December 31st, 2013

New Year's Eve. The only day of the year, aside from July 4th, when it was acceptable to send thousands of dollars up in smoke with only a ten second spray of color illuminating the night sky and burnt wrappers littering grassy lawns to show for it. When the song, Auld Lang Syne, becomes the most annoying song you think you might ever hear, aside from the cheerful Christmas tunes the department stores play on loop and for most, it's a time to think about the past year and their hopes for the new year. It's also a flurry of champagne, cheap strings of beads befitting Mardi Gras more than New Years, and the odd drunkard who felt the need to dance naked in the street as a way to ring in the new year.

Or, perhaps that was just in San Fracisco.

She's celebrated New Years in many different countries, from the heart of London to the dusty plains of Africa to the snowy moutaintops of Switzerland, but the distinct flavor the U.S. adds to New Years celebrations is new and different. It's also a taste Ilsa Pucci hasn't quite acquired yet. While she was sure San Francisco had plenty to offer as far as parties went, the nightlife just wasn't her style. She'd much rather celebrate the coming of the new year in a much more subtle way.

Which is why 2014 will find her tucked in her office with her cell phone turned off and a pile of paperwork that needs to be done for the Marshall Pucci Foundation. It's only coffee for her this year. She had shied away from alcohol, still remembering a time when a bottle of rum, warm in her veins and mixing with sodium thiopental, had led to a kiss between her and her colleague. That had been over two years ago and even now, she keeps her drinks strictly non-alcoholic when there's a possibility of running into him.

"What are you doing here?"

Speak of the devil.

How poetic that the moment she chooses to look up at him is the very second a firework pops and a starburst of color sprays bright against a velvet purple sky. Outside her window, the crowd gathered on the street below gasps loudly but she pays it no mind, instead focusing on her colleague. He looks utterly disheveled, draped across her doorway in a pair of navy blue sweatpants with messy blond hair and bleary eyes. There's a decided lack of sleep in his voice - insomniac, she decides. Or, chronic late night television viewer.

"Oh." she manages to play it relatively cool, not wanting to alert him to the fact that she had been thinking about him. "Mister Chance."

"What are you still doing here?" he repeats his question, crossing his arms over his chest. His very bare chest with the lightest dusting of coarse hair carving out his muscles.

"I have paperwork to do." She offers succinctly, scrawling her name in elegant script on yet another legal waiver. Always an act first, think later sort of guy, he steps into her office and makes his way around her desk to peek over her shoulder at the papers she's signing. She just continues her work, not bothering to pay any mind to what he is doing. By the third paper, she feels uncomfortable under his intense blue gaze and tilts her head back to meet his eyes; "Do you need something, Mister Chance?"

"Come with me." a gentle hand squeezes her shoulder, encouraging her to get up.

"I can't, I have paper work." Ilsa protests, not that it'll do her any good.

The light plays in his eyes, sparking with mischief, and his lips curl into a devilish grin. He's obviously come up with a contingency plan, should one be needed. He didn't really expect her to go without protest, did he? Sometimes, he greatly underestimates her ability to resist him. Then again, he's also well aware of what he does to her and takes advantage of it. He reaches for her hand and tugs her out of her chair. With a slightly disgruntled sigh, she relents and follows him, flipping the switch to turn off her office light before he can tug her completely out of the room.

"That work will still be there, tomorrow." He reminds her, reaching the window that looks out over the city in three long strides. "For now, let's enjoy it."

He meets her gaze with raised eyebrows, as if daring her to defy him. She knows she can't win. He's far to clever and fast for her. She relaxes against the window sill and watches the colorful display but it doesn't take long for her to shift anxiously. Even in the safe retreat of darkness, she feels flustered and shy, afraid to open up to him, even though this is the same man who knew every detail of her marriage. It is still difficult to open up to him, two years later.

The ghost of a grin playing on his lips is concealed by the darkness, his sharp eyes focusing on her instead of the fireworks. A kaleidoscope of colors from the bright cherry reds and fiery oranges to the jeweled blues, purples, and greens to the resplendent silvers and golds dance across her face and in her hair, slipping through the black curls and adding a dimension that hadn't been there before. She is worth far more than the adjective, impressive. And, under the cover of the dark, he can let himself think this way. When the sharp light of day isn't flushing out flaws and imperfections and idiosyncrasies that neither one of them can tolerate in the other.

"Let's dance."

His words mimic those spoken at a charity party a few years ago, only less forced, less out of need to put on a false show for the crowd and more of his own want. Yes, want. Perhaps sexual, perhaps more. He isn't sure. All he knows is that she is standing so damn close he can smell her perfume and she looks like a Goddess, even in her usual work attire. And he wants to dance because he wants to know what she feels like. He wants to know if she's as warm and as soft as she looks, without the stiffness of being in front of a crowd, without any of her usual facade.

"Mister Chance..." her voice tapers off into nothingness. What can she say when he's sliding his hand from her elbow down to her palm? She simply shuts her mouth and allows him to lead her out into an open part of the office.

He forgoes the traditional dance position in favor of one that is closer, more intimate, and more affectionate. He wraps both arms around her waist, holding her close to his body. She hesitantly, as if afraid she'll scare him off, wraps her arms around his shoulders and settles against him. He's warm and hard and fits against her snugly. It takes them a few steps to find the beat, the synchronize with one another, and to relax but she's the first one to do so.

Neither of them lead.

It's the first time that one of them hasn't had the upper-hand in a given situation and it's strange but the closeness of their embrace puts them on equal footing. They can't fight for the lead without stepping on one another's toes and they do that professionally. They don't want to do it personally, too. So, they slow dance in the lobby of the warehouse turned office, to the broken melody of Auld Lang Syne, that's still drifting from somewhere in the distance. Still looping on a sound system, even as the celebrations come to a close and the inky blackness of midnight bleeds into the pearly gray of a new day; the soft orange of the rising sun burning off the haze.

It makes no difference to them. It's 2014. A new year. The song may speak of love and friendships gone by but this, this is new and exciting and it doesn't have to end. Not yet.

They have a while.

So...thoughts? I can leave it like this because it can stand alone but part of me wants to add more. Not to this, but turn it into a multi-chapter thing. I know this is a bit of a surprise but I found a website where I can watch Human Target and my babies called me! They just...they called me! God, I've missed Chance and Ilsa so much, if it was possible to hug a fictional character, they would be at the top of my list right now. LOL! I'm a weirdo, I know. Leave me lots and lots of love, Dolls!

Love,

RobertDowneyJrLove