Ilsa Pucci isn't quite as resilient as she, or other people, like to believe. Most of the time, she pretty much exemplifies boldness and bravery, especially where Christopher Chance is concerned. Lately, though, that facade is becoming more and more difficult to maintain. She's been back in California for all of two hours and already, he's acting petulant. Really, she should have known he'd want to sulk and just generally act like a two-year-old throwing a tempur tantrum. It had all been fine and dandy when he picked her up from the airport, although she suspects, Winston had to convince him to do so. Okay, so he was a little short with her but in his defense, it was early and her call had woken him up. It didn't completely unnerve her but she wasn't exactly blasè about it either. She likes to think she can handle his tempur and normally, that was indeed the case, but his petulance is something else entirely. It's less anger and more apathy, which in this case, was directed at her and the situation at hand.

He blames her and rightfully so. She did leave him without explanation and she blames herself for the situation they're in. She'll take the blame, that doesn't bother her. What does bother her is Christopher Chance's refusal to talk about it and possibly resolve the clearly lingering issues between them. She knows he's generally not one to talk but if he doesn't say something that isn't a backhanded insult, she might just use her shoes for something other than walking. She's quite certain a strategically placed kick with her Jimmy Choos will get something out of him, even if it isn't what she's hoping for.

"Mister Chance," Ilsa feels like she's talking to a statue but she continues anyway. He will talk to her, even if she has utilize Guerrero and his penchant for torture. "We have to talk about this sooner or later. You can't keep ignoring me like this."

Her voice echoes in the stillness of the elevator but gets no response from him. His eyes don't even flicker in her direction. Okay. That hurt. She's missed those sharp blue eyes and that analytical gaze that he always fixed her with when they were trying to work out their problems. She's missed so much of what they used to have before she messed it all up and left. Even though, she's back and willing to work it out with him or at least try, he seems content to continue his petulant sulking. His arms tense, tightening against his chest and he keeps his lips set in a grim line, as if readying himself for a stand-off.

"I didn't come back to have a stand-off with you." Ilsa insists softly, her intense gaze focused on his face, gauging for some sort of reaction.

Okay.

Time for a different approach.

She waits a few seconds, hoping he'll say or do something before she has to take desparate measures but nothing. Without a second thought, she reaches over and yanks the emergency stop lever. The elevator lurches downward before jolting to a stop and subsequently startling him out of his corner. Ilsa Pucci can normally keep her amusement under control but the sight of Christopher Chance, ex-assassin and current vigilante, jumping in fright and grasping at thin air for something to hold onto is downright comical. The giggles spill forth before she can stop them and the wide-eyed glare he sends her does nothing but encourage them.

"Why did you do that?" Chance barks roughly, unfurling from his corner.

His voice sobers her up and she levels him with a stingingly icy glare of her own; "To get something out of you other than a backhanded insult."

"Ilsa." Chance sighs wearily, already wary of where this conversation was headed. In his defense and as he is willing to reiterate, if need be, she did leave him not the other way around. Given that, he feels slightly justified in his petulance. "I don't think - "

"That's just it, Mister Chance, you don't think." Ilsa snarls, squaring her shoulders. She's ready for a fight and a fight is what she's going to get.

"Just like you didn't when you left." Chance sneers, dropping his arms to his sides. "You just decided to leave. When it's all too much, you walk away. Did you do that with Marshall? Walk away when it was too much? Maybe that's why he went looking for something else."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he's gone too far. Her eyes well up with tears and his cruelty sends her reeling back, trying to get as far away from him as possible. He doesn't know why he felt the need to be so cruel. He knows Marshall hadn't had an affair; the billionaire had loved his wife far too much to ever stray outside of their marriage. Marshall Pucci wasn't an idiot which is more than Christopher Chance can say for himself at the moment. He'd been through a whole range of emotions with Ilsa and some of those emotions had evoked a harshness, yes, but he was never cruel. He had never said anything to intentionally hurt her as he had just a moment ago. Maybe that's why he had said it, maybe he wanted to hurt her as much as she had hurt him when she left. It's no excuse, he knows, but he's hurt and lashing out.

"Like you did with Maria when you went off hi-jacking planes to chase her to South America?" Ilsa blisters, tensing even as Chance looks down in shame. "You never thought about how I might have felt, Chance. I tried giving you room to do what needed to be done but it was obvious that you were far too attached."

"How did you feel, Ilsa?" Chance questions morosely, studying his shoes as if they had the answers to his questions. "Angry?"

