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“I don’t understand, sir,” Shane says, trying to ignore the rush of shame blooming high on his cheeks. It’s hot - Ottawa in late June is humid, but he knows that’s not to blame for his red face. “Is this a punishment?”

Captain Theriault is a stern, grizzled man whose only truly readable expression is displeasure. Now, at least, he doesn’t look too displeased, but it doesn’t do much in the way of reassurance.

“You’re a great firefighter, Hollander,” he says in response, even though there’s nothing on his face to indicate that he believes it. “This has nothing to do with you personally. Station 24 needs bodies, so I’m putting you on loan. It’ll only be for a month or two. Maybe less if their men’s recovery goes smoothly.”

Shane’s mind races. He wants to say: It sure feels personal. He doesn’t, obviously. He swallows his indignation with a half-hearted, “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll finish out your shift here and report to 24 on Tuesday. I trust you’ll represent us well.”

It’s an effective dismissal. When Shane leaves the Captain’s office, he goes straight to the common area. Hayden’s at the ping pong table, losing badly and getting worked up at JJ’s loud crowing.

“What’d Theriault want?” he asks when he sees Shane’s undoubtedly pinched expression.

“I’m on loan,” Shane reports as evenly as he can, which isn’t very even at all. “To 24. For a month, maybe even two.”

“Aw, fuck,” Hayden says, putting down the paddle just as JJ hits the ball past him. “Okay, you saw that, right? That one doesn’t count.”

“I saw,” Shane says loyally. He exchanges an amused look with JJ, whose face turns sympathetic.

“That blows, Hollander,” he says. “Almost as much as Pike’s ping pong game.”

“Oh, fuck off, JJ,” Hayden sighs. “I’m trying to comfort Shane.”

“I don’t need comforting,” Shane protests. “I’m just, like, a little bummed, I guess.”

“You can say ‘pissed,’ y’know. Theriault’s not going to strike you down where you stand.”

“Or ‘vexed.’”

“Ooh, good one.”

“Okay,” Shane interjects, rolling his eyes. “All of the above. It feels like a punishment.” This time Hayden and JJ are the ones exchanging a look, which he resents.

“Buddy, it’s not a punishment,” Hayden says, gentle like Shane’s one of his toddlers. “You’re the best guy we have. Everyone knows that. Maybe he just drew names out of a hat.”

“Maybe,” Shane says doubtfully. No matter the reason, he’s going. And he’ll be as helpful as possible – it is genuinely horrible, what happened to Station 24’s guys. He doesn’t want to contribute to any more strife.

“Wait, I know a guy over there,” JJ says, snapping his fingers. “Hazy. Wyatt. He’s a great dude.”

“Well, that’s good,” Shane says, trying to infuse some positivity into his tone. He’ll do his job, hopefully meet some nice guys, and then he can come back to his own squad. He just needs to stay focused.

It’s not that long, he tells himself. And most importantly, no matter what he might worry, it’s not a punishment.

-

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Shane says when he walks into Station 24 for the first time.

“Hollander,” says none other than Ilya goddamn Rozanov, “Are you lost?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Shane growls, but there’s a sinking feeling in his chest, one that tells him they’re both in the right place.

“What is the word? Stalking? Every time I turn around, there you are,” Rozanov says. “It’s getting weird.”

Not a punishment, Shane thinks. Not a punishment. He counts to ten and back. “What are you doing here,” he asks through gritted teeth.

“On loan.”

“Well, me too.”

“Okay.”

God, Shane can’t stand him. “Great,” he says, and moves to walk past him.

“In a hurry?” Rozanov asks, falling into step with him. Curse this man’s long legs. Shane subtly speeds up, beelining for what he assumes must be the Captain’s office.

“I’d like to meet my new captain.”

“Our new captain.”

“Whatever.”

“Is not whatever. We are teammates now, yes? We can play nice.” He smiles insincerely with his stupidly perfect teeth.

“Be as nice as you want, Rozanov,” Shane says, briefly entertaining a fantasy of punching him right in that mouth, “but I’m not going to play with you.”

“We’ll see,” Rozanov hums, which is about when Shane officially tunes him out. He knocks on the door and waits.

Captain Martin is a bland-looking man with no real update on their situation. “We’ll have you ‘til we have you,” he shrugs. “You’ll do fine here, in the meantime. Thanks for stepping up.”

Shane wonders if he’s under the impression that they volunteered for this. He fights the urge to press him for details and instead smiles as politely as he can. “Of course, sir. I’ll do my best to fill their shoes.”

There’s a derisive snort next to him. Shane turns sharply, but Rozanov’s face is schooled into nonchalance. “Something funny?” he asks.

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “Do you see me laughing?”

Oh, Shane could kill him. He has to physically bite back a retort, though a quick glance at the Captain shows the man has no real interest in the scene before him. They get through the rest of the introduction quickly, as most of it’s things they already know.

“Lastly, I just wanted to say that I’ve heard some rumors about you two and your…differences back at the Academy. I’m telling you now there won’t be any of that here. You’re a team, so act like it.”

“Yes, sir,” he and Rozanov intone, and then they’re dismissed.

Differences, Shane thinks. That’s one word for it.

He knows he should be the bigger person, turn the other cheek to Rozanov’s relentless teasing, but the man gets under his skin. He forgets himself around him. It's impossible not to rise to the bait, to prove him wrong.

It’s also extremely unprofessional, and the last thing he needs right now.

“Shane Hollander,” someone says, and he looks over to see a man with a bright smile walking toward him. “I’m Zane Boodram. Call me Bood.”

