Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target, my reference to the characters are all in fun.
Chapter two - You don't have to face it alone!
As he walked around the couch he was finding himself surprised but pleased she was standing there. He had been right, she would have stayed had he of perused it on the stairs.
She looked beautiful, her extraordinary figure amplified in the dim light. She was nervous, he could tell, she was second guessing herself for coming back. He needed to put her at ease, stop her from leaving. He began to grin his trade mark grin. She likes what she sees, he thought, it was obvious. He was comfortable in his skin. No need to put his shirt on.
She was wearing a black tank under a tight black sweat that hugged her body and accentuate her feminine curves. He could see her cleavage and her skin was sparkling as her chest heaved as she breathed nervously. He could almost feel his fingers run over her delicate bones on her neck, and then...down...…..well, he would played it cool for now, not giving away any desire. His peripheral vision was superb. He could take her all in, enjoy ever inch of her while not adverting his eyes from her face, she was none the wiser.
She managed to regain control, slightly anyway, stumbling on her words, "um, I, um," she raised her hand to her hair and nervously played with it, then lowered it and smooth out her skirt as if it was wrinkled. "I was, I mean I went down the elevator," she nervously stammered. She was still staring at this body. Her hand raised back up to her hair, try as she may she just could not will her eyes back to his face.
He saved her from herself this time, "Ilsa, I meant what I said." He moved closer yet. She could now smell the fresh soap on his body. He folded his arms in front of him accentuating even more the muscles in his strong, powerful arms. "I'm here if you need to talk this through, there is no better ear than mine, who else is going to understand the impact of taking a life?" He tilted his head bashfully and raised his eyebrows the way he so often did, trying to ease her apprehension.
Who could say no to that, she moaned to herself. "Yes of course," she said, finally meeting his eyes. He squinted a little, trying to get a read on her, "Um, I was all the way down the elevator…" she repeated herself, gesturing toward the downstairs and then grasped her hands together sheepishly, "…..and realized I need to talk about this. I thought I could bury this deep inside."
She now felt herself getting emotional and put her hand to her mouth. "But I'm fooling myself." She began to shake her head and look around for an escape.
Chance sensing her intent to flee jumped forward, gently pulling her arm towards him, bringing her attention back to him. His touch and glaze immediately halted her frantic need to escape. She stopped in her tracks and met his gaze. His grib on her arm was always strong, but amazingly gentle. They both stared silently and intensely into each other eyes. Why couldn't she read him, she mused, what a mysterious man he was. Damn it, that added to his irresistible intrigue.
He let go of her arm. Why did he keep doing that, he asked himself, let her go?
They both felt the intense electricity surrounding them. She ran her hand down his bare arm, following it with her eyes, taking in every detail of it, "I really should go," she managed to say pulling her hand away and holding it as if she touched something hot, looking unsure she added, "it's getting late. You need your sleep, we can talk another time" she slowly turned to go.
For the second time tonight the strong impulse for sleep had escaped him. He didn't want her to leave but he was also not the type of man to force the issue. He would never pressure her for anything she wasn't ready for, even if it was just talking. But he had to examine himself, was he really going to just let her walk like he did on the steps earlier?
She lingered, she wanted him to stop her. He studied her face, she looked so innocent and vulnerable but sexy in the soft light. "I'm not tired," was all he managed to say. But his eye were beckoning.
She stopped and turned back. "That is a lie," she met his gaze.
"Ok, I meant...I don't want to sleep." That was the truth. Yes he was tired but sleep was not going to happen now even if she did leave.
She smiled but said nothing, was her body giving away what she was feeling inside, or was she managing to conceal it?
She had never known a man like Chance. How could an ex-assassin be such a master at perfect chivalry? Of course, silly question, this was Christopher Chance, he was good at everything... Everything? 'Yap, he was probably good at that too,' she mulled, his excruciating attention to detail was a good indicator of that. 'Don't go there Ilsa,' she told herself.
So much had changed between them since the plane crash. They were going to part ways before it happened. They had been at each other throats up until it finally occurred to her after Lopez threw the chemicals in Chance's eyes that even though they were fighting and having words, his only true concern, it was always constant and present, was protecting her and keeping her safe at all costs with no regard to his own safety. And that included preventing her from living with the "unpleasant" (her choice of word) experiencing of killing someone.
It was becoming increasingly clear the reason for there fighting was due to their denying and ignoring their feeling for each other. They both were feeling them but refused to acknowledge it and this often resulted in tension.
