Chapter Text
“Recap the timeline for me again,” Agent Landry ordered. The Hoover building on a Sunday afternoon was all but empty, but Landry had still sequestered them—Hollander, Svetlana, Rygg, and himself—in a private conference room. Hollander stood at the front, ready to mark the main events of their investigation onto the whiteboard. Rygg and Svetlana were working on the phone, and they were close to breaking the encryption.
Ilya started with his trip to Russia the year before—when Ivan had gotten into some trouble with the bratva. They still didn’t know if that was connected to this case yet, but that had been his last direct contact with the informant.
He walked her through the rest, from his most recent trip to Russia to smuggle the Bad Monkey defectors out of the country, to the server room intruder who’d mentioned Ivan—she rolled her eyes when he admitted to leaving that out of the official report—to the intel that led them to the Hyatt.
She paused him then. “Does Volkov know where they are? The defectors?”
Ilya shook his head. “No, he left Svetlana in charge of that. They are in Georgetown, about 10 minutes from you. I would like to keep their names out of this if possible. They are risking a lot by helping us.”
“I understand. So, there’s nothing definitive that connects Ivan to the attack or the break-in at DOE, apart from the intruder mentioning him by name. But Volkov thinks he’s involved?”
“We do not know what Volkov knows. He says he has intel that Ivan is in Russia, but that could be a lie. He has always been like this—only telling us half the story,” Svetlana cut in.
“Yeah,” Rygg added without looking up from the computer. “We’re familiar with you CIA-types. But let’s look at who Ivan was talking to.” A few keystrokes brought the contents of the phone up on the big screen. What had once been indistinguishable now looked like a normal messaging app.
Ilya squinted at the screen. “That 771 number, can you open the thread?”
Rygg clicked on the conversation.
“It’s someone asking for a meeting, a couple of times. Ivan is being cagey. He hasn’t agreed to one yet,” Svetlana translated for the non-Russian speakers. “Let’s look at the others.”
Rygg clicked through a few more before Ilya stopped her on a thread in Russian. “This one is more aggressive. The other person is angry, I think Ivan did not deliver something he was supposed to. Ivan is promising he has it. He wants to meet tomorrow in West End,” he translated.
“We’ll see if they respond.” Rygg said. “The active cloning should work as long as Ivan’s phone is still connected to a cell tower.”
“Here’s something—looks like an account number.” Rygg had scrolled further back into that same conversation. “Yeah, that’s consistent with an offshore account.”
“Go ahead and trace it,” Landry said. Ilya approached Hollander as the three women gathered around the laptop. He stood next to him at the whiteboard.
“What is bothering you?”
“What? Oh, nothing.”
“Hollander,” Ilya pressed. Shane glanced at him quickly, then back to his notes on the board.
“Okay, so I get why it would be lucrative to have access to details about our nuclear program, but what’s the draw for the bratva or Bad Monkey over, say, a targeted ransomware attack on a private organization? I just don’t see how they’d take this risk on for themselves. Which means they’re selling it or stealing it for someone else. So who would most benefit from having this information that would also have connections to these organizations?”
Ilya nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.” He didn’t like it, because it made another trip to Russia even more inevitable. He knew first hand how many government officials had hands in criminal enterprises, and they wouldn’t be above using their connections to gain favor or influence.
‘Sukhaya lozhka rot deret,’ a dry spoon scrapes the throat, his father would say, not knowing it would be his own downfall. Grigori tried to bribe some bratva thug into getting dirt on his rival—the only problem was, they were already loyal to the other cabinet member. Bribery was only illegal if you weren’t very good at it, and Ilya’s father didn’t have the sharpness necessary to navigate the higher levels of politics. His mind, like his hands, had been more of a blunt instrument. Now, Ilya wondered if Grigori’s mind had been slipping even then.
“Would your contacts have any information on state officials who had ties to Bad Monkey?” Hollander asked.
“I will ask. They might want to meet instead of messaging, though.”
“I’ll go with you,” Hollander offered. Ilya looked up to see that he was still staring at the screen.
“Okay,” Ilya said slowly. They’d parted ways awkwardly the day before, but he felt like Hollander was trying to tell him something.