“Alright, Bood,” Shane says, and they shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Bood smiles. “Just wanted to be the first to welcome you to Station 24.” He looks past him to say, “And you must be Ilya Rozanov. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I bet you have,” Rozanov says, now standing next to Shane. He practically casts a shadow, with how he towers over him. “I am very fun to talk about.”

Shane rolls his eyes so hard it hurts.

Bood looks between them dubiously. “Um, come meet the guys,” he says. “Most of them are eating lunch right now.”

The guys turn out to be a friendly group: Evan Dykstra, Nick Chouinard, Wyatt Hayes, and Tanner Dillon. Shane studies Wyatt the longest, remembering this is the friend of JJ he’d been instructed to also befriend.

Wyatt meets his scrutinizing gaze with mild alarm. “Hey, man,” he says.

“You must be JJ’s Wyatt,” Shane says, trying to smile like a nice, normal person.

Wyatt smiles back. “That’s me. Dude, he’s been talking my ear off about you.”

“JJ talks everyone’s ear off about anything,” Shane says, gratified when Wyatt laughs.

“Hazy,” Rozanov says, “is good to see you again.”

Wyatt gestures between the two of them. “Look at this team-up, huh? Unlikely allies, working together.”

“Sure,” says Rozanov, dismissively. Shane’s blood boils. “If you want to call it that.”

“Well,” says Bood, after a beat. “This should be fun, don’t you think? Shane, Roz, I’ll give you the tour.”

“Super fun,” Dykstra says, but as Shane turns to leave he can hear him say in an aside, “Ten bucks they kill each other before the shift is over.”

“You’re on,” says Wyatt.

“Make it twenty,” says Chouinard.

Shane just counts to ten and back.

-

They’re a good team, is the thing. No one else seems to expect this, but Shane’s not even all that surprised. Just resigned.

He’s never once been under the impression Rozanov is bad at his job. He’s brash, obnoxious, and a certifiable dick, but also smart, dedicated, and more than capable of taking things seriously when the situation requires.

“You handled that well,” Shane says to him after their second shift together, relatively boring save the house fire at the end. No casualties, thanks to Rozanov getting the dog out at the last minute.

Rozanov looks askance at him. “It is my job.” If he’s surprised at how in-sync he and Shane were today, he certainly isn’t showing it.

Irritation cuts through Shane’s initial goodwill. “Would it kill you to stop being a dick for one minute?”

Rozanov tilts his head to the side as if seriously considering. “Maybe not kill me. But it might really hurt.”

Shane scoffs. He’s exhausted, irritated, and wants nothing more than to collapse in bed. The walk to his car seems much longer than usual.

“So tired, Hollander. It was such a big day for you, watching me do all the work.”

“Fuck you so much,” Shane mutters.

Rozanov smirks crookedly. “On the job? So unprofessional.”

“Goodnight, Rozanov,” Shane says firmly. He drives home in silence, sore and tired and feeling sorry for himself. Mostly, though, he wonders how the hell he’s going to survive the next few months.

-

He’s not very good at being the bigger person.

Rozanov continues to bait him, and, honestly, Shane doesn’t exactly make it difficult.

“Aw, sorry, Hollander,” Rozanov fake-pouts when he lands an (admittedly hard) shot in their pool game.

“You think I can’t beat that?” Fuck this guy, seriously. He takes his cue and, even though the angle is tight, sinks his solids one after the other.

“Lucky shot,” Rozanov shrugs, though when he meets Shane’s eyes he looks impressed despite himself.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Shane says smugly, and rewards himself with a beer. He slides into the booth next to Bood and lets the guys’ chatter wash over him. Chouinard is telling them, with increasingly animated gestures, about his wife’s promotion.

“Are you dating anyone, Shane?” Bood asks him in an aside.

“Oh,” he says. “No, not right now.”

“Come on, man,” Dillon says, too loudly for his liking. “You’re way too hot to be single.”

“Tanner,” Dykstra laughs. “Leave him alone.”

“I’m just not looking right now,” he says, and, at the slightly awkward silence, goes up to get another beer. Behind him, Bood hisses something at Dillon.

Rozanov’s still at the bar, staring down into his drink. He cuts a striking figure: hair golden in the dim light, the rest of his powerful body painted in shadow. Shane swallows, throat suddenly dry. He really is such an asshole. An extremely hot, deceptively smart, asshole.

“Coming to ask for a rematch?” he says.

Shane stares at him. “I won.”

“Barely. Basically a tie.” His audacity rips a laugh out of Shane’s throat; it surprises both of them, and the corner of Rozanov’s mouth lifts up, playful. They look at each other, smiling, until Shane clears his throat. The bartender slides him a beer and he gestures in thanks.

“It’s not going to be awkward, right?” he asks, then immediately regrets it.

Rozanov raises one thick eyebrow. “What?”

“Us. This. Because of our…thing.” He grimaces right after saying it; the euphemism comes out clunky, his hushed whisper only adding to the feeling of juvenile scandal. He takes a swig of his drink to shut himself up.

“What thing?” Rozanov asks at a much louder volume, because he’s the biggest asshole in North America. His smirk is practically audible.

Shane stares determinedly into his beer and says nothing.

“Do you mean that time we gave each other blow jobs in the supply closet? That thing?”

Shane shifts his gaze to the ceiling in exasperation, face still burning. “That would be the one, yeah.”

“What about it is awkward? It was fun. You are the one who had to make it weird.”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you. You left in such a hurry. Not even a goodbye!” Rozanov says it like he’s the expert on how one should react to an ill-advised hook-up. Although, Shane thinks defeatedly, he probably is.

