January 2014

She takes him back to Belfast, Ireland.

It was only three days after the dawn of the new year that she had made her request for him to come with her on a ten day stay in northern Ireland. Although, he forgets that the woman he's come to know as utterly British is technically Irish, he will never forget the sight of those awful scars on her shoulder or hearing the story behind them. The anniversary of her parents' death is approaching and it's been far too long since she's visited her previously war-ravaged birthplace, a mere ghost of what was compared to the bright, shiny cities she calls home.

The hotel she books for them is expansive with comfortable rooms and just as delightful beds. Staying in such luxury is new for him but she seems right at home. At least, he thinks so, until their first night.

He's watching late night television because midnight in north Ireland was the rough equivalent to four in the afternoon in California. While he's certain jet lag will eventually catch up to him, when he adjusts to the eight hour time difference, insomnia had staked its claim and was not relenting in the slightest. David Letterman is in the middle of yet another lame attempt at humor when a knock on his door startles his attention away from the television. Biting back an annoyed groan, he climbs out of the bed and makes his way to the door.

"What do you - " he stops short at the sight that greets him.

Well.

Aside from looking like the most arousing thing that he could ever find at his door at midnight in a city like Belfast, she also looks terribly uncomfortable and in need of a friend. Her arms are crossed over her chest, gray bathrobe barely covering much more than the slip of emerald green he sees when her legs shift and the fabric parts, and her eyes are focused quite intently on the floor, as if the earth would open up at her will and swallow her whole.

He releases a breath, forcing his attraction on the back burner, in favor of being her friend. "C'mon in."

The door opens wider and he's surprised by how terribly reluctant she is to come into his room, even though she had knocked on his door. The same woman, who at home, wouldn't hesitate to barge in before he had the opportunity to answer, looks terrified to even look at him. Her movement is almost robotic when she finally walks into his room and sits down on the edge of the bed, stiff and unmoving. He watches her for a few seconds, taking in her near-catatonic state before deciding the direct approach was best; "Ilsa, what's going on?"

"I - I can't do this."

Her stuttering, fumbling for the right words to express her anxiety is all that he needs to know that she's taking it hard. He knew when she had asked him that it would be hard for her and he had wondered if she knew that. It is abundantly clear now that realization is setting in and she isn't prepared for the reality of where she is. He takes a seat next to her on the edge of the bed. Words will be meaningless, right now, so he doesn't bother but he can at least be there.

Several minutes of maddening silence pass before she speaks, croaks rather.

"Belfast is no longer my home." a curtain of black curls hide her face but her hand wiping her eyes and the soft sniffles tell him she's crying. "I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to come back. I don't see it for what it is. All I see is what it used to be."

"And, what is that, Ilsa?" Chance inquires softly, carefully.

She slips a hand through her hair, pulling it away from her face, and offers him a sardonic laugh. "A place ravaged by war, never truly at peace, and a place that nearly killed me."

He doesn't know what to say. There's nothing, really, that he can say. He can't change the way she sees her birthplace. She'll always see the place for what it used to be. It will never be home again. He spares a glance at the TV, where Letterman is ending, and it fades into a commercial. He looks back at Ilsa and cracks a half-hearted grin; "It doesn't look like we'll be getting any sleep tonight, so how about you crash here, we'll watch late night TV, order a late dinner?"

"That sounds lovely, Mister Chance."

It's the first genuine smile he's seen out of her since they landed. So, with a new determination to make the most of their ten day stay here and help her cope with memories, he stands up and makes his way around the bed to the phone on the other nightstand. Without the need of encouragement, Ilsa sheds her robe (Chance may or may not have gulped a little) and makes herself comfortable under the covers. He orders dinner and dessert for both of them before joining her in the bed. He tries not to think of the tiny piece of emerald fabric she's wearing underneath, or the fact that she's in his bed.

She makes him so damn uncomfortable. Or, maybe just horny.

They're up long after late night talk shows fade into infomericals and the dark blackness of night bleeds into the rose-gold hue of dawn. With a shy smile, she asks if he would like to come on a tour of Ireland with her. He already knows she won't go without him, so they make arrangements to meet in the lobby for breakfast after a hot shower to scrub the long night away and refresh them for a new day. He's waiting for her in the lobby when she steps off of the elevator in warm clothes and shockingly flat boots.

"Ready?"

Oh, the implications behind that question. Was she ready for what the day had in store? No. Definitely not. Was she ready to enjoy a breakfast with one of her best friends and enjoy his company? Yes. So with the impending anxiety of the day shoved into the back of her mind, she loops her arm around his and lets him lead her to the restaurant.

xxx

The journey through her past began with a friendly, if quiet breakfast.