***
After confirming the time and place for their meetup, they left the other three agents to their work tracing the offshore account and diving into the rest of Ivan’s messages.
Ilya made a show of checking his phone for the time. “Two o’clock already? I could eat a bear.”
“Oh yeah?” Hollander glanced at his own watch. “Me too.”
Ilya glanced at him, but Hollander was looking down the street.
“Hollander, do you want to eat lunch?”
“What? Oh, uh, if it’s not gonna make us late? I can wait if—”
Hollander was so perceptive in his work, but Ilya was learning he had trouble in other areas.
“I am asking if you want to get lunch with me,” Ilya explained. “We have an hour until meeting, that is plenty of time.”
“Okay. Yeah, that’s good with me.” Hollander bobbed his head. “Um, what do you like to eat?”
Ilya shrugged. “I am not picky. You can choose.”
Hollander offered a few suggestions, which Ilya narrowed down based on the direction they needed to walk. They passed a pizza shop and he told Hollander about the terrible calzone he’d had there with Marley his first week in Washington. Spending a few years in New York had ruined him for bad Italian. Shane said the same thing about the Indian food he’d had in Detroit, and that he couldn’t touch the jar curry sauce anymore.
It was strange to talk to Hollander like this—without an ulterior motive to anger or seduce. That wasn’t to say the low-level hum of sexual tension was gone, but this was just… getting to know someone.
And Hollander was pretty talkative now, his breath making clouds in the air as he told a story about finding a ramen spot his first week, and how the owner kept trying to teach him Japanese.
“It feels weird, but also nice, I guess? Like, my mom’s first language was Japanese, but she never pressured me into learning. But then I feel like people judge me for not knowing. I got pretty good at French and Spanish, but I might look into some Japanese classes when things settle down. It would be funny to come in one day and surprise Hina.”
Ilya directed them down the next street to the arepas spot they’d decided on.
“Did you start learning English when you were in Russia? Or did you have to learn when you came here?”
Ilya was a bit surprised at the question. “We had English classes in school, but it was never taken very seriously. I could read okay, but I could not write or speak that well. My accent is still very bad.”
“I like your accent,” Hollander said quietly. Ilya glanced over to see Hollander staring in the other direction, no doubt hiding a blush across his cheeks. Ilya was mortified to discover he was also blushing.
“This is it,” he said, walking ahead to the door of the shop.
Ilya felt the awkwardness creeping back in as they ate, realizing this felt very much like a date. It was Sunday, and they were surrounded by young couples and families. They probably looked at him and Hollander sitting there together and assumed they were a couple. He risked a glance around — no one was staring at them. Ilya could probably hold Hollander’s hand or lean forward and kiss him, and no one would think anything of it.
Stranger still was that Ilya wanted that. He wanted afternoon walks where they talked about nothing for an hour. He wanted Hollander to tell him more about growing up in boring Michigan. He wanted to hold his hand.
Ilya glanced back at Hollander, who was using a plastic fork and knife to cut his food into neat pieces. He didn’t know why he liked that so much. He devoured his own arepas using his hands, licking up the sauce that escaped between his fingers. He sucked a spot he’d missed on his thumb, glancing up to see Hollander watching.
He pressed the digit deeper into his mouth. Hollander’s lips parted, but he looked away quickly.
“We should probably, um, head out,” he said, stacking their plates on the table.
The meeting spot was an old-school arcade, where the noise from the games and the screams of children would be sure to drown out any potential listening devices. Ilya checked his phone again—the most recent message said they’d be waiting near the PacMan game.
Their conversation with Sara and Dominic was brief, but more helpful than Ilya had anticipated. The defectors didn’t have rumors—they had names and dates. Before leaving, Dominic had been in direct communication with a Solntsevskaya member who also acted as an aid for the Minister of Economic Development.
“Solntsevskaya? You are sure?” It was the primary and largest bratva in Russia, and also the parent organization for the group that had a target on Ilya’s back.
“Da. He was from brigade run by Anatoly Knyazev,” Dominic had said. “They are trying to expand into Dubai, and Minister Yelin has connections there.”
“So that pretty much confirms the bratva connection, then,” Hollander said after Ilya translated for him. “But what would Russia’s Minister of Economic Development want from our nuclear program?”