“We’d just graduated,” Shane says, suddenly thrust into the uniquely frustrating position of defending his honor to Ilya Rozanov. “I had a reservation with my parents and I didn’t want to be late!”

“And you needed to go freak out.”

Well, maybe. But there’s no way Shane’s going to cop to that.

“We can be adults about this,” Rozanov says in that patronizing way of his. “It was fun, and casual, and now we are coworkers. So what?”

“Temporary coworkers,” says Shane, still smarting.

Rozanov ignores him. “We could have fun again,” he suggests, and he’s not even looking at Shane. He says it so nonchalantly that it takes Shane a second to understand.

“Oh,” he says. “Um. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

A shrug. “Okay.”

“Not that I didn’t have fun last time,” Shane says, suddenly stumbling over his words. “Like, I had a very good time. A great time. But – we’re coworkers.”

“Temporary coworkers.”

“Well – yes. I mean, no. No, sorry. Sorry.”

“Hollander,” Rozanov says. “Chill. Jesus.”

“Sorry,” says Shane again, mortified. “I’m gonna go find Bood.”

Rozanov raises his glass mockingly.

When Shane looks his way, thirty minutes later, he’s chatting up a well-endowed blonde by the pool table. He watches for a second, stomach twisting, and leaves without saying goodbye.

-

He wakes that night gasping, rock hard, with the sense-memory of a stubbled jaw kissing down his chest (and down, and down). After a few half-hearted attempts at falling back asleep, he admits defeat.

“Fuck my life,” Shane mutters, reaching into his boxers. And fuck Ilya Rozanov.

-

The hottest month of the year is, understandably, the busiest in terms of fires. With July comes the wonderful distraction of work: house fires, wild fires, and general heat-related emergencies, not to mention the physical strain on his own body. There’s nothing to do but answer the calls as they come, nothing to do but to put his nose to the grindstone until Martin comes to him and releases him from the station.

So he works. And waits. And works and waits some more. And yet a month in and nothing’s changed, really, except for Shane’s mounting frustration – in more ways than one. Martin continues to evade a concrete end date – the endless “just a little longer”s have begun to grate – and based on reports from the guys, their friends aren’t returning any time soon.

“I mean, a fucking building collapsed on him,” Bood’s saying to his left. Shane nods absentmindedly, attention snagged on a quick flash of curly hair in his peripheral. “It’s been, what, a month? He can barely walk, let alone climb a ladder.”

“Thirty-eight days.”

“Sorry?”

“You said a month,” Shane says. They’re at their usual spot in Monk’s (and God, he’s been here long enough to have a spot). The curls belong to Wyatt, who scooches in across from him. He tells himself that it’s not disappointment he’s feeling. “It’s been thirty-eight days.”

“Sure,” says Bood. “Well, that’s thirty-eight days closer to recovery. At least we got you and Roz out of it.”

Shane smiles gratefully at him. In the back of his brain, the part that he can’t get to shut up, he hears distinctive footsteps approaching; the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Our silver lining,” Dillon says. “It was fated by the gods.”

“What fucking gods?” Bood laughs.

“What is fated?” comes an accented voice from behind him. Rozanov snags the empty seat across from him, shoving Wyatt over and splaying out on the flimsy booth like a king might on a throne. Their feet brush – just once, chastely – and Shane finds himself having to remind his lungs how to breathe. He doesn’t register Dillon’s response, or anything, really; the world narrows to the boring wood table as he resolutely ignores Rozanov’s gaze trained unerringly on his face, daring him.

It’s difficult, Shane thinks, to be so attuned to someone’s presence. Particularly when you don’t much like that person. For a second it’s almost like he’s back in the Academy, trying and failing to avoid the only other person who was on his level. And clearly that hadn’t turned out well for him.

“Something on your mind, Holly?” Dillon asks. Shane glances up to see varying levels of concerned looks aimed his way.

“No,” Shane lies. “Sorry.”

Rozanov’s foot taps against his ankle again. He forces himself to pay attention to the conversation around him – age, or something. “I’m not even that old,” Dillon is arguing. Wyatt doesn’t seem very convinced.

“What about you, Shane?” Bood asks, always one to include him. Usually he can appreciate it, but right now he wishes Bood weren’t so damn nice. He sips his beer and forces himself to calm down.

“Just turned twenty-five. Back in May.”

“Me too,” Rozanov says. “A few weeks ago.”

“Happy birthday,” Shane says automatically.

“You won’t buy me a birthday drink?”

Shane looks him up and down, lingering on the chest hair barely visible from his shirt collar. It’s hot in here, with everyone plastered together, and the back of Rozanov’s neck is a little damp, the curls by the base of it darker. Shane’s eyes slide back up, slowly, and meet startling hazel ones. Bad idea, he reminds himself. He needs to get out of here.

“Buy it yourself, Rozanov,” he says, and swallows the rest of his beer in one smooth motion. He slides out of the booth and doesn’t need to look back to know that Rozanov’s watching him go.

-

When he wakes that night, hips rolling against the mattress, he knows enough not to bother with his hand. He grabs the lube – and something else – from his nightstand drawer and gets to work. “Christ,” he mumbles, when he has three fingers inside himself. Ilya goddamn Rozanov.

-

The dog days in the station are Shane’s least favorite.

When there’s not fires – which there have been, but less than the previous month – the stifling heat of the summer gets to them all. Shane can’t help but go crazy in the humidity; he’s both sluggish and, perversely, raring to go, a secret something burning through his blood. He thinks he has Rozanov to blame for that.

“Do you believe in fate?” Rozanov asks him apropos of nothing. Despite Shane’s attempts to prevent it, they almost always manage to end up alone together; Wyatt had begged off to go take a nap, and Chouinard rage-quit a few rounds ago.

