The first few days after she went back to London were easy enough. He sulked, blamed his red, puffy eyes on a severe lack of sleep and fought his way through every mission with more violence and bullets than necessary. Winston and Guerrero didn't question it, Ames stopped coming to work until he straightened himself out and none of them brought up the reason he was like this. Her name was off-limits in the office. It was easy enough to dodge questions about how he was doing and ignore Winston's suggestion he take a sleeping pill. In his mind, though, in some twisted part of his mind, he deserved to be an insomniac. He didn't deserve the comfort of sleep, not after what he had done to her. Not after he had driven her away, the morning after he had essentially used her for physical release and emotional comfort.
The 'what-ifs' drive him insane.
He thinks about it constantly. Replays it again in his mind, using every alternative outcome he can possibly dream up - no matter how outlandish it may seem. His mind wraps itself in the comfortable cocoon of the idea that had she stayed; had he fought harder to make her stay, to keep her with him, then things might have been different. Even though he knows it will never be, he can't help but wonder. After Katherine, he had done the same thing before finally learning to let go. He's not sure he'll ever learn to let go of Ilsa but he can't seem to blur that dividing line between what his brain is telling him to do and what his ever-so-carefully guarded heart wants him to do. He can't seem to synchronize his brain and his heart and make them want the same thing. If he doesn't learn to blur that dividing line; that sharp dividing line that keeps forming that chasm that lingers between him and Ilsa, than he'll never have her the way he wants her. There'll always be something keeping them apart even if they never truly let go of one another.
It hurt. Although he can't pinpoint what exactly hurts the worst, knowing how bad he hurt Ilsa or the fact that she left. In hindsight, it was the former that caused the latter which may be why he can't pinpoint which one hurts the most. He had never meant to hurt her or at least that's what he tells himself. In all honesty, he knew that just by telling her that another night like that one can never happen again had probably not hurt as bad as not telling why nothing like that could happen again. Nothing like that heavenly night spent with a sensual woman in his arms, willing to give him the physical release they both sought in one another and the emotional comfort that they needed.
His shoulder pulls and strains painfully when he winds up and flings the bottle of Jack Daniels a little too hard, sending the bottle crashing into the wall. The amber liquid drips down the wall and the loud shatter of glass fills the room. He can only stare at what he's done. He hated himself so much for what he had done. To Ilsa. Because of Ilsa. For Ilsa. His fists clench as everything from the last couple of months came crashing in on him. Everything. Every single damn thing that he'd done for her, to her and because of her, lingering in the forefront of his mind. He can't shake it and he can feel his knees going wobbly as he realizes the gravity of having driven her away.
He couldn't bend without the world caving in on him. He couldn't bend and just open up a little; get close to someone without the lingering fear of losing that person. He couldn't handle losing Ilsa too. Although he already had so he supposed it didn't really matter much anymore. She was gone. She had walked out of his life. He didn't have her anymore. He had to learn that opening up a little, showing people the vulnerability that was so carefully concealed behind that iron wall he had built around his heart, didn't automatically mean he would lose them. In fact, if he had done it with Ilsa, he might still have her around. There are so many ways he could have made her stay and yet, here he was depressed because she left when it's his fault.
"Chance," Winston's gruff voice snaps him out of the trance he seems to have gone into and when he looks over, Winston is standing there looking for all the world like the dark, brooding ex-cop that he is with his arms crossed over his chest. "You've been up here for three days...eventually you're gonna have to talk about it."
Has it really been three days?
"I don't want to talk about it, Winston. Or her." Chance spits out bitterly, glaring angrily at the wall where the dark amber whiskey is still dripping down the white surface. The glass bottle shattered on the floor along with the torn black and white label that marked the familiar glass bottle. "Or anything. I just don't want to talk. Last time I opened my mouth, I said the wrong thing...and now look where I am."