“Is only guess, but probably leverage. Information is very important, even if it is not immediately useful.”
***
Shane’s phone rang as Dominic and Sara slipped out the side exit.
“It’s Landry,” he said, putting the phone on speaker. Ilya relayed the intel they’d gotten.
“Okay, we can’t act on that yet, but make sure to type up a report. While you were gone, Ivan got a text confirming the meeting tomorrow for noon at a residence in West End. The database is down for maintenance, so we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to request the property records.”
“Okay, we just finished up. We’ll head back—”
“We’ve got it covered here, actually,” she said, cutting Shane off. “Be at the conference room by 0700 tomorrow morning. We’ll have to read Grady in since this involves a private residence, but we should be able to keep it a small operation. Ideally we’d have six agents for coverage, but we can make do with—”
“I know someone,” Rozanov chimed in. “Marlow. Cliff Marlow. He’s between missions right now. He will help us.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Svetlana spoke up. “Yes, he’s good. We can trust him.”
“Okay. Then we’ll see you both in the morning.”
Shane hung up. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rozanov was staring at a couple of kids tossing balls on the skee-ball machines. His eyes followed the balls as they shot up the ramp.
“Have you played?” Shane asked.
Rozanov shrugged, then shook his head. “No.”
“Do you want to? I have some cash,” Shane offered, catching onto the other man’s feigned disinterest.
Thirty minutes and $40 worth of quarters later, Shane had tossed his coat onto the lane next to him and rolled up his sleeves. A group of kids gathered in a semi-circle behind them.
“Too far to the left,” Rozanov mumbled.
Shane ignored him as he lined up the shot. He extended back, keeping his wrist loose and his elbow straight. He was only 10 points ahead of Rozanov—they’d been neck and neck the whole time, with the score tied 4-4, which annoyed Shane exceedingly.
On the release, everything looked good. The ball was perfectly aligned with the center, fast enough to get a decent lift.
But the ball clipped the edge of the plastic divider, bouncing out into the 10-point zone.
Half the kids groaned, while the other half cheered. Rozanov smirked at him, wiggling his eyebrows. If he scored anything higher than 10, he would be the first to win five games—the finish line they’d decided on after the first two ended in a deadlock.
“You were cheating! You can’t extend your arm past the edge of the ramp,” Shane responded as they walked out the side door into an alley. The kids had quickly dispersed after Rozanov had sunk the ball into the 50-point slot, cinching the game.
“This cannot be real rule, Hollander.”
“It is! And you hip checked me at the beginning of the last round.”
They stood at the mouth of the alleyway, facing each other.
Rozonov took a step toward him. “You know, Hollander, for someone so nice, you are a very sore loser.”
“I’m not a sore loser. You cheat.” Shane pressed his hands into Rozanov’s stomach, intending to shove him, but Rozanov took hold of his wrists, keeping his hands there. “What?” Shane asked, breathless.
Rozanov leaned in, pressing him back into the brick wall. “You are very pretty when you are angry.”
Shane’s stomach dipped. He didn’t know how to respond, still wasn’t sure how to read the other man’s intentions. Rozanov took another step closer. Shane glanced around, but no one walking by was paying any attention to them.
Rozanov squeezed his wrists. “Do you want to play more games?”
Shane shook his head immediately, staring back at Rozanov. “No.” He was going to be brave, like he’d been trying to be all day. Even if Rozanov said no, or that he didn’t want that from Shane anymore, he’d be okay. But after what Svetlana had said, and knowing Rozanov was due to go to Russia soon, Shane didn’t want to wait. He licked his lips nervously as he said, “I want you.”
Rozanov groaned, pressing his face into Shane’s neck. Shane felt the nip of teeth at his shoulder before Rozanov straightened.
“We should get cab,” he said, already stepping out into the street to hail a taxi.
“Wait,” Shane followed him, pulling his arm down as his confidence surged. “I’m not too far from here.”
A beat of silence followed.
“You mean we go to your place? You are sure?”
Shane nodded, staring past Rozanov’s shoulder. This felt like something different. It was different, Shane realized. He was a private person, almost to a fault, and hadn’t even hinted at Rozanov coming over before. Rozanov angled his head down to meet Shane’s eyes. His expression was unreadable, but Shane swallowed his nerves.