“Hm?” Shane looks up from his hand of cards – terrible, of course.

“What Dillon said. Us, being here. After everything.” Everything could mean a few things.

Shane almost says the first thing to come to mind, which is: I thought it was a punishment. Or even the second: Dillon’s full of shit. But oddly enough, Rozanov looks genuine. Earnest.

“I don’t know about that. Just luck, probably.”

“Bad luck?” Rozanov asks wryly. He flips his cards to show his hand, somehow worse than Shane’s.

Shane can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “The worst.”

The calls that shift are, for lack of a better word, boring. A grease fire in a suburban home, a fenderbender down the road. Shane spends a frustrating hour wrestling a raccoon out of a chimney, and Dillon somehow burns his arm cooking dinner, which they all have to hear about against their will. It’s a relief when the shift finally ends, and he tries not to be too obvious in his desire to leave as he bolts to the showers.

“Hollander,” Rozanov calls from outside the locker room. “Come here.”

It’s been a long day; Shane’s moving toward him without a second thought. “Yes?”

“You have some soot,” Rozanov says thickly, “on your cheek.”

He reaches up to wipe it off with his thumb, but his hand lingers on Shane’s jaw. Shane holds his breath, unable to focus on anything Rozanov’s calloused fingers on his skin. Rozanov is staring intently at him, hazel eyes alight with something impossible to name; he swallows once, hard, and then the warm touch is gone.

“I should probably go check on Tanner,” Shane says to distract himself from whatever the fuck is happening to him. The endless August heat is getting to him. He can’t stop thinking about Rozanov’s offer.

“Yes,” says Rozanov, stepping back. Shane does not run away, thank you.

He speed walks.

-

He breaks on day fifty-six.

After another semi-exhausting dinner with Hayden – “I don’t know, Hayden,” he had said, over and over again, the “month or two” Theriault had promised looking less and less likely as the end of August nears – and the umpteenth embarrassing memory-dream-memory about that supply closet, he’s practically crawling out of his skin, and is sure everyone can tell. Which is why he’s completely unsurprised when Rozanov sidles up next to him at Monk’s (how many hours has he spent at Monk’s? He doesn’t want to know the answer).

“You’re twitchy,” Rozanov observes. “Mopey and twitchy.”

“You’re not?” Shane says, instead of denying it like he usually would. Rozanov seems to inspire a unique sense of honesty in him. Maybe it’s because he knows that Rozanov can see right through him, no matter what he might say.

True to form, Rozanov gives him a piercing once-over. “Is not so bad,” he says, “being here,” and Shane’s not so blind that he misses the way his gaze lingers on his lips.

“Get laid,” Rose had said unsympathetically when he complained to her. Maybe I will, Shane thinks. I don’t have to like him to fuck him. “Wanna get out of here?”

Rozanov doesn’t even look surprised, the dick. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours,” Shane says, and pays his tab.

Rozanov’s apartment is sleek and fancy and impersonal. Shane’s about to compliment his kitchen island before Rozanov’s mouth meets his, and then things progress rather quickly after that.

“It’s just to blow off steam,” Shane says, fumbling for his belt buckle. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“You are about to like me very much,” says Rozanov, and drops to his knees.

Later, when Shane’s clothes are finally off, Rozanov bites Russian curses into his neck. It remains unknowable as usual, but the plain lust on his face needs no translation.

“You’ve seen me naked before,” Shane says, off kilter. They shower all the time together. Or, near each other. Now Shane’s blushing thinking about showering with Rozanov and – ugh, he can’t even form a coherent thought with Rozanov’s sharp eyes on him, staring like he’s going to devour him whole.

“Not like this,” Rozanov murmurs. And then, smugly, “You really do blush everywhere.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

Rozanov tilts his head to the side, and Shane can see the moment he decides to be difficult. “Make me, Hollander.”

Shane tackles him to the bed with fifty-six days of pent-up aggression.

-

It’s better, after. The job doesn’t seem so daunting, the heat so relentless, now that Shane’s getting laid on the regular. Gradually, he stops keeping track of the days. He even stops loitering outside Martin’s office, working up the courage to demand an end-date (at some point, the man had started leaving the room when Shane entered it). It’s easy to fall into Rozanov’s orbit, easier still to bicker with him in the dining room and locker room and fire truck and bent over on his kitchen island. The best part about the arrangement is that there will be no awkward, dragged-out end to it: they’ll go back to their respective stations and never have to deal with each other again.

He’ll really miss the sex, though.

There is one glaring problem: Rozanov – distracts him, somehow even more than before they started fucking. It’s not on the job – he won’t let anything put his team or anyone else’s lives at risk, especially not an unfocused mind – but in general, in life. Shane spills his water everywhere during dinner when Rozanov laughs at Hazy’s joke. He trips over the hose because he’s staring at the sweat making its way down a golden bicep. It’s humiliating. It’s unprofessional, and inconvenient, and Shane just can’t get a grip.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Rozanov asks when they’re in the showers. His crucifix gleams, drawing attention to his furred, muscular chest. To add insult to injury, his smirk says he knows exactly what Shane’s thinking about.

“None of your business,” Shane snaps, mortified to be caught staring, and makes a tactical exit. “Sorry,” he says to Dykstra when he nearly topples him over in his rush out the door.

“What’s up with him?” he hears Dykstra ask.

“Heat stroke,” Rozanov responds.

Asshole.

-

Firefighting is a dangerous profession. Shane knows this – it’s in the name and everything – but it still freaks him out when there’s a close call.