"What the hell is, it?" Winston growls, his gravelly baritone voice harsh and unforgiving - a tone he had to take quite a bit with Chance these days since he was such an unyielding person to talk too. One-sided conversations were never Winston's thing, he always found himself aggravated at the silence of not being fed a response. He always found his own voice reverberated back, bouncing against the unyielding silence of the other person who was unwilling to participate. As is the case with Chance lately. When Chance's only response is to brood and sulk like a petulant child, he continues; "Did something happen between you and Ilsa?"
The enunciation of the name that had been off-limits in the office seems to strike a chord with Chance; his back stiffens, the muscles clenching painfully tight and his fists are clenching and unclenching at his sides. His jaw is set tightly in place - such tightness could lead one to believe that his jaw had been wired shut but when he spins around, his ocean water eyes dark with an intense heat that dilates his pupils to the point his irises appear black with only a ring of dark, iced blue around the edge, Winston knows very well that saying her name might have been the very thing needed to get a response out of Chance sooner.
"Never say her name again. Got it?" There's a harshness in his voice yet peel away the layers and you'd find the desperate plea behind the harsh order. You'd see the pain and vulnerability in his eyes. He's not ordering, he's pleading. He doesn't want to hear her name again because there's something he's hiding. He's always been exceptional at hiding things. This time, it's a painful memory that although he's not willing to divulge, he's not trying hard to hide the fact that it hurts him.
He's not sure why but for some reason Winston feels the need to throttle his sulking business partner. Ilsa's gone back to London, possibly for good and his business partner is sulking like the petulant child he seems to have reverted too for the time being. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together here. It was still four in any case. Two emotionally scarred business partners in need of a physical release and a way to forget had, had a one night stand. Now, the reason for Ilsa leaving has become clear. Chance pushed her away, made her feel used and cheap and she fled to protect herself.
"Always protecting yourself, eh Chance?" The taunt rolls off of his tongue with ease. He's not worried about taunting his business partner - he's an ex-cop and is by no means a scrawny man. He can take care of himself.
"Winston."
"Forget it." Winston brushes off the weary slip of his name from his tired, probably drunk business partner. He's in no mood to hear Chance's pathetic excuses and he makes it abundantly clear that he doesn't want too hear it; "I don't want to hear it. She left. There's nothing you can do to fix it. Sleep it off, take a shower and for God's sakes man, stop sulking in something you caused."
He's harsh and he knows it but for Pete's sake, he had been listening to Chance's same bullcrap excuses for the past six years. It was old and he was honestly more sick of it than he let on sometimes. If it wasn't for Guerrero and Ilsa, he would have already quite cheerfully throttled Chance until his complexion matched his eye-color. Chance has always been resilient except when it comes to women. He can't seem to snap back from losing the women in his life. Chance can't let go of the fact that thanks to him, the women he had relied on at one point in his life were gone.
For a second he almost turns back but he knows if he does he'll say something he's bound to regret later so he just keeps going. He's not going to waste his breath on Chance; it wasn't worth it if it didn't have any affect.
Chance would always be a waste of effort as long as Ilsa was gone.
xxx
Paper bags, dark and fragile, from being pelted with the icy slush of sleet and rain that had been pouring outside for the last thirty minutes, dropped onto the dark formica countertop with a muffled thump. She barely pulls her arm away from one of the bags when it topples over and a jar of spicy marinara sauce rolls off of the edge, crashing onto the floor with a loud crack as the glass jar shatters on the white tile. The red sauces splashes and smears like blood; the only discernible difference being the dots of dark green oregano and black pepper.
"Bloody 'ell!" Her British accent is decidedly thicker now that she's back in her beloved London. "Bloody wet paper!"
She turns the bag upright once more, propping it up against the one next to it although she's sure it won't stay and shrugs out of her soaked black trenchcoat, brushing the pellets of ice that have clung to the static-y fabric. She drops it on the counter and disappears into the over-sized pantry to retrieve the proper cleaning supplies to clean up the mess. A bottle of tile cleaner and a sponge are dropped into a blue mop bucket. She flipped the hot water on, letting the water gushing out of the faucet heat up as she prepared her mop bucket. She poured a generous amount of her floor cleaner into the bucket before dropping it into the deep sink to let it fill up with the steaming hot water.