She's anxious, nauseated even, when they finally venture out into the cold, but having him at her side calms her more than he'll ever know and more than she'll ever tell. She can't help but admire him, next to her in dark jeans, the neckline of a gray shirt peaking out of his black trench coat, and black shoes. Tall and strong and much braver than she's ever given him credit for. It's been a long while since she's been back to her previously war-ravaged birthplace and to her, it's a ghost of the past, pushed to the dark recesses of her mind. It doesn't take a genius to know that it's pure sense memory that takes him on a tour through Belfast.

The first place she takes him is, appropriately, her childhood home. It's a quaint little house tucked into a thicket of trees; not much left of it, having long ago been abandoned, but she remembers it clearly. Vivid details. She approaches the front door with a hesitance, staring at it as if it's a schoolyard bully that she can't quite work up the nerve to stand up to. She makes it onto the front porch but no further; memories, good and bad, keep her from entering what had at one time been a safe and familiar place for her. He waits in the yard, stationed like a bodyguard just by the steps, ready to haul her away at the first sign of a breakdown. His hands are shoved into his pockets, protecting them from the icy cold, and his eyes are fixated on her, watching her carefully.

"My mother," her boots scrape the layer of ice that covers the splintering wood of her front porch as she turns on her heel and moves closer to the first step. "She used to stand in this spot and see my Father off to work." she cups her hands together, as if cradling a mug of some sort. "She'd drink her coffee and watch him until he disappeared from sight, long after, even. Sometimes, by the time she came back in the house, her coffee would be frozen."

She carefully steps down, hands falling to her sides, and turns to face the front door. "She'd stand in that same place and see me off to school."

He reaches toward her, offering his hand to help her down the steps. Her gloved hand slides into his and she offers him a weak smile in gratitude. Ilsa relishes his strong hold, the support and the comfort it offers, even if it is just to help her down the icy steps. She never has anyone with her on these trips, not even Marshall had come with her. In all the years that she's been coming back, she never thought it would be so comforting to have someone with her. Someone to handle what she can't.

But, in a lot of ways, it seems inappropriate to dump all of her burdens on Chance. He deals with his own struggles and demons; faces his past everytime a new client comes calling for his protection and she's starting to realize that, all too often, she takes him for granted.

"Ilsa?" his warm breath mushrooms in a white cloud of condensation.

She just tightens her hand in his and ventures away from the house, tugging him along behind her. They end up ten minutes away from where they started, trudging along an overgrown path. Leaves crunch and twigs snap under their boots. He's starting to wonder where she's taking him until she stops and he nearly crashes into her back, slinging his arm around her hip to keep them both upright.

"Ilsa?"

"Here."

The emerald grass beneath their feet had once been worn to dust from years of use; from when she took it to school every morning. She remembers everything, even the exact spot where the bullet entered her shoulder and recalls with stunning clarity, her pained scream. The scared little girl hiding beneath the surface emerges as the memories fade into one another and she tells him that the second bullet had done the most damage. It had ricocheted. Nicked her clavicle. Almost nicked an artery. Nearly killed her.

"So much blood." her bottom lip quivers and she visibly trembles. "I almost fainted."

And it sends him into a tailspin.

He can't seem to wrap his head around what she's telling him. Ilsa Pucci, one of the strongest women he knew, had nearly died because of a fight that wasn't her own. He imagines her clearly; black curls bouncing against small shoulders, large brown eyes, and with such vibrancy about her. At the time, he likes to think, her accent would have veered more toward Irish than British and it's easy to imagine the smooth brogue and how easily it would suit her smooth voice.

"I spent a month recovering." Ilsa inhales sharply, trying in vain to dry her eyes. "My, uh, accent changed when my parents sent me to London. Hell, I changed when they sent me to London." she recalls, looking down at the ground. Where she was nearly killed; where her life changed. "They scraped up all the money they could to send me to London. They wanted better for me. I wasn't going to complain."

"Ilsa - "

"I know how I act, sometimes, Mister Chance." Ilsa interrupts him sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't like this vulnerable feeling; doesn't like being exposed to him like this. "You have to understand, I do it out of genuine concern, not to annoy you."

"You don't have to explain, Ilsa." Chance shakes his head.

"Yes, I do."

"You were shot, Ilsa, as a kid. You don't owe me an explanation." The reality is, he can't handle it. He can't handle her explanation, not knowing how they've treated each other, but it's obvious she wants to explain so despite his discomfort and his anguish at having to hear it, he listens.

"I just don't like to see you hurt, not and face the same thing I did." Ilsa backs away a few steps and focuses intently on the leaves crushed by her boots. "That bullet left me in the hospital for a month. I don't want to see you end up like that, or worse."