The guys are a little sensitive to injuries, and considering two of their friends are still in recovery, he can’t blame them, so it’s up to him to put on a brave face. When Rozanov takes longer than he should getting out of a burning house, he tells himself that Roz is perfectly capable and has done this a million times. When Dykstra finally stumbles out with a young girl in his arms but no Rozanov in sight, he tells himself not to panic.

When the roof begins to cave in and there’s still no sign of him, he stops telling himself things and lets instinct take over.

“I’m going in,” he says to Bood over the radio, who doesn’t protest.

The visibility is low from the smoke, but he follows protocol and doesn’t sprint around blindly like he wants to. When he does find Rozanov, he’s unconscious with several large pieces of wood burning around him. Shane shoves his panic to the back of his mind and gets them the fuck out of there.

Rozanov is dead weight, but Shane is strong; he can be even stronger, for both of them.

The moment they reach open air, Bood is in front of him and shoving them toward the paramedics.

No one argues when Shane follows into the ambulance. The paramedics assure Shane that Rozanov will be fine – not even a real concussion, if they had to guess, just smoke inhalation and a nasty goose egg – but he can’t bring himself to believe it, not until Rozanov wakes up to snark at him.

When Rozanov does wake up, his eyes cast around frantically. He can’t speak due to the oxygen mask – Shane can see the panic building so he grabs his hand reassuringly.

“You’re fine, Ilya,” he tells him. Searching hazel eyes meet his own, and he squeezes his hand once. Rozanov squeezes back. “You passed out inside and we’re on the way to the hospital. You’re going to be fine. I promise.” And then, even though Rozanov’s calmed down now, “I’m here.”

Bizarrely, he wonders if that counts as holding hands.

He waits around at the hospital for an hour before hearing any news. By then, the rest of the guys have filtered in, and are playing cards to pass the time.

“Go fish,” Bood says.

“I know you’re lying,” Wyatt says, “but I can’t prove it.”

When a doctor calls for Ilya Rozanov, Shane throws down his hand instantly. He was losing, anyway; he hadn’t even known what game they were playing. He expects the others to follow, but when he steps into Roz’s room he’s alone.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says. He looks, in all honestly, completely fine. Shane’s chest still tightens at the sight of him in a hospital gown.

“Hi,” he says, stupidly. “Um, how are you feeling?”

“Like I want to leave this fucking hospital,” Rozanov says, and tidal wave of relief sweeps through Shane. A Rozanov who can bitch is a healthy Rozanov; the contrast between this and the scared man in the ambulance is jarring.

He takes a seat in the chair next to the bed, if only to do something with his hands.

“What happened?” Rozanov asks, after a beat. His voice is hoarse, but not alarmingly so. “I know I got hit in the head. But after.”

“You did good,” Shane says, first and foremost. “You got that girl out. She told Dykstra that you pushed her out of the way, and he was able to find her. There were no casualties, and only one injury.” At this, he looks at Rozanov meaningfully.

Rozanov absorbs the information silently. Shane begins fidgeting with the arm rests.

“What is wrong?” Rozanov asks. “You are nervous.”

Shane looks up, caught out. He thinks about denying it, briefly, but the fact of the matter is he can’t stop thinking about Rozanov’s wide eyes in the ambulance, and the way their hands had fit together.

“It scared me,” he admits. “I guess I’m not used to seeing you like that.”

“What, helpless?” Rozanov scoffs. He suddenly sounds very bitter.

“Afraid,” Shane corrects. “You’re always so, I don’t know, confident.”

Rozanov pauses for a long moment. “I was afraid,” he says, slowly. “But you being there helped.”

Shane smiles at him. “I’m really glad you’re okay. I know we argue a lot, but, um. Still.”

“Shane,” Rozanov says, after the silence has stretched again. His face is softer than Shane’s ever seen it. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” Shane mumbles, face hot. “You would’ve done the same. Anyone would have.”

“Yes,” Rozanov agrees. “But I’m glad it was you.”

“Well,” Shane says, “you’re welcome, then.” He adds, a bit shyly, “Ilya.”

At that, Ilya begins to cough. Shane hands him the glass of water at his bedside table.

“No more blow jobs for a bit,” Ilya says sullenly. His cheeks are pink from the coughing fit.

Shane barks a laugh. “That’s the least of your worries. They’re giving you a week off to recover.” If he knows Ilya at all – which, he thinks, he’s beginning to – a week of bedrest is a punishment.

Predictably, Ilya rolls his eyes. “I am fine. And what the fuck am I going to do for a week?”

“I could think of a few things,” Shane says before he can talk himself out of it. He stares at his lap until a touch on the arm makes him look up. Ilya’s smiling at him, that same soft, pleased expression on his face.

“Lucky for you,” Ilya says, “I make a very good tuna melt.”

-

“You’re smiling at your phone again,” Hayden says, shoveling spaghetti into his mouth. There’s sauce speckling his chin, and for a second he bares a startling resemblance to his twin toddler daughters. “Who’s the guy?”

“Why does there have to be a guy?” Shane asks. “What if I’m laughing at an Instagram?”

“You don’t even know your password,” Jackie chimes in. He narrows his eyes at her; usually she can be counted on to not pry. He must really be smiling for her curiosity to get the best of her manners.

His phone buzzes again against the table, and he doesn’t have to flip it over to know that Ilya’s name is lighting up the screen. They’re only half-right, anyway: there is a guy, but not in the way they think. He pictures himself telling them that he’s hooking up with Ilya Rozanov and almost laughs out loud.

“There’s no guy,” he says, and turns off his ringer.

-

September comes and goes, unremarkable save the amount of time he spends with Ilya (he imagines telling the Shane of three months ago this and starts grinning like an idiot in the fire truck) and, notably, an exciting run in with an arsonist.