Growing up northern Ireland and then being alone in a big city like London had taught her that self-sufficiency was a necessary skill and without it, you were pretty much dead. She had been completely self-sufficient by the time she married Marshall and for quite some time after, she had, had to relearn how to not be completely self-sufficient. She didn't need to do all of the things Marshall had hired help for but that didn't stop her from doing it. The hired help had been on the receiving end of quite a few paid vacations thanks to the ever self-sufficient Irish born Brit.
The water was turning to a muddy red and only served to remind her that it had been at least three months since her floor had, had a good mop with hot sudsy water that could eat away at the grime before the mop swiped it up with a slosh of the wet ropes that formed the mop head. She hadn't paid anybody to come in and clean her home because she honestly hadn't planned on staying in San Francisco but she had required a certain kind of help that only he could provide and after that, her life just kind of spiraled. She hadn't been able to leave him and his team, especially because it seemed they lacked the necessary resources to run a proper business.
"I need a maid," She grumbled, wiping up the last swirls of the spilled marinara sauce and dropping the sponge into the hot water with a slosh of reddened foam. "To bloody 'ell with this."
The mop bucket stays on the ground and the groceries stay perched on the countertop, frozen foods steadily defrosting in the warmth of her kitchen. Her high heels click on the tile floor and sink into the thick pile carpet of her living room and stairs as she rushes up the stairs. Luckily for her nobody is there to notice the tears falling from dark eyes as she disappears into the calm serenity of her bedroom. She's not really sure why she's crying. All she knows is that she's been back in London for a week and crying is all she had been able to do when she had nothing to keep herself occupied with. Sometimes she wishes Marshall would have never been killed and other times, she wishes the blonde from the CIA would have just killed her too. Either scenario would have worked. So as long as she didn't up in the mess she's now.
Her wet clothes are tossed into the dirty clothes hamper; the water is turned on boiling hot and she ignores the slightly singed feeling as the hot water stings her skin as it sprays from her shower head. It doesn't matter that her skin will be red and probably burnt by the time she gets out. She just wants to get the feeling of him off of her. She wants him off of her. She doesn't want the memory of him; the feel of him; the smell of him off of her. It's been a whole damn week and it doesn't matter how much she's showered, the feeling is still there and she swears the smell is still there. She scrubs until the soap burns her raw, slightly burnt skin.
By the time she emerges from the shower, she's operating on auto-pilot. Her movements are mechanical and robotic. Buttoning up a blouse. Pulling on a pair of pants. Combing out her wet, tangled curls until they've returned to the thick, bouncy tangle of black they usually are. She doesn't care that her white blouse isn't tucked into her black pants or that she's not wearing stockings as she pads downstairs to finish putting the groceries away. When she tries to put the flour in the freezer and eggs in the cabinet, she knows it's time to stop. The eggs end up in the refrigerator with a careless flick of her wrist, disregarding the muffled cracks that come from within the styrofoam carton. The flour stays in the freezer because she's tired and she's sad and she's just stopped caring.
Glass clinks together as she fills a shot-glass to the brim with the strongest liquor she owns; one of the most expensive whiskeys money can buy. The dark amber liquid is fire in a bottle and she knows it. The smell alone could send anyone's blood alcohol level through the highest roof in London. The fiery liquid burns a scorching trail down her throat and she's knocked breathless from the impact the liquor has on her system. Her eyes widen; a strangled gasp catches in her throat and her face contorts into a painful grimace as the alcohol hits her empty stomach and an overwhelming wave of nausea overcomes her.
"What the 'ell?" Ilsa grumbles, swallowing thickly as her stomach twists and turns in painful contortions of protest.