Her words hang in the air; a token of friendship, a peace offering of sorts, in some way that neither of them really understand. Something very palpable and very real but unreaching simmers beneath the surface, even with the intimacy of that dance shared at midnight New Year's day lingering between them. This intimacy, this knowledge that they stood on the same ground, shaky though it was sometimes, it's all very new and they're both scared of what could happen with the lightest little push. Even though, if it was up to Winston, Chance knows his ass would have been kicked long ago when it came to Ilsa.

In that aspect, Winston was braver. Unafraid of what might happen if he pushed, always willing to take a chance, only backing down when he's almost crossed that line. Whereas Chance was a little more cautious, less likely to take risks that might push the boundaries of his personal life. If he lets Ilsa in, let's her cross those boundaries, he's afraid she won't like what she finds. There's so much holding him back, so much he can't risk, that he doesn't want to, that it scares him into shutting down completely. But, now, he can't. She's exposed herself, let herself be open with him, offered him something that shows that they aren't much different.

"It happened in Sarajevo," he tugs his jacket off and turns away from her, lifting his shirt slightly to let her see. She looks up from her boots at the sound of his voice to see him holding his shirt just above an intricate weaving of silvery scars tattooed along his lower back. "Got tangled up in some barbed wire, trying to get away."

He feels one of her gloved fingers tracing the maze of silver, warm breath tickling his neck. She traces halfway across his back before hooking her fingers onto the hem of his shirt and pulling it down. She's seen enough. She slides her hand up his back and squeezes his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"The person who saved my life, who pulled me out of the barbed wire, was a doctor." Maybe it's the memory, or maybe it's just a need to make sure she won't run away like every other person in his life has, but he covers her hand with his before he speaks again. "He put me under, stitched up my back, and the next day I found a bag with a note and enough money to get out of the country. I didn't deserve his help."

"Chance - "

"I was there to kill him." Chance interrupts her, turning around to face her. He needs to see her reaction; needs to know what she thinks when forced to confront his past. The range of emotions clouding her eyes completely baffles him; confusion and fear melding into something softer, something a little more caring and maternal. There's a decided lack of hatred, of what he's been expecting, wanting even, just to see the steely Ilsa, he's been witness to before. "I was there because someone was willing to give me ten thousand dollars to put a bullet in his head."

"But you didn't." Oh, his tough self-loathing bravado is no match for her tender rationale but she's not going to let him get away with hating himself. She has no qualms about scolding him, even now. "The past is the past and I think you've let it shame you into a corner for far too long. We both have."

Oh, is that true. Wow. She really has a way of getting to him but that doesn't mean he missed that last part about her doing it too. It's all an act, a show they put on, pretending they're okay when really, their pasts are eating away at them. He wonders how long she's been carrying around the memories of her childhood, waiting to tell them to somebody, especially when she could have told her husband. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, curious as to why she would tell him something she probably never told her husband. "Ilsa, did you ever tell your husband any of this? Your childhood?"

"Heavens, no." Ilsa shakes her head with a dry laugh, "He wouldn't have understood. He came from a privileged background, never knew what it was like to work your way up to something. It was practically handed to him the day he was born. He was a hard worker and every penny we have was legitimately earned, but the company was an inheritance."

"Why me?"

"Because, you have scars just like I do." Ilsa explains, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "If anyone was going to understand it was you."

"How long..?" he fumbles slightly, pausing to gather his thoughts. "How long have you been carrying this around with you?"

"I'd guess about as long as you've been carrying around Sarajevo." she teases him, hoping to lighten the mood. She dissolves into laughter when all he can offer in reply is a sheepish expression. His laughter surprises her but she enjoys it nonetheless. It isn't often, especially in their line of work, that they're afforded a good laugh, something to break up the tension, and chase away the demons brought about by their missions. She sobers up and reaches for his hand again. "Come on. It's cold and I need coffee."

The coffee shop closest to her childhood home offers warmth, strong coffee, and a selection of delicate pastries. He ushers her into a booth to warm up while he orders for them - two large cups of coffee, black, and a box of everything swimming in chocolate. She needs the endorphin rush - hell, they both do after the morning they've had. It's a delicate balancing act carrying two cups of coffee and pastry box but he manages. He passes her a cup of coffee and sets the box down to open it, encouraging her to eat at least one of the chocolate confections.

Conversation flows easily, their mugs see numerous refills, and between them, they consume enough chocolate for at least six people if not more. The rest of the morning is occupied, not with recollections of the past, but explorations of the present. It's noon before they venture back out into the cold to find their way back to the hotel. He makes her laugh, shares stories of some of his not-so-bright moments, and for the first time since they began their journey through her childhood began, she finally feels like it's not something she has to hide.

Perhaps, their trip to Ireland wasn't a waste, after all.