“Yes. Yeah, I’m sure.”
Rozanov looked at him for a moment longer, and then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Okay.”
***
Shane’s studio was pretty small, especially compared to Rozanov’s condo. He hadn’t had much time to find a place, so he signed a 6-month lease at the nicest spot he could afford within a reasonable distance to work.
Technically a studio, it still had a separate room area for a queen bed, with enough space for nightstands on either side. It was clean and the bed was made because it was always clean and the bed was always made.
But, as Shane entered the apartment with Rozanov trailing behind him, he wondered if it didn’t look a little… serial-killer-y.
He didn’t have long to worry—Rozanov was pinning his front against the wall as soon as the door closed.
“Nice place,” Rozanov said, mouthing at the skin behind Shane’s ear. “Very clean.”
Shane could admit to himself that his apartment looked like a staged set. And while Rozanov’s apartment wasn’t ever dirty, it definitely looked more lived in than Shane’s place ever did.
“Shut up,” he said, but there was no bite to the words. He planted his hands on the wall in front of him and pushed back, testing how strongly he was pinned down. Rozanov ground his pelvis into Shane’s ass. Then he wrapped his arms around Shane’s body, one hand coming to wrap loosely around his throat while the other pressed on his lower belly, fingers just teasing his waistband.
“You want me to fuck you, yes?” Rozanov asked, teeth nipping against Shane’s shoulder. “Want me to make you beg for it?”
“Fuck—” Shane groaned. He circled his hips as much as he could, feeling Rozanov growl as Shane rubbed his ass along his shaft through their clothes. His breath caught as Rozanov tightened his grip around his throat, squeezing against the sides. Shane knew Rozanov could render him unconscious in less than 10 seconds if he really wanted to. But Shane could also tear Rozanov’s MCL with a well-timed kick, or butt his head back and break his nose, or sprain his wrist and put him on his back, all in the same short time.
It wasn’t about could. It was about what Shane wanted, and Shane wanted to be pressed into the wall with Rozanov’s hand around his throat.
“Bedroom,” Shane gasped.
Rozanov pulled him away from the wall, keeping a hold of him from behind but letting Shane lead the way to the alcove where his bed was. He found himself pushed into the bed face-down, Rozanov’s knees straddling his waist. But then he paused.
“Hollander, I am not sure how to tell you this,” he started.
“What?”
“Your pillows. I do not think you have enough.”
“Fuck off!” Shane tried to buck him off.
“No, they are cute!”
“My mom got me those. Don’t be an asshole.”
Rozanov hummed, leaning over Shane so he felt his body blanketed with the other man’s warmth. “I think you like it.” He punctuated the words with a sharp grind into Shane’s ass, eliciting a whine.
Rozanov pulled up, and Shane heard his shirt hit the floor on the other side of the bed and then the sound of a zipper. Rozanov helped Shane out of his own shirt, then hooked his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s pants. Shane couldn’t help himself from stiffening.
“What?” Rozanov asked, taking his hands away.
“I, uh, need to get ready,” he said, feeling the burn of a blush on his cheeks.
“Ah.” Rozanov moved to sit next to Shane as Shane lifted into a kneeling position.
“Sorry.” Shane felt bad about how hard Rozanov was. He could usually finish quickly, but it would still put a bit of a pause—
“No sorry.” Rozanov leaned forward to press a kiss on Shane’s chin. “Is okay.” Another kiss, this time on his lips, lingering as Rozanov said, “We have all night.”
“You can shower too,” Shane offered, smiling. “If you want.”
Rozanov leaned back, stuffing a hand under the waistband of his briefs to grip himself. “How about you tell me when you are done getting ready, and I join you?” His smile was soft and small, and Shane couldn’t help leaning forward for another kiss.
Shane tried to get through his routine as quickly as possible, glad the fiber supplements he added to his diet a few weeks ago made prep easier.
The shower door opened as Shane was rinsing out his shampoo.
“You started without me,” Rozanov pouted. Shane rolled his eyes when the suds cleared, grabbing the shampoo bottle and handing it back without a word. He reached for a washcloth, but Rozanov stopped his hand, turning Shane around to face him and pouring a dollop of body wash into the one in his hand.