The fiery pain licks at her stomach, twisting and turning it as she fumbles for her bearings to keep herself upright. The crystal clear memory she has of him is dimming, blurrying and becoming a mere fuzz of black and white static. The liquid fire is burning his memory away. Maybe, just maybe, if she struggles through a few more shots, she'll forget and it won't hurt so damn much. It won't hurt to know why she lives in London again. It won't hurt to think of that night. That night that had been so hot...yet so wonderful. Then maybe she can forget the next morning when he pushed her away and made her feel used and cheapened. As if she was only good for the bit of gratification she could give him and that was it. Then maybe she can forget the fact that she misses him so damn much, it hurts her to look at the color blue.
She doesn't want to remember.
She doesn't want to have those memories of him. She doesn't want to remember the way he felt against her. The warmth of his lightly tanned skin. The hardened, sinewy muscle underneath and the delicious way it clenched at her touch. The whisper of rum obvious in his mouth and on his breath. The rapid dilation of his pupils from arousal and liquor; darkening his eyes to the point blue was no longer visible. She doesn't want to remember the strength in his arms when he wrapped them around her or the distinct way his hand dipped into the small of her back. The fiery warmth of his cologne and the muskiness of sweat. His gutteral growls when she did something he liked.
He couldn't do that to her. He couldn't tempt her with something that she couldn't have anymore. She was done having her emotions played with. If he wanted to play a push-pull game, than he could find someone else to play with but she wasn't going to play his game. She wasn't going to let him use and cheapen her. She was sick of fighting his demons with him when she had her own demons she had to battle herself.
"Ilsa?" Connie's brown eyes scan the living room until she comes across the mini-bar and the current occupant, trying to keep herself upright. Her coat and purse drop to the ground and she rushes over to her sister-in-law. She snatches the bottle of liquor from Ilsa's tight grip and quickly reads the label. "Good Lord, Ilsa, what in the bloody 'ell 're you doin' to yourself? Are you crazy?"
"Forgetting." Ilsa's teeth chatter noisily as she talks, only serving as evidence that the alcohol has stripped her of complete control over her faculties.
"And just what, may I ask, in the bloody hell requires you to drink alcohol strong enough to kill a sailor?" Connie demands, screwing the tin lid back on the bottle and slamming it down on the polished Cherry wood of the mini-bar. "Good Lord, Ilsa. Have you lost your mind?"
"Christopher Chance."
The name slips from her lips in a slurry, thick, barely audible mumble but Connie manages to understand what she's saying. With a roll of her brown eyes, she grabs her sister-in-law by the arm and drags her up the stairs. Never once had a man been able to throw Ilsa Pucci's emotions in complete and utter turmoil but Christopher Chance had managed to do just that. For a second, the thought occurs to Connie to fly to San Francisco and straighten him out herself - or possibly kill him, whichever urge is stronger when she lands, but decides against it when her sister-in-law gags and a foul smelling acid pours from her mouth.
"Oh for the love of all that is good, Ilsa." Connie sighed, brushing a thicket of black curls from the poor woman's face and pressing a hand to her forehead. "No fever. Just too much liquor. Sleep it off."
The taller woman's willowy frame seems gangly and heavy when drunk, something that is only made worse when the woman can barely walk on her own and is draped sloppily against Connie. She's clumsily dropped onto the bed and a blanket is tucked around her. That poor woman needed all the sleep she could get. At least asleep, she didn't seem so incomplete without her blue-eyed ex-assassin by her side. At least asleep, she was somewhat peaceful.
At least asleep, she wasn't a lost cause.
Not quite sure where I was going with this until this is what I ended up with this. If I had kept going like I originally planned than I would have ended up with two one-shots in one. Which isn't what I was going for so I cut it off. Yep, they're crazy without each other. Not to worry my Loves, all will be well with them soon. Ilsa will return to her blue-eyed body guard soon :) In the mean time leave me some Love dolls because the sooner you do, the sooner you find out whether it all works out.
Love ya,
RobertDowneyJrLove