When Chance didn't act in a way the that would appease her growing need or desire, well, she would lash out in anger or try to impose some silly rules to distract herself from her disappointment. Much to the confusion of the rest of the team.
Chance on the other hand never lashed out on his unanswered needs. He would quietly retreat and turn inward; his 'I don't deserve it anyway' theory would kick in. If she only knew and understood his lack of appeasing her desire wasn't because he wasn't interested but rather because he would never assume to think he was even remotely deserving of any kind of loving human affection. He would just instinctively do the right thing. Bow out gracefully as they say. His only real reciprocation of her smoke and mirror, sometimes down right harsh words was during the plane wreck when he was just sick of it and felt the strong need to defend himself from her constant verbal attacks. Besides, they were going to part ways anyway, right?
Normally when she was sticking the knife in and turning it he just bite his tongue and walked away, most of her comments didn't warrant an explanation, again, he wasn't big on words. He would justify this reaction with reasoning, 'she didn't know who he really was, what he's been through', and he felt no need to explain. However, it had never dawned on him that she was lashing out because she was developing feelings for him and felt frustrated at, what seemed to her, his indifference.
"Ilsa, why don't you have a seat, I'll make you a drink." he moved towards her and put his hand on her waist and gently directed her towards the couch. She put up little resistance, if any. His hand felt strong on her back. She allowed herself to momentarily imagine the comfort she would feel in his arms, should she turn and let it just happen?
Touching her waist again excited him like a bolt of electricity, but he showed no outward sign of it, always cool. He could so easily just take her right now and he knew she'd be willing. How many times had that crossed his mind, even when, no...especially when she was getting cross at him. He would think, 'Just take her now, shut her up.' But now, as then, his calm demeanour gave no clues to his private thoughts.
She sat down on the couch and tried to relax. He walked over to a table to mix her a drink. She watched him walk, taking in every detail of his muscular back and studied his tattoo. She never thought she'd be into a man with a tattoo. But this one added to his intrigue, he just wouldn't be him without it. Somehow this tattoo encapsulated him, which was something because she couldn't imagine any one thing could accomplish that.
This tattoo had witnessed everything he'd been through. It knew the defining moment that caused him to turned to the "old man". It knew the drastic event that happened in his life that compelled him to even consider such a drastic choice in his profession. It was there for the good times and the bad, and, more importantly it was there with him for his transformation. It was like it was part of his soul.
He turned and walked back to her with a drink for her and himself. He handed her drink to her. She reached for it with both hands, like she didn't trust herself not to drop it. "I meant it too, you don't have to feel responsible for what happened, you did everything you could to prevent it and for that I'm grateful." She looked up at him as he stood over her. 'Are you kidding,' she thought, 'can't you put a shirt on so I can interact like a functioning adult?'
Back in the opera house she had told him she saved his life but the truth was he had saved hers! She had tired to save him but botched it up and he came to the rescue. If he hadn't of jumped up from under the water and grabbed that gunman's foot and pulled him to the ground knocking him out, she would be dead…..again.
He took a heavy sigh and turned away, like he didn't buy what she was saying, not from her point of view, but his own. He was the best at what he did and never failed. But this to him was a failure because he couldn't prevent her from having to live with this unfortunate incident. She was changed forever and she could never get a "take back" and that was his fault. He so wanted to intercept and prevent her from ever having to feel the loss of one's self that occurred when you took a life. Now his redemption took on yet another meaning or angle for him. He needed to help her through this, but he just wasn't sure how.
He walked over to the window and looked out.'What was he feeling,' she wondered. 'Does he feel? Has he ever loved?' Probably not the kind of love by her definition. She took a few sips of her drink, it made her feel sleepy, light headed.
Chance had now returned to the couch and sat down, Carmine separated them. But even still the electricity was buzzing even though they were not side by side.
He didn't really know what to say to her to ease the pain and confusion. When he and Maria were together in South America those 10 plus years ago, her biggest complaint about him was his vague use of words. But when you've lead the life he has, sharing feelings didn't come easily and letting anyone in came even harder.
Since he wasn't much on the word thing, maybe he should just be their physically for her and he didn't mean protection wise, he meant the "physical" act. He could ease those bad images and feelings from her head and fill them with good ones. He knew he was more then capable of getting her to forget everything about that awful night, actually he knew he could make her delirious, forgetting everything in the world during the intimate mission. But it wasn't the time, he reasoned with himself. Not yet. She made a soft groaning sound, threw her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, exposing every feminine curve of her neck down to her cleavage. Well, maybe, he reconsidered, it is the time.