(“Did you see that, Hollander?” Ilya says into the radio, after tackling the guy. His voice is warm, close and intimate in Shane’s ear.

“Showing off again, huh?” Shane asks, trying for exasperated. It doesn’t work.

“Don’t act like you don’t want me to,” says Ilya. Shane can see his smile from across the lawn.

“Just a reminder that I’m standing right next to you,” Wyatt says. “And this is technically a crime scene.”)

October brings cooler weather, the closing of the wildfire season, and, impossibly, better sex.

Shane throws himself into the heady distraction that is learning Ilya’s body. He knows how to draw it out, slow, against his own desire to go fast. He likes when Ilya’s eyes glaze over, likes the power his body holds. He normally hates the indignities of sex – the embarrassing noises he lets slip, the messiness of it all – but he’s quickly becoming addicted to Ilya’s desperate moans when Shane rides him.

More than anything, though, he likes when Ilya touches him unthinkingly: a hand covering his own, light kisses pressed to his cheeks.

“Stay,” Ilya says after a while of laying in bed. His fingers trace senseless patterns on Shane’s hip. “I will make us dinner.”

Shane lifts his head up from where it’d been resting on that god-awful bear tattoo. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Ilya looks amused. “You’ve spent the night one million times. My fridge is full of Ginger Ale. Is it still crazy of me to ask?”

“Not a million,” Shane grumbles. “And it’s not crazy. I’m just making sure that you’re sure.”

“I am pretty sure," Ilya says, “considering I asked.”

“Dick,” Shane says, trying and failing not to smile at him. So he stays again, and it’s easy, like all no-strings-attached relations should be. Fun, like Ilya had said all those weeks ago.

He’d become a little too accustomed to exactly how easy things were.

“Mine or yours?” Shane asks after their next shift, rooting around in his bag for his phone. It’s in here somewhere.

“I can’t,” says Ilya, “I have plans.”

“Oh,” Shane halts his search efforts. “Okay.”

“Goodnight,” Ilya says, and kisses him on the cheek. That’s something he’s started doing recently – right on the freckles – and usually Shane likes it. Now it just punctuates his exit.

He spends that night in his apartment’s gym, running on the treadmill for far longer than he should. Why is he so irritated about this? He can’t even deny that he is: it’s enough to ignore his off-shift recovery plan and fuck up his sleep schedule.

Being blown off never feels good, he rationalizes around mile four, and usually he would be expending all this energy by having sex. Having an explanation for his restlessness makes him feel a bit better. When he doesn’t hear anything from Ilya the next day, it stings, but he tells himself he’s being dramatic. Why should it sting? It’s sex for the sake of sex. The best sex of his life, sure, but that doesn’t change anything.

When they’re together again in the station kitchen for group lunch, Ilya acts like nothing out of the ordinary happened, and Shane does his best to follow his lead.

“What’d you get up to, Roz?” Dillon asks. “You didn’t respond in the groupchat.”

“He never responds in the groupchat,” Chouinard says. “Neither does Hollander. It’s very demoralizing.”

“My friend from Boston visited,” Ilya says, chopping vegetables on Shane’s left. He looks normal and relaxed, which Shane envies.

“Friend,” Dystra scoffs. “What’s this friend’s name?”

“Svetlana.”

“Svetlana,” Shane echoes, distantly. He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until everyone’s looking at him expectantly. “Um, she sounds nice.”

Bood snorts at that. “Nice, my ass. Roz, she sounds sexy. And Russian.”

“Da,” Ilya says, exaggerating his accent, and the guys crow at him.

Shane turns the water onto the hottest setting and washes his hands vigorously; Wyatt switches the faucet back to a respectable temperature without comment.

He’s not the only one Ilya’s fucking, he thinks. That’s the point; it's casual. There’s no reason to get worked up about it. They’re going to end the arrangement soon, anyway – though he realizes he hasn’t even thought about returning to his own station in weeks. But still…they’re temporary coworkers.

All of this is temporary.

When he recounts this predicament to Rose – the plans being disrupted, the resulting restlessness, and the unexpected arrival of Svetlana – she has another, more annoying perspective.

“It doesn’t sound that casual,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Um, it is,” says Shane, affronted. “It’s very casual. The most.”

“You just described to me, in detail, how you freaked out when he cancelled your plans. Which actually weren’t even plans, you just spend so much time with him that you assumed. Plus he makes your stupid smoothies in the morning.”

“They’re not stupid, and he’s being nice.” He decides to bypass her first point entirely.

“You said he was horrible.”

“Well,” Shane says, casting around for a defense, “he is horrible. Most of the time.”

Rose looks skeptical. “Just not to you.”

“No, especially to me.” How could he begin to describe Ilya Rozanov’s special brand of antagonism? “You don’t get it.”

“You’re right, I don’t. And if you really aren’t dating then you won’t mind me giving Miles your number.” She purses her lips triumphantly.

“I don’t mind,” says Shane, determined not to lose whatever game of chicken this is. “Give it to him.”

“I will.”

“Good,” he says, and picks at his salad.

Ten and back.

-

Ilya’s phone keeps going off.

“Are you going to get that?” Shane asks, legs wrapped around Ilya’s torso. His back is arched up off the bed; this angle is killer on his shoulders, but it’s worth it.

“Should I?” Ilya muses, pausing in his thrusts. He laughs a little when Shane tries, fruitlessly, to fuck himself on his stationary dick. “Maybe we can take a break.”