"Angry, yes, but not for the reason you might think. Mister Chance, I was angry because of how easily a beautiful woman can come in and get your attention." Ilsa admits quietly, "When all I seem to do is irritate you."

"You don't irritate me." Chance shakes his head.

"And I didn't leave because it was too much, Mister Chance. I left because I had feelings for you and I knew you didn't feel the same way." Ilsa lets her shoulders slump forward, feeling thoroughly drained by this entire conversation. She can't do this anymore. She can't pretend that she didn't have feelings for him when she left and she certainly can't deny that going to London did nothing to get rid of them. She can't pretend that this frustrating man in front of her isn't the reason she's finally moving on from Marshall. She just can't.

And she won't.

"You never even asked me, Ilsa." Chance sounds defeated.

"And if I had, what would you have said?" Ilsa tilts her head, her intense brown eyes teary but focused on him. "What would you have said, Mister Chance?"

"I would have said that I have feelings for you." Chance barks, finally meeting her eyes. "I have feelings for you. I just didn't think...that you..."

"Felt the same way?" Ilsa inquires, laughing dryly. "Sounds like neither one of us bothered to think."

"Would things be different?"

"I don't know, Mister Chance. That's not for me to say." Ilsa leans back against the wall of the elevator, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know."

"I don't know either, Ilsa." Chance makes his way across the elevator. "But I'd like to find out."

The sexual tension sizzles, crackling in the small elevator. Nothing will ever be the same between them after this and they both know it. All the cards are on the table; feelings laid out bare, leaving them both vulnerable and fragile. They were both left empty by her leaving and neither of them want to go back to that. They want this to work because they need each other. They need each other to fill the void that's been left in both of their lives'. He doesn't want the empty illusion of not having Ilsa in his life. He doesn't want the guilt to eat him alive anymore. She doesn't want to live her life in London. The longer she stayed in London, the more extinguished she became. She doesn't want that.

"You're staying here, this time." Chance mumbles, curling one hand around her hip and tangling the other in her silky curls. "No more running."

His mouth stakes it claim on hers before she can concede with him. Her lips are silky and warm and damp, moving and rubbing against his deliciously. He instinctively moves toward her, pressing his body into hers. The hot softness of her body draws a groan from somewhere deep within him and he's far too distracted by Ilsa to concern himself with the pitch of said groan. It certainly wasn't masculine, that he knew. Not that he particularly cared at the moment. She makes a noise in the back of her throat when he shifts and rubs against her. The exquisite friction seeming to increase the pace. The kisses become more frantic and groping quickly becomes part of the equation. Heavy breathing, muffled groans and swallowed gasps fill the elevator as they reach for whatever body part they happen upon.

His hand trails down to her thighs, parting them gently before shifting them again so that he was between her legs. Dear God. They weren't quite sure if it was the physical contact or just the need for release, either way, it felt good. She feels a little silly, grinding against him but she needs more of him against her and it creates a wet heat between her legs that adds to the pleasure. For both of them. She doesn't feel quite so silly when he grinds back with the same fervor.

"You want to do this here?" Chance mutters against her neck.

"Mister Chance, I don't particularly care where it happens as long as it does happen." Ilsa chides, sinking her fingers into his hair. "The emergency stop lever is pulled. Nobody is going to try to get the elevator."

"Winston knows I'm gone." Chance reminds her, dragging his teeth down her collarbone and along the column of her throat. "He'll think the elevator's broken. He'll call."

"And you'll ignore it." Ilsa grins wickedly, gently scraping her nails up his back. "You have far more important things to do with your time, at the moment."

Chance only grins and makes a mental note to use the emergency stop lever more often, especially if he was with Ilsa. They could make excellent use of that particular feature and he had no doubt that they would, indeed, use it creatively and repeatedly. As he continued his ministrations on various parts of her body - Lord, could he multitask - Ilsa absently wonders exactly how much an elevator echoed. There needn't be any noises heard by others that shouldn't be. The thought quickly vanishes as their clothes pile on the floor and the fun begins.

Neither of them hear Chance's phone go off in the pile of clothes. It's a text message from Winston, telling them that the elevator is broken. They'll have to take the stairs.

Oh well.

So, I'm sitting on my living room floor, in the dark listening to music while watching it rain outside. Eseldie, see dearest, I told you. He's perfectly fine. Actually with that last scene, I dare say he's quite perfect. No harm done. Hope you enjoyed it, drama queen ;) Anyway, leave me some love, dolls!

Love ya,

RobertDowneyJrLove