A paragon of domesticity?
Eh, hardly.
But, Chinese take-out does not a healthy and nutritious meal make, although it certainly made for a perpetually empty wallet. He figured at some point, preferrably sooner rather than later, he'd better to learn to feed himself out of his own kitchen. While not a gourmet chef, he was quite capable of holding his own if given the right ingredients. He wouldn't deny that his first attempts at a decent meal, worthy of consumption, had all but blown up in his face and for a while, he thought he was screwed six ways to Sunday. He was better than some, worse than others. Burnt fish and a weekend of food poisoning worse, but still, he could hold his own when he needed too.
In his various ventures into the realm of cooking meals, he had quickly learned that breakfast, generally, was the easiest to make. If you could fry food or work a toaster, you could make breakfast. Or, chop fruit, but he wasn't much of a fruit person. Ilsa, however, was and in his quest to cook her an edible breakfast, he thought it best to suit it to her taste instead of his bacon-and-eggs appetite. And thus, how Christopher Chance, found himself chopping strawberries one sultry Sunday morning, while Ilsa slept the horrid week away in her bedroom down the hall. Ames' newly broken arm courtesy of a Mexican fixer twice her size and Guerrero's horrible timing - honestly, the man thrived on another person's pain, even when it wasn't deserved - had pretty much left her out of anything but paperwork and the occasional food run for the next six weeks. After that terrible case, Winston had scooped up a bit of extra cash and hightailed it out of town for a while, feeling an absence from this life they led was necessary for his mental well-being.
Chance is pretty sure the only benefit Winston's gaining is the delight of a pretty girl beneath the sheets of a hotel bed. Not that his best friend would ever admit to such deeds, nor would Chance ever force him too. What Winston did while away from the team was his business - that said, the man is nothing if not predictable and he's got a notorious weak spot for pretty girls and liquor. Mix the two and you've got his idea of heaven on earth.
"Chance?"
She pads into the kitchen, in nothing but his shirt from the day before. It's white, wrinkled, and it makes her legs look a thousand miles long, while her fingers curl around the too-long cuffs, and the buttons are done just enough to leave a scrap of her lace bra visible. She looks thoroughly disheveled, well-rested, and in need of nourishment and a bit of hydration to supplement her recovery from the long few days they had been forced to endure.
"Morning." he greets, looking up from the pancake sizzling in a touch of bacon grease.
"Good Morning."
Hmm.
He likes her morning voice. The hoarseness, the slight creak in her accent. It's kind of sexy, in a disheveled way. It certainly conjures up the idea of forgoing breakfast and dragging her back to the bedroom, but he won't do that to her. She'd been tired enough last night when he'd brought her back to her apartment, only to find himself crawling in bed with her, when she asked him to stay and he was too tired to fight her on it. He hadn't taken her for a woman who liked to wear a man's shirt but the minute he'd shed his shirt, she'd claimed it and when she had curled up next to him, his own scent mixing not unpleasantly with hers, he'd almost found himself in need of an ice bath.
"Are you - ?" she pauses at the fridge, pitcher of orange juice in hand as she swivels to look at him. "Are you cooking?"
"Yes." he flips the pancake with ease, almost professionally. "I can cook."
"I don't doubt you, I've just never seen you do it." she pours two glasses of orange juice and passes him one while taking a sip from her own. "I've never seen you look so - "
"So, what?"
"Domestic."
Chance just laughs, flips the pancake out of the pan, and pours the rest of the batter in. While it sizzles to a golden brown, he smears butter on the other ones and dear God, if he doesn't look pretty damn good in this little domestic role he's taken on. Perhaps it's the early, well late, morning hour or the fact that she's still a little frazzled and fried from the case, but her thoughts wander in the general direction of what else he can cook. Hell, what else he can do with his hands aside from disassemble, clean, and reassemble weapons and take down criminals. She takes a seat at the counter across from him, orange juice in hand, and watches him finish up breakfast.
"Chance?" it's the way she says his name, the way her voice cracks ever so slightly with hesitancy, that lets him know what she wants.
"I know." he nods, carefully fixing her a plate with pancakes, strawberries, and a few slices of bacon. "We have to talk about Guerrero."
