Written for Misachan in Yuletide2010.

Update: There's been an unfortunate meeting of titles - this was actually written before First Impressions by tree979, but posted after and it didn't occur to me to look through previous stories for the similar titles. tree979 feels strongly on the issue, and that despite this fic clearly being vastly inferior to his or her own, people will mistake the two anyway. So if anyone has any suggestions for alternate titles, let me know!

Winston raises two fingers to the split on his lip and touches blood. A quick dart of his tongue over the cut stings, but he ignores it as he concentrates on hauling himself up off the warehouse floor with any dignity at all.

He tells himself that it's good to feel adrenaline pumping again. He tells himself that the last three months riding a desk - before he quit the force - made him soft and, hell, even six months ago he'd have ducked easy, and Chance was lucky, was what he was.

Chance stands halfway to the door, poised exactly between fight and flight - maybe closer to fight, because that's just who he is. His eyes are blown wide and if that's not panic, it's only because shock is getting in the way.

Not shock that he threw a punch, Winston knows - just that he didn't mean to this time.

"Okay." Winston nods slowly, when he's sure his jaw can take it. "You know what that was?"

Chance still doesn't move, doesn't respond; Winston will just go ahead and take that as breathless interest in the answer.

"That was understandable." He nods again, firmly. "Heightened situation, you didn't see me coming and we don't know each other that well. And, you, you have issues with authority anyway."

He crosses his arm and then lowers them to his sides, because he was paying attention in all those damn public relations seminars. "So you know what happens now?"

This time Chance shakes his head, that's practically a conversation; Winston feels he's getting somewhere. If the other man would just lower his fists, he'd even be happy about it.

"We use our words," he says flatly. "And our first word is...?"

"Sorry." Chance clears his throat and abruptly stands down, like he hadn't realised he was still waiting for a fight.

Probably hadn't, some things you just get used to.

"Really, I … " Chance smirks. "Whatever. You okay?"

Winston sniffs, unimpressed. "Please, that love tap?"

Any minute now, his ears will stop ringing.

"Apparently," he goes on, "you feel strongly enough about this to throw yourself right back in front of the train, so now we understand each other. See how that works? Tell me about Guerrero. He's a friend?"

"Yeah. No." Chance shrugs and jams his hands in his pockets. "Kind of?"

Winston throws an old fashioned look Chance's way. "Glad we cleared that up."

"Look, the old man sent him after me and - and …" Too soon, way too soon, and this was exactly what Winston didn't want – that tightness around the eyes and the way Chance moves just a little slower, like he's hoping …

Chance's shoulders straighten again. "He came in loud, he talked. He did everything, except open the door for us on our way out. Guerrero really wants you dead? You're dead."

Winston grunts acknowledgment; he doesn't know the man in question, but he does know Chance isn't much given to hyperbole. "Guess he didn't want you dead. "

"And the old man knows that too, he sent him off on some crazy job and now he's going to get himself killed." Chance looks up, looks away; looks back. "Because of me. "

"Maybe I was mistaken, Chance, but aren't you exploring whole new career avenues now? Saving people, that kind of thing?"

"Guerrero's a person," Chance says, in an overly reasonable tone.

See, that's what he gets for encouraging talking. He raises an eyebrow. "Guerrero - and correct me if I'm wrong - is an amoral killer who got in over his head on his way to murder someone."

"Yeah, but someone really … bad? Probably? You don't send Guerrero after suburban housewives, is what I'm saying."

"That makes me feel so much better about it," Winston mutters morosely, and knows he's lost this one. Hell, he lost this one around the time Chance hit him and didn't run; doesn't mean he has to be happy about it.

"Great!" The sudden grin almost makes it worth it. Almost.

"I'm going to regret this," he promises.

The thing about Guerrero is, he doesn't like handcuffs. Chance tries to explain that as they pass body after body, some of them groaning softly, some of themway beyond that.

Winston grunts.

Really doesn't like handcuffs. And it's also important to keep in mind, Chance points out, that no one in the compound is what you would call innocent.

Winston just stares at him.

And Guerrero probably didn't even get to pull off the hit, Chance says as they make their way into the main hall.

Where they find a small, slender man pulling a knife out the neck of an ex-mob boss.

"That so?" Winston asks dryly, just as Guerrero looks up, casts a casual eye over both of them and greets Chance with a nonchalant, "Hey, dude."

The only ray of light – one that gives Winston a warm sense of smugness, especially later - is that he's pretty sure Guerrero wasn't making it out of there without them. And however much he denies it, Guerrero knows it too; doesn't take a genius to see he'd decided to get the job done and then take as many people down with him as he could.

It's not a character trait Winston can say he's comfortable with in his associates, especially when he realises Chance is doing exactly the same thing. Only instead of killing as many people as he can before he goes down, he's trying to save them.

Oh hell no, that's not happening on Winston's watch. Trouble is, determination doesn't help him sleep any better at night.

Come to that, neither does Guerrero being an associate.

It starts with the guy helping out, just now and then, and somehow – and Winston's still not entirely sure how – it ends with stolen takeout and rolls of duct-tape on the coffee table.

He brings it up on occasion: plaintively, strongly, angrily - pleadingly. Chance never lashes out again, but then he doesn't have to: Guerrero never lets himself get set up like that again either.

Say what you like – and Winston does – Guerrero never makes the same mistake twice.

So Winston's resigned to it until one day, months later, he's slumped in a chair with his hands cuffed behind him. There's a gash on his scalp that's bleeding into his eye, and it's Guerrero and Chance busting through the door.

He looks up and the world sharpens; it's Guerrero with a disapproving frown and a split lip that matches the graze on Chance's knuckles.

Winston smiles beatifically.

And then kicks the guy Chance punches into range.