seemed liable to topple at any moment.)
Still, they eventually made it to the corner a block away, where a black SUV idled at the crosswalk.
“Well, don't you lads clean up nice!” Baptiste laughed as they opened the side doors and clambered in. “And look at that Guerrero, who knew that body was hiding under all those sport coats? Why don't you give us a front and back, darling?”
He yelped and ducked, still laughing, as a silver peeptoe with a heel like a spiked doorstop flew through the space where his head had been and thumped into the windshield.
“Shut. up. and. drive.”
#2For prompt: Human Target, Guerrero/Winston, height difference
"Are you sure you don't want me to...?"
"No, Winston, I don't." Guerrero snapped.
"Fine." Winston held his hands up, then crossed them over his chest and leaned back to watch.
More hopping, more swearing. Guerrero glanced over his shoulder and caught Winston's eye, then he scowled and whirled back towards the counter.
He took a deep, ragged breath. Stepped back as though gauging the distance. Crouched a little, then a little more. He bounced on the balls of his feet, reared back, and leapt.
Winston straightened a little.
Guerrero's fingers brushed the rim of the shelf, caught the edge of the box--
--and knocked it even further into the depths of the cabinet.
"Fuck!" Guerrero slapped the counter top and dragged his fingers through his hair. Again he glanced at Winston, then hunched his shoulders and turned away.
He slid off the edge of the table and walked over to the counter, ignoring the gaze he could feel burning into his shoulder, and reached into the cabinet to pluck out the elusive box of cereal.
Guerrero's face had turned roughly the color of raspberries, but that didn't stop him from leveling a look at Winston that promised all kinds of slow, unimaginable horrors. Winston just shook the box and fought back the smile that threatened to break at the corners of his mouth.
Ten seconds later Guerrero snatched the box from Winston's hand, clenched it beneath his arm, and left without a word.
Eva looked up, hand and water glass poised halfway to her mouth. The man standing over her didn't bother hiding the once-over he gave her; at least he wasn't so bad looking himself. A little scrawnier than she liked, maybe, but he was wearing so many layers it was hard to tell.
She tipped her head to the side and looked at him through her hair. "Do I know you?"
"No. Frank does, though. Name's Guerrero." He offered his hand.
She'd been wrong, she realized; the sharp lines of his wrist and forearm hinted at well-honed muscle beneath all those clothes. When Eva shook his hand she felt the rough contours of a calloused knuckle beneath the pad of her thumb, and the uneven angles of two once-broken fingers wrapping over her palm. A fighter's hand.
"Guerrero...you're with the guy who was working for Eddie. Chance."
He slid onto the seat opposite her. "You're thorough."
"So are you, from what I hear. Frank said you were the best."
"That's why you hired me, isn't it?"
"Confident too. But I haven't hired you yet." She slid a plain manilla envelope across the table. "Let's see what you can do for me, first."
Guerrero pulled the sheaf of documents from the envelope and started flipping through them.
"Wow," He said, after a minute or so. "Frank wasn't kidding. You really are in over your head."
She frowned. "He said that?"
"Not in so many words, but the implication was there...You were in Belgium, huh? How'd you get mixed up with Naylor?"
Good question. Wish I knew.
Out loud she said, "It's a long story."
"I've got time. Maybe over drinks?"
"Was that a casual suggestion, or an invitation?"
Guerrero's lip quirked. "Half and half. Whichever you prefer."
Eva considered him for a long moment. Then she reached into her clutch and fished out a ten dollar bill.
"Kalamazoo Stout," She said, smiling slightly. "And I think we'll go with casual suggestion. You might want to try that invitation again, though, when this mess is all cleared up."
Guerrero tapped the bill against his forehead as though he was tipping an imaginary hat, then stood and headed towards the bar.