"Not just Guerrero, this whole case." Ilsa broaches the subject with cautious; she knows him, knows how he can be. "You all took hits these past few days, your lives were in jeopardy. I know - they are with any case, but you and I both know this case was bigger than we thought."
"I know."
He fixes his own plate, piling it high with pancakes and bacon. They both know what's coming; they can't avoid the inevitable. Their last case had clobbered them in a tangled web of Mexican drug cartels, black market weapons, and dirty money. It had taken them a week just to tie up all the loose ends, two days of which was spent in the hospital with Ames while one of the country's top surgeons pinned her arm and shattered wrist back together. After her release, Chance had put her up at his place, not only so she could have a place to recover that wasn't her rat-hole of an apartment, but it was also the safest place they could keep her so that any stragglers from the cartel that tried to kill her, couldn't come for their retribution.
"Guerrero's actions put Ames' life on the line." Ilsa sighs softly, picking at her strawberries. "His feelings toward her should have no bearing on whether or not she deserves help. She needed his help and he wasn't there when he should have been. If you hadn't have pulled her when you did, they would have killed her. Now, I ask you, what should we do?"
Chance just sighs, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair; "Guerrero is Guerrero, you won't change him. But, you're right. He wasn't there when he should have been."
Her pancakes are cooling to a temperature that will render them inedible and she'd very much like to test for herself whether or not Chance can cook, before she has to deal with the situation of what to do about Guerrero and Ames' frosty work relationship. "Let's put this to rest and eat these pancakes." her lips curl teasingly, eyes sparkling with mirth. "If you're going to go domestic on me, I simply cannot allow this to go to waste."
It draws a hearty laugh from somewhere deep in his chest and he nods in agreement but offers a warning nonetheless. "Let's not be hasty. We could still die from this."
A dish of butter, a carafe of syrup, and cups of coffee pass between them with a fluidity that suggests they've done this before; it even feels natural, for both of them. It feels like this is what they've always done, like they've always had this domestic life. No cases, no lives to save, no violence, no pissed off assassins. Nothing to get in the way. Their relationship seems normal for the first time in a long time and they can't help but wonder if it's possible to make this a normal thing. An every day thing.
Chance's ringing cell phone answers that question.
No.
xxx
The sticky sweetness of syrup lingers in her mouth.
It seems like such a sharp contrast to the bitter direction her day is heading and while she'd love nothing more than to rewind back to breakfast that morning, if only to relive the image of Chance being somewhat domestic, she knows she can't. So, with the taste of Chance's pancakes still lingering fresh in her memory, she steps off of the elevator, fresh cup of coffee in hand, and nerves steeled against whatever cataclysm of events will inevitably erupt between her colleagues, and their latest case. Chance is gathering information from their client and Ames is lounging on the couch, picking at an invisible thread on her jeans, obviously bored.
"How are you feeling, Miss Ames?" she touches the woman's shoulder briefly.
Ames rolls her head back to look up at her boss and gives her a halfhearted smile. "Like I'm about to lose my mind." she pauses, lifting her plaster encased arm in the air and giving it a quick twist. "This thing is itching like crazy. We may have to renegotiate this whole eight week deal. I'm not a fan."
Ilsa just laughs, reaching down to give Ames' bicep an affectionate squeeze. "You'll heal soon enough, Miss Ames."
"I know." Ames nods, "I can see why Chance is always at your place, though."
"Why's that?" Ilsa inquires curiously, shifting so that one hip rested against the back of the couch.
Ames grins cheekily and tilts her head toward the loft. "His furniture is damn uncomfortable."
"He seems to like it." Ilsa shrugs, "He's always sleeping."
Ames' sharp retort of it being no surprise, given how many mornings they've both shown up with sex hair, dies on her tongue when both Winston and Guerrero step off of the elevator. Winston looks more than a little disgruntled and like he can't wait for this whole mess to be dealt with and Guerrero looks fresh from somewhere, he probably shouldn't have been and Ilsa wisely chooses not to question it. Her younger companion makes a quick retreat for the stairs, mumbling about how this didn't directly involve her and she sees no reason to be here.