Shane watched as Rozanov spread the soap over his body. His curls were flattened and pushed back from the shower, giving his face a hardened, more chiseled look. Shane had always thought Rozanov was a lot like the other agents they worked with—gruff and insensitive. And it was true that the man had a hard shell, that he could be fearsome in a fight and clever in a debate, but Rozanov had an underlying softness to him that called to Shane.
Because for all the ways that Shane could outmatch, outshoot, outthink an opponent, he’d always felt too soft, too sensitive at his core. Even his fellow agents in Michigan seemed surprised when he could pin them down on the mat or earn a perfect score on his firearms qualifications.
Part of Shane thrived on surprising people, but sometimes he was just tired of trying so hard all the time. He wasn’t sure how, or why, but proving himself to Rozanov felt different—maybe it always had. Maybe their softness called to each other.
When Rozanov stood from scrubbing down Shane’s legs, Shane couldn’t help but pull him into a kiss. It was too raw, maybe, but Rozanov quickly matched his fervor. The towel hit the floor with a splat as Rozanov wrapped both of his arms around Shane. He sucked on his lips and pressed their bodies together so hard Shane’s back popped.
Rozanov worked his lips down Shane’s neck before pressing his mouth to Shane’s ear to whisper, “Has anyone ever eaten out your pretty little hole before?”
Shane’s whole body jerked, fingers scrambling along Rozanov’s back as his knees weakened.
“I’ll take that as a no. Turn around.”
Shane turned around. Rozanov knelt on the tile floor, using his hands to squeeze and part Shane’s cheeks. Shane felt a glob of warm liquid drip down and he couldn’t help but clench at the thought of Rozanov spitting on his hole.
“So pretty here, my sh—malysh,” Rozanov whispered. The first swipe of his tongue was a revelation. He squirmed as the tongue pressed against his opening, pointed and surprisingly strong. Then it changed, softened, and Rozanov lapped lightly around the edges.
“Finger,” he panted, needing something inside him. “Rozanov, seriously—fuck—just fucking put your—”
A sharp slap to his hip almost had him yelping.
“Shut up, Shane,” Rozanov said, before pressing his mouth and tongue back into Shane’s hole.
Shane shut up. He couldn’t think clearly past the pleasure the other man was giving him, but something in the back of his head perked up. He was pretty sure he hadn’t heard “Hollander” in that stupid, beautiful accent.
Something loosened in his chest. “Fuck, Ilya,” he moaned as the man pulled his cheeks apart even more, using his lips and tongue now. Shane reached back without thinking, weaving his fingers through his curls. Tears gathered in his waterline, drops spilling out as he squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like Ilya was trying to take him apart and hold him together at the same time.
***
“Fuck, Ilya.”
Ilya’s lips continued as the words reverberated in his head. The pronunciation wasn’t perfect, but it echoed of someone who’d paid attention, who’d perhaps even practiced it aloud. So no, it wasn’t perfect, but the effort behind it was clear.
“Shane,” Ilya mouthed again, too low for the other man to hear. This time was just for him. “My Shane.”
Insistent pulling on his hair got his attention finally, and he lifted off to see a pair of deep brown eyes staring down at him.
“Fuck, was gonna come,” Shane panted, fingers softening their grip in Ilya’s hair.
Ilya stood, a bit too quickly considering his vision spotted, but he grasped onto Shane from behind. It was a terrible feeling, knowing you wanted to keep someone who would be better off if you let them go.
Shane twisted in his arms, leaning forward for a filthy kiss that surprised Ilya. They hardly separated as Shane soaped down Ilya’s body, and they didn’t bother with drying off at all.
In the bedroom, Shane pushed Ilya down first, crawling over him to straddle his lap. Ilya stared up at him, trying to decode the strange smile that sat on Shane’s lips.
“What?” he asked finally, squeezing where his hands were resting on Shane’s hips for emphasis.
“Just,” Shane looked away, biting his lip. “I like you.” He shrugged, like it cost him nothing. Ilya stared at him. He was used to being told he was hot, sexy, funny; a generous lover, a good time. He tried to remember when the last time anyone had told him they liked him, and then stopped because it was almost certainly on a playground in Russia.
