Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
Chance and Guerrero were sparring.
In the middle of the office, of course.
And with nothing but sweatpants on.
Winston and Ames were in the conference room. Ames was teaching Winston some of the computer's more complicated functions and Winston was winding Ames up by deliberately blocking her view of the two men.
Chance aimed a punch straight at Guerrero's face. Guerrero used his left forearm to divert the blow sideways, brought his right fist down on Chance's elbow, turned towards him, delivered another blow with his left forearm, jumped off his left foot and kicked his friend's temple with his right.
For about the hundredth time this afternoon Ilsa wished she hadn't agreed with the interior designer's brainchild idea of putting in glass walls wherever possible.
They changed roles. Guerrero advanced on Chance, trying to deliver a blow to his face. Chance avoided it by leaning backwards and simultaneously pushing his friend's forearm sideways with his own, causing Guerrero to stumble forwards. Chance sidestepped him, hit his shoulder and collarbone area with a series of rapid punches, rammed his head into his chest, swept his left leg and sent him flying to the floor.
She had seen Chance's naked upper body a couple of times before, but usually in various stages of injury. This was different. His muscles were visibly working, stretching and relaxing with his every move. Streams of sweat were running down his arms and chest and every collision with Guerrero sent hundreds of beads flying through the air.
She caught herself wondering how they smelt.
And tasted.
Preferably when licked off his skin.
Guerrero called for end of session and headed towards the office's showering facility. She expected Chance to go upstairs and use his own bathroom, but he just stood still for a moment, wiping sweat off his face with his elbow. A slight bruise was forming on the left side of his ribcage where Guerrero had accidentally kicked too hard. His eyes met hers and a boyish grin spread across his face. "Liked what you saw?", it seemed to say.
Idiot.
Of course she did.
This whole juvenile heroism white knight in shining armor rubbish he was radiating like some kind of bloody halo was incredibly attractive, no doubt about it.
But hiding underneath of it was another man.
A man who had been strong enough to take a good look at himself and hadn't flinched from what he saw.
A man who was desperately trying to make up for his sins by caring for other people every way possible.
That was the man she had briefly fallen for the other night, when she had been drunk and drugged and emotionally unstable over the photo of Marshall and his ... whatever.
Sober now, she had sworn herself never ever to fall for him again. All this goddamn sexy recklessness, combined with his burning need for redemption, was going to get him killed one day.
Becoming a widow once was enough for a lifetime. She would not survive a second run. Her flight back to London was already scheduled. She would not come back.
This was her version of self-defense, and it hurt more than any punch or kick ever could.
