Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
~for niagaraweasel~
Chance sighed. During the latest hostile invasion of the office – thank you, Harry – his bedroom's lighting had become collateral damage. For the time being he had to use an old fashioned lantern, with paraffin oil and a wick, can you believe it?
Ilsa, of course, had wanted to call somebody in and have everything fixed right away, but Chance hated strangers in his bedroom, thus the lantern till he had time to repair the lights himself.
At the moment, however, he regretted his stubbornness. It was never good looking at things by the lamplight.
Scars, for example, appeared deeper. Chiaroscuro. The effect of strong contrasts between light and dark.
In general nothing made a woman look younger than sunsets or burning candles. The soft golden light of the distant source of illumination gently smoothed over all those tiny wrinkles and thin traces of laughing/frowning/what-have-you too much, giving them faces so perfect, neither Botox nor expensive make-up could ever provide.
But once a certain depth was exceeded, the smooth over effect became reversed and any damage to the skin more visible. The dents literally filled up with shadows and called to memory the pain, the sense of failure and regret connected with each single injury.
"What are you thinking?", Ilsa asked, running her hands over his chest, then snuggling closer, resting her head over his beating heart. She was lying next to him, only half covered by the blanket, a goddess from an ancient temple but made of flesh and blood, not marble.
The only thing marring her perfect appearance was the scar close to her navel. A thin, long scar, almost a vertical line, right above the area where all the important organs were located.
Knife wound.
Yes, she had scars on her shoulder, too, back from her childhood days in Ireland, but this one, the long one on her stomach, he could have prevented. If he had only been a little faster, had not gotten caught up in the struggle with that thug, had not foolishly dropped his weapon while climbing over that wall…
"I almost lost you", he mumbled, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the flowery scent of her shampoo, reassuring himself one more time that she was alive and well, here, in his arms. "What were you thinking, interfering like that?"
Ilsa groaned in mild exasperation. "Are we still having this conversation? For heaven's sake, Chance, the stitches were removed two weeks ago. I'm fine!"
His fingers shyly brushed against the thin scar line. She could feel they were trembling.
"Do you really think I would have attacked that thug if I hadn't known that there was an experienced ER doctor among the hostages and that the next hospital was right around the corner? According to Guerrero my blood type is perfectly common. In addition to that the knife was rather small, my coat was of thick, resistant material and the thug's shoulder was hurt from fighting you so I knew he wouldn't be able to get far. It was just a scratch, Chance… just a scratch." Ilsa took his hand, led it away from the scar and kissed it.
"It's not the way it's supposed to be", Chance muttered, tugging her closer, grabbing the bed sheet and wrapping both of them into a warm cocoon. "Promise you won't pull a stunt like that again."
Instead of an answer, Ilsa rolled over and wriggled against him. Predictably the sensation of her silky skin against all his right places drove all thoughts of loss and failure away for a long moment.
… … …
"Don't you dare! Don't you dare say anything in the direction of it's not the way it's supposed to be!", Ilsa hissed at Chance and pressed a finger against his lips.
"If I may point out, I never promised to leave you alone in a dangerous situation. Furthermore, just to make one thing clear, even if I had – for you, your wellbeing, I would break A THOUSAND promises! And now don't die on me, please… "
Ilsa's last few words sounded choked. Chance wished he could reach out and wipe the tears off her face, but thanks to the goddamn poison his whole body was in agony. He could hardly lift a finger. Luckily they had the antidote. Getting it had almost cost Ilsa's life, but she had managed… what was taking her so long? She did know how to fill a syringe, Guerrero had taught her…
"Sorry, had to change the needle", he finally heard Ilsa mumble, then a short prick and after a few minutes Chance could breathe again. Winston and Guerrero appeared soon after – the threat was eliminated, Ames was waiting in the van, they could go home.
"Maybe you could drop me off at a hospital", Ilsa muttered, and suddenly Chance realized she had grown awfully silent in the last few minutes.
… … …
"You goddamn fool! What were you thinking? What THE HELL were you thinking?" Chance was fighting hard to keep his voice down. The nurse already had had to remind him once that this was a hospital where people needed peace and quiet. If this hadn't been the Pucci wing, she probably would have thrown him out.
Ilsa, on the other hand, couldn't help but smile. Here we go again.
"When I opened the box I stole from the thug I realized it contained two phials… In the lamplight I could see they were not alike. One hopefully the antidote, one probably another dose of the poison… How was I supposed to tell which was which?"
"So you decided to test it…" Chance couldn't stop shaking his head.
"Just a very small dosage. Only just enough to feel an effect. No damage done. I made it to the hospital. If not for the special reflection of the lamplight, I would have killed you by giving you the wrong injection. And look – no new scar!" Ilsa sheepishly smiled at him.
He sat down and held her hand till she fell asleep.
… … …
When Ilsa got back to the warehouse, Chance's bedroom lay in complete darkness.
"Where's the lantern gone? Did you finally fix the lighting?"
In reply, Chance scooped her up and carried her over to his bed, where he gently started undressing her.
Ilsa understood… Chance's way of admitting defeat.
No looking at things by the lamplight tonight…