"Ames," she turns toward the stairs, pausing long enough to register the young woman's pensive expression. "Please, remember to take your pain medication today."
With a quick nod, the brunette is dashing up the stairs, although Ilsa has to wonder if it's because she has no involvement in this case or if it's because she's uncomfortable around Guerrero. After all, she'd been forced to endure having her arm crushed because of Guerrero's refusal to be where he was needed. She takes a sip of her coffee before tilting her head toward the conference room. "Chance is with the client."
"Okay."
"And, Mister Guerrero," she forces him to stop halfway to the conference room. "If you are to work this case, I expect you to be where you are needed when you are needed and not a second later. Are we clear?"
He looks thoroughly chastised - or, maybe castrated, one can never tell with Guerrero - but more than that, his lips quirk and his eyes flick toward his belt buckle, the one with the hidden blades, in a clear display of annoyance. "Yes, boss."
"Very well then," her voice softens, heels echoing in discordant harmony in the direction of her office. "Come see me, if you need anything."
In her wake, Winston gives Guerrero a hard shove but the subliminal message is clear - 'I should beat your sorry assassin ass for that' - and continues on to the conference room to meet their newest client and gather all the information, he's positive Chance isn't. Guerrero has enough sense to follow him quietly and seat himself out of the way. Had either of them bothered to look up at Chance's loft, they would've been met with the sight of Ames snickering and giggling like a school girl with a crush.
Colleague or not, Guerrero sometimes needed a taste of his own medicine.
xxx
The whiskey is a given, not a request. And, not Jack Daniels, either. It's the expensive stuff with a slow burn and a finish smoother than silk. The same whiskey that had spawned some pretty damn inventive sex and the christening of some unlikely places (how the hell her coffee table is still intact, he hasn't the slightest idea). Glasses are forgotten about in favor of the bottle, and he thinks he's had too much influence on her, when she, of all people, is drinking alcohol straight out of the bottle, but it's still the sexiest thing he's ever seen. The adrenaline still smolders in his veins, keeping him a little on edge, and in need of the warm wash of alcohol to rinse it away, and let him relax.
"This isn't a cut-and-dry case." one hand curls into the open front of her jacket, tugging her closer, while the other snatches the bottle from her. "He's stalking her."
"No case is simple, Chance."
His lips quirk at that, because she's as good at smart-assing him now, as he was her when their partnership first started. He tips the mouth of the bottle toward her, conceding her point, before he swallows a long drag and lets the alcohol work its magic. His shoulders settle back into the wall behind him and his fist clenches her jacket just a smidge tighter. She takes a step toward him, tugging the bottle from his unrelenting hand, and taking a drink that doesn't quite match his but he knows she doesn't quite have the stomach for alcohol that he does.
"Guerrero seemed different today." the bottle is pressed into his hand. "Did something happen?"
"I made it clear that if he was going to work this case then he was going to have to be where he was needed, when he was needed." Ilsa shrugs, stepping out of her high heels and kicking them aside, giving Chance the height advantage. "After what happened with Ames, I'm not sure how to go about working with him."
"He's an asshole, sometimes." he laughs and it's raspy and warm with the effects of whiskey. "Guerrero's my friend, but even I know he can be cruel."
His hand slips inside her jacket, seeking out the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. He's a little disoriented and his movements are sloppy from the alcohol but he works her blouse free from the confines of her skirt with one hand, still holding the glass bottle with the other, amber liquid sloshing. "No more for you." she slips the bottle from him. "If this is going where I think it is, you need to be at least a little sober."
"Tease." he retorts accusingly, warm palms curling around the soft protrusion of her hipbones.
All thoughts of whiskey, their new case, and Guerrero's ability to be an asshole at the most inopportune time are all pushed - shoved with great force - into the dark recesses of their minds, both preferring to be present when they continually defy all laws of science and indulge in a bit of hedonistic pleasure that seems like the lesser of the evils, when faced with the deadly sins of humanity. It's all on hold for a while, when they're with each other. Nothing seems to matter, except for maybe, how much is too much before the bed springs are demolished.
It's as close to normal as they'll ever be.
And, they have to take what they can get.