“I like you too,” he whispered, the words coming from somewhere broken inside him. His voice caught at the end, and he pulled Shane down into a kiss, trying to put everything he was feeling into it.
“I like you so much,” Shane whispered when he pulled back to put a few inches between them, staring into Ilya’s eyes. “How could we let this happen?”
Ilya cradled his face, eyes falling on the constellation of freckles along Shane’s cheeks. He rubbed a thumb over them lightly. “We are both stupid and irresponsible.”
“But it’s real, right?” Uncertainty bled into Shane’s voice. Ilya hooked an arm around him, turning them so he was on top.
“Yes, it is real.”
***
Delicate might be a strange word to describe sex, but that’s what it was. Ily prepped him with slow, gentle movements, taking so long with it Shane’s toes curled until he got a cramp in his calf. Ilya massaged that out of him too.
They spoke each others’ names over and over, the words feeling novel on their tongues. At one point, Shane kept murmuring a cadence of, “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya,” until the man grasped his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Ilya pressed inside with a slow glide, arms bracketing Shane’s head. Shane pushed his hips higher to urge Ilya closer, hugging his hips with his knees.
Ilya paused when they connected fully, arms shaking and eyes squeezing shut. Shane breathed with him, brushing his fingers lightly up and down Ilya’s back, then shoving both into his hair to scratch at his scalp.
“Shane,” Ilya whined, voice ragged and raw. Shane wrapped his legs as tightly around Ilya as he could, using his core to push off from the mattress to tip them over, swapping positions again. He sat back quickly to keep Ilya inside, planting his hands on his chest for balance.
“Fuck,” he moaned. They’d never done it like this before, and it felt very different. All of Shane’s weight pressing down, the tickle of Ilya’s happy trail against his cock. He started rocking almost without realizing it.
“God, Shane,” Ilya groaned. Shane stared down at him, reveling in the fucked-out look on the other man’s face. He continued the small rocking movements, Ilya’s cock rubbing perfectly against his prostate. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so in his body as he did when Ilya was inside him. Shane felt hedonistic, taking himself in hand as he fucked himself on Ilya’s cock.
“Look at you,” Ilya said, fingers digging in as he began rocking his hips up. “Want you on my cock all the time. Fuck, Shane, you feel so good.”
“God, Ilya, I want that. All the time. Feel so full of you.”
Ilya growled, grabbing a handful of Shane’s hips to lift him up and drop him back down on his cock. Their pace quickened, the sound of skin slapping registered in Shane’s head as an afterthought—something that might have embarrassed him had he not been so close to coming. He managed to say as much through, words almost indistinguishable through his gasp as each thrust felt like Ilya cock was in his stomach.
“Do it, malysh, come for me,” Ilya ordered. Shane stroked his cock harder, the orgasm crashing over him, covering Ilya’s stomach and dripping down into his happy trail.
“Fucking fuck,” Ilya all but shouted, gripping and spreading Shane’s asscheeks as he pounded into him from below, finishing into the condom with a drawn-out moan.
Shane dropped his face to Ilya’s neck, still panting and shaking slightly. Ilya rolled them to their sides, got rid of the condom, then wrapped his arms around Shane to keep their bodies pressed tightly together.
Reality came back in a slow drip. Shane knew he’d want to shower off the come and lube all over him. His mouth was dry and his calf was still a bit sore from the cramp earlier, but he didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay in this small pocket of perfection.
“Ty menya pugayesh',” Ilya whispered. “Ya khochu ostavit' tebya sebe.” The Russian made Shane’s skin prickle with goosebumps.
“What’s that mean?” he asked, pulling his head out of Ilya’s neck.
Ilya shook his head, leaning forward for a kiss that felt like a goodbye. It left a rock in Shane’s stomach, and his first impulse was to let him. They’d done this dance before, Shane knew the motions. But he didn’t want to follow the same steps anymore.
“Stay?” he asked before he could lose his nerve.
He felt Ilya’s breath hitch, held his own as he waited for the man’s response.
“Okay,” Ilya sighed. “I will stay.”