Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.

~ for niagaraweasel ~

Ilsa hadn't meant to intrude. She simply hadn't expected Chance to be lying on the bed of the hotel room, resting in the middle of the day.

But there he was, lying flat on his stomach, sound asleep.

In nothing but drawstring pants.

She tried not to look, but the collection of scars on his back drew her attention. What kind of a life did someone have to live to receive so many different injuries? She suspected at least two of the marks stemmed from bullet wounds, but the long jagged one?

Suddenly filled with great sadness, she reached out, wanting to touch them to … what? Ease the pain? These were scars, they didn't hurt anymore. But there had to be bad memories connected with them…

Only at the last second she remembered she wasn't supposed to be in here, with him sleeping half-naked.

Of course it was too late. You can't hover over a highly trained ex-assassin for longer than a few seconds without him noticing.

"Ilsa?", he mumbled.

"I was… I just… there's a spider on your back!"

Uh. When would she finally learn to think lies through before telling them?

"A spider?" Chance was waking up fast.

"Don't move, I think it's one of those banana spiders."

"In here?"

"Well, we are in South America after all, aren't we?" Ilsa's mind was in overdrive, trying to find a way out of this highly embarrassing situation.

"I can't feel it on my skin, Ilsa."

Was this the beginning of a smirk forming on his face?

"That's because it's sitting on your… " – oh damn – "…posterior… "

Chance was positively smirking now. "Well then flick it off, will you? Just like you did in that hut in the jungle."

Bastard.

Ilsa took a deep breath, slightly bent forward and brushed over his – ah, muscular, well defined, firm…

"Chance, you're awake again? There's a development you might want to know about…"

Trust Winston to stomp in at just the right moment.

Groan.

Winston stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the scene right in front of his eyes.

Now, how do you explain that, Ilsa?