Harry is mumbling something about the least the team could do is thank him – which, okay, was not even the point, he almost got Chance killed, even before Ilsa's seemingly hair-brained scheme almost got him actually killed. Chance doesn't bother dignifying his indignant behavior with platitudes – he's never been good at soothing battered egos – instead, he lifts himself up and spares a rough glance at Ilsa, who looks a bit frightened, and he doesn't blame her. While her frightened doe look is one of his personal favorites, simply because he finds it adorable, he does wish he hadn't been so much the reason for it.

But he's also pretty sure he'll be facing her wrath soon enough. He had been rather quick to accuse Ilsa of not thinking things through – not considering that Claypool might have some sort of double cross in mind, even going so far as to label her an amateur. What he had failed to consider until Guerrero walked around the corner, retrieved his blades, and nodded at Ilsa, the closest to respect he might ever come, was that the team was far too protective of Ilsa to let her come alone and had probably been hiding the whole time. Something confirmed when Ames comes in to retrieve Harry and Winston's casual stroll through the door reveals a cuffed Claypool and the USB drive, he'd been squirming about.

With the shoot out pretty much over and everyone, who no longer deserves to breathe, not wasting oxygen, Chance makes his way to Ilsa. She's not mad – yet. But he wouldn't exactly blame her if she was, after all, he'd insulted her. Again.

"Hey," he grabs her elbow before she can make a clean getaway – though, with the cops about to swarm, it probably isn't a bad idea for her leave, lest her name be dragged through some unbecoming elements that could potentially tie up her legal team. She twists around, averting her eyes to the hand curled around her elbow, before looking back up at him. He moves closer, burying his other hand in her riotous curls. He could tell her that he likes disheveled Ilsa, that the messy hair and wide eyes and crumpled white jacket is kind of endearing. But he doesn't. Instead, he growls a warning. "Don't you ever scare me like that, again. I don't need you dying on me."

It isn't so much planned as it is the relief that they both survived this horrifically tangled mess makes it a little harder to resist and she's still buzzing on the effects of the thiopental, so denial isn't really in her wheelhouse, right now. He trades her elbow for the open front of her jacket and yanks her closer before his mouth is claiming hers, hot and needy, all tongue and teeth and she sinks into him with a soft sigh, getting her arms around his torso as best she can with his grip on her hair and her jacket.

"I mean it, Ilsa, I don't need you dead." Chance growls when they finally part.

Her eyes widen, again. Here she had come to believe that he didn't need her at all, alive or dead. But maybe he did. "I thought you didn't need me at all, Mister Chance?"

That earns them a scoff from Winston, who is grumpily handing Guerrero twenty bucks. Chance glares at them both for the apparent betting pool, before turning back to Ilsa and leaning his forehead against hers. "I'm not good at this kind of thing, but don't – just stay, okay? Don't die, don't go back to England, just stay, alright?"

"Alright."