“I might actually kill you,” Shane pants, hips jerking up, and Ilya takes pity.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, crucifix swinging as he starts up again. Shane moans louder at the pet name and can't bring himself to be embarrassed about it. “I will not leave you wanting.”

After, when they’ve both caught their breath, Shane steals a glance at Ilya’s profile. He’s silent, which isn’t completely abnormal after sex, but this silence is tenser than usual. Shane runs a hand that he hopes is comforting down Ilya’s chest, lingering on the trail of hair on his abdomen.

“Who was calling you?” he asks.

For a second, he doesn’t actually think Ilya will answer. “My brother,” he says, finally. His jaw is tense.

Shane waits for him to be more forthcoming. “Your brother…in Russia?”

“Yes.”

“Do you talk to him a lot?”

“No.”

It looks like that’s all Ilya’s willing to share before he turns, carefully, to press his face into Shane’s neck. Shane’s hands begin to stroke his hair automatically, lingering at the softer ones of his nape.

“We do not have the best relationship,” Ilya says. “He…my father is sick. And Andrei refuses to admit it. All he wants is money, all the time.”

“Oh, Ilya,” says Shane, and squeezes him closer. “That must be hard to deal with.”

“Yes. It is very frustrating,” Ilya says. “I would stop answering his calls completely, but my father…” He trails off. It’s obvious what he’s getting at, though, and Shane’s heart breaks for him.

“I’m sorry you’ve been going through this alone,” Shane murmurs into his curls.

Ilya begins to bite at Shane’s neck, apparently sick of being vulnerable. “Not alone.”

Shane tilts his head to allow for better access. “Svetlana probably helps, right?” he ventures, trying not to get distracted – Ilya’s slippery like that. “Like, to talk to?”

Ilya pauses his seduction to consider him for a moment. “It is nice to talk in Russian, yes,” he says, then noses at Shane’s temple. “But you are the only one I have told this to.”

Shane tries very hard not to beam at him then, and, feeling magnanimous, asks, “Do you want to go smoke on the balcony?”

Ilya peeks up at him. “Are you going to be annoying about it?”

“Probably,” Shane says.

“Then yes,” says Ilya.

-

“When are you coming back?” Hayden whines into his ear. “I can’t deal with Comeau alone. Seriously. I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Shane laughs. He gives Ilya, who is destroying Dillon in ping pong, an encouraging thumbs up from his spot on the couch. Ilya preens. “And I don’t know. I honestly haven’t asked in a while.”

“Well, please do. ASAP. And when you’re back we can overtake him and duct tape his mouth shut.”

“Okay,” he humors him. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Let me just march up to Martin now and demand my transfer.” Hayden promises to hold him to it; when he hangs up, he’s still smiling. He turns when he feels a presence behind him on the couch.

“Hi,” he grins up at Ilya. “Did you win?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, though he doesn’t seem all that enthused. His voice is weird.

Shane tilts his head. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he says, and doesn’t catch Shane’s eye. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“Of course,” says Shane.

“Of course,” Ilya repeats quietly, and then the siren goes off. Shane races to change and the interaction, however strange, is quickly put on the backburner.

-

Ottawa is a big city, but it’s not that big.

Shane realizes this in one of the more awkward moments of his life. They’d responded to an apartment fire downtown, a nice area. It’s on the more serious end, and he has to fire-man carry several of the residents on the upper levels outside. He’s on the eighth floor when he has this particular revelation.

“Miles?!” he says when he bursts into the entrance hall.

“It’s usually politer to knock,” says Miles (and of course it’s Miles, of course this is Shane’s life), crouched on the ground.

“Why haven’t you evacuated?” Shane asks, exasperated. His question is answered a second later by a frantic yowl coming from under the couch. He sighs.

Two minutes later he has Miles over his shoulders with the firm instructions of do not let go of that cat.

“Sorry for the bumpy ride,” he says when they’re outside. He places Miles down as gently as he can; his cat, fluffy and black with two angry green eyes, hisses at him.

“She means 'thank you,'” Miles says with a smile. “Seriously. Thanks.” Around them, the paramedics are grabbing each resident for a check-up, and the crowd from neighboring apartments has begun to gather. Someone bumps Miles from behind; Shane reaches out a hand to steady him.

“Just doing my job,” he says; he has a brief flashback of saying the same to Ilya in that hospital room.

“Well, you’re really good at it.” Then, unexpectedly, “And you look really good doing it.”

Shane hasn’t even begun to process that – in fact, really all his brain is registering is how red his face is turning – when a sweaty, helmetless Ilya appears out of nowhere.

“Hollander,” he says gruffly. “Let’s go. You can flirt later.”

“Flirt?” Shane sputters indignantly. He belatedly removes his hand from Miles’s shoulder.

“Yes, flirt,” Ilya says, still scowling. “You know what the word means.”

Miles glances between Shane and Ilya. “Um, I’ll text you.” He shoots Shane a tentative smile before the paramedic comes to shoo them away.

Every inch of Shane flushes red – this time with anger, not embarrassment. He takes off his helmet as well and turns to Ilya, fiercely. “I don’t know what your fucking problem is, but I don’t need you telling me how to do my job.”

Ilya smirks – it’s a smirk Shane hasn’t ever seen from him, one with a meaner edge – and drawls, “Yes, you are very good at your job. So professional. You can show him the supply closet.”

For a moment Shane can’t believe what he’s hearing. He feels his face crumple. “Did you actually just say that to me?” he manages. And then, when Ilya fails to respond, “Fuck you, Rozanov.” He storms away just as Ilya’s expression begins to resemble something like guilt.

To his embarrassment, his bad mood is apparent. “You alright?” Bood asks in the truck.

Ilya sits in stony silence across from him. The only sound is Wyatt whistling off-key.

