She'd been in that damn office since early that morning.

The shuffle of papers, the click of her manicured nails on the keyboard and the various sounds of her computer had filled the room along with every one of six phone calls she had either made or received that day. He doesn't understand it, really. How one woman can work from so early in the morning until so late at night. Here he is in his sweats, with his teeth brushed and his wounds treated - needless to say he won't be taking on two hundred pound men anymore - and there she is, still in her office working the night away. Then again, that was pretty much the way Ilsa functioned. She needed work to keep her mind off of her husband's death and possible infidelity along with the not-so-subtle notion that she might be developing feelings for the blue-eyed ex-assassin that had gone from colleague to dear friend in a matter of months.

"Ilsa," He watches her hands pause over the keyboard, fingers splayed in mid-air, clearly ready to type something. "Ilsa, what are you still doing here?"

A multitude of stray letters appear on her screen as her hands crash down onto the keyboard and he's pinned with her sharp gaze. She's exhausted - her red, swollen eyes are evidence of that, along with sagging shoulders and the fact that she struggles to mumble a few hoarse words; "What does it matter to you?"

He's surprised by the harshness of her words but brushes it off as exhaustion. Leaning against her office doorway with his arms crossed over his chest; "You tell me?"

"Mister Chance, I'm in no mood to play games. I have work that needs to be done." With that said, she holds down the 'delete' button and watches tiredly as the jumble of letters that had marked the crash of her hands against her keyboard and messed up her work, disappear. "Please leave me too it."

"That work can be done tomorrow after you've gotten a few hours of rest." He knows he's playing with fire. Ilsa's already short fuse was even shorter when she was exhausted and he didn't expect now to be any different but he can't help it. He wants her to take care of herself - something that, if the bags clearly visible under her eyes are any indication, she's forgotten how to do. He waits, biding his time until she explodes in a fury but alas the storm never comes so he tries again, this time with a little more directness. "Ilsa, put the papers down, turn the computer off and go home."

"No."

"Damn it, woman, why do you have be so stubborn?" The furious inquiry is loud and startling to both of them. He wants to be sorry but it was enough to draw her attention from the papers she's rifling through. "Why can't you just go home and rest like the rest of us?"

"You're not in bed." Ilsa smirks behind the paper she's holding in her hand. The pen twirls effortlessly between her long fingers as she poises her hand to write something or scrawl her signature on the appropriate line. The subtle jab at his insomnia both infuriates and amuses him but he hides it behind the neutrality of a carefully schooled expression, something he had long ago mastered. She knows he doesn't sleep most nights, which is also why Winston is never more furious than the false show of anger he puts on for the sake of business when Chance is found sleeping on his couch instead of working.

"Don't turn this on me, Ilsa." Chance growls, pushing off of the doorway. "This isn't about me, right now. This is about your refusal to go home and take care of yourself like you should be doing. You're the one who is too damn stubborn to leave this until tomorrow."

"I'm the stubborn one?" Ilsa's thin eyebrows raise in skepticism, unable to fathom why he would blatantly criticise the same characteristic in her, which he was clearly exhibiting himself at that very moment. "Mister Chance, you've been standing there for ten minutes now telling me to go home despite my insistance that you leave. Clearly the stubborn one in this situation is you. Wouldn't you say?"

Before she can say another word, he's leaning over her, his hands on her desk, trapping her and the chair between the desk and his body. His breath is hot against her ear; his voice nothing more than a low growl, a dark seething anger simmering beneath the surface. "This isn't about me, Ilsa. Don't you get that?"

"Why are you so concerned with my well-being?" Ilsa's question comes only after she can stop the hard shudder of pleasure, from his voice vibrating in her ear, from wracking her body. Even then her voice is shallow and edging on nervous as if she's barely able to conjure up the confusion behind the question instead of the anxiety that threatens to overtake her should he find out what his voice does to her. "Since when does my emotional and physical well-being concern you? Why is it of any importance to you?"

He pauses, his breathing heavy and warm against her neck as if thinking about the answer to the question. He fumbles slightly when he finally manages to answer her question. "You're my friend."

He's forced to pull away when she swivels her chair around and stands up to face him. He surprised by the lack of sadness he finds in her eyes. Usually whenever he was able to meet her eyes, all he found was the sad mourning that had haunted her for months after they closed the case surrounding her husband and their marriage. She had been forced to mourn all over again thanks Guerrero's snooping and the investigation that followed. He wasn't surprised by her strength or uncanny ability to work through it, but the sad mourning had lingered in her eyes and he hadn't been able to make direct eye contact without guilt hitting him like a punch to the stomach.

"Friend?" That same cocky smirk thins her pouty lips.

"Yes." He affirms with a nod of his head, unable to break eye contact. "My friend."

"Well," Ilsa's the first one to look away, obviously uncomfortable with the direction that was going. "I guess I should go home then."

"Yes," Chance finally mutters, still slightly dazed by the vibrancy that had returned to her eyes - visible, even through the exhaustion. "Yes, you should go home."

A shy smile, something that is just a faint tug of her lips, is seen only for a second before she drops her lips to his cheek. The pressure of the kiss is barely felt and he's almost sure he imagines it until he looks up to find a blush blossoming on her cheeks and spreading like wildfire down her neck and chest. She whispers a soft goodnight, gathers her coat and purse and heads toward the elevator, leaving him standing there in a daze in her office; the warmth of her lips still tingling on his cheek. Sleep slowly consumes him as he climbs the stairs, the warmth of Ilsa's tenderness not forgotten as he crawls into bed.

Little does he know, across town in the warmth of her apartment, Ilsa is slowly drifting off. His care for her well-being lulling her into a restful, dream-filled sleep.

Maybe, just maybe they'll both get the sleep they need tonight.

I have no idea what the hell this is or where it came from but here it is! I have something much longer in the works but this, this was begging to be written and it took me maybe forty-five minutes to do so. Anyway, erm, leave me some, Love. I do hope you enjoyed this!

Love,

RobertDowneyJrLove