“Sure,” Shane says flatly.

The day, impossibly, gets worse from there.

Martin takes he and Rozanov aside to thank them for their time at Station 24 – as if it were some sort of extended vacation – with the assurance that they'll be back at their respective stations within the next shift.

Four months ago, this was all he ever wanted. Now, though…

“Oh,” Shane says. “Great.” His chest feels hollowed out, and Ilya isn’t looking at him.

“You’ve both done well here,” the Captain is saying. Why won’t Ilya even look at him? “You put aside your differences for the good of the community.”

Differences. Are they that different, in the end? In general: yes, obviously. But where it really counts, Ilya is the only one who can keep up with him, the only one he really wants to impress. The first one he wants to tell about his day, even after spending forty-eight hours at a time with him. What does that mean?

He’s pretty sure he knows.

“Thank you, sir,” Shane says, or at least he thinks he does. He’s untethered to the world around him.

“Ilya,” he hisses the moment they step out of the office, but they’re interrupted by the guys. The way they’re all milling about tells him they were shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Say it ain’t so!” Dykstra cries, overdramatic, and just like that Ilya’s smiling crookedly and teasing like usual. Shane tries desperately to catch his eye.

“Who’s replacing us?” he asks Bood. He’s a replacement, technically. Is this how those guys felt?

“Barrett from 17,” Bood says. “And a kid from the Academy.”

“A rookie, huh?” says Shane. “Good luck.”

“They have pretty big shoes to fill,” Bood smiles at him. Horrifyingly, Shane’s throat gets tight.

“Thanks,” he says, and he hopes Bood understands just how much he means it.

They go out to Monk’s that night for one last hurrah. Shane can’t get Ilya alone for the life of him, and when he leaves the pit in his stomach has grown to the rest of his body. When he begs off, finally, he hugs them all and promises to keep in touch, which as he says it makes his stomachache worse.

He’s in the parking lot when he sees him.

“Can we talk?” Shane says.

Ilya takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke to the side of Shane. “Go ahead,” he says. “Talk.”

Shane gapes at him for a second. “You know, I think you owe me an apology.”

An eyebrow raises: “For what?”

Whatever revelation Shane was close to having makes the swift transition into anger. “Well, for one, I don’t like the way you spoke to me today in front of Miles.”

“Miles,” Ilya echoes. “Sure. Okay. I am sorry for embarrassing you in front of Miles. Is that it?”

Shane’s stomach cramps again. “You know what, Rozanov? Yeah, that’s it. Thanks. See you around, I guess.”

When he pulls out of the parking lot, hot tears begin to press against his eyes. Fuck this, he thinks. He drives home in silence, trying to block out the image of Ilya in his rearview, watching him go.

-

“You’re killing my vibe,” JJ is saying. “Stop that. Have more beer.”

“I don’t want more beer,” Shane grumbles. “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Are you kidding?” Hayden asks. “It’s been thirty minutes. Is this about the guy? The one who doesn’t exist but also definitely does?”

“There’s no guy,” Shane says morosely. “Seriously.” This time, he’s telling the whole truth.

He spends the rest of the night in bed, watching trashy television, before making a spontaneous call to Rose.

“I brought ice cream,” she says. “Break-ups are hard.”

“It’s not a break-up,” Shane refutes. He’s not even sure why he’s being contrary; too much time spent with Rozanov, maybe. “We weren’t even dating.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Eat the damn ice cream, Shane,” she says, so he does. When he starts to sniffle, she doesn’t even say I told you so.

-

The next morning – his first real day off since he left Station 24 – there’s loud knocking at his door. Hayden, probably – or, if he’s feeling particularly meddlesome, then Jackie, sent to lower his guard before they double-team him with their stupid couple telepathy.

“Hayden,” he says as he answers, “I’m fine–”

Ilya goddamn Rozanov is standing in front of him. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Shane says, blankly. “Um, come in.” Ilya does, toeing off his shoes in the foyer without him asking. His mouth moves on autopilot: “Can I get you anything? A Coke?” He moves toward the fridge, where the packs of Coke he bought solely for Ilya sit otherwise untouched.

“Shane,” Ilya says, “I’m sorry.”

He blinks; Ilya grabs the Coke from his outstretched hand.

“I should not have said that to you, ever. Especially in front of your…Miles. I was jealous. And not wanting to let you go. It was not fair of me, and not kind, and I hurt you. I’m sorry.” He looks sorry, that’s for sure, fiddling with the Coke can. Shane so rarely sees him fidget.

“Well,” he says, slowly. He’s not entirely sure he’s awake. “Thank you. I accept your apology. And I don’t know what you think Miles is to me, but it’s not anything.”

Ilya looks surprised at that. “Oh,” he says, lamely, and scratches at his stubble. There’s an awkward lull where they both pretend not to stare at each other; the clink of the Coke being placed on the table is harsher than it should be.

“Actually,” Shane starts, because now is as good a time as any. “I’ve been…well, you know I wanted to talk to you.” He takes a deep breath. He’d rehearsed this in his head, but it’s nothing like the real thing – he hadn’t anticipated Ilya showing up at his door, for one. “I don’t think I can continue…this. It’s not – well, it’s not just sex for me. It’s a lot more than that. I’m sorry. For catching feelings, I guess. I know it wasn’t really what we agreed on, but I can’t help it. And I hope we can still be friends. Or, whatever it is we were before.”

He’d begun his speech staring beseechingly at Ilya, but somewhere around the middle his gaze drifted to his feet. He regrets wearing his fuzzy socks – not only does he feel wholly unprepared for whatever this is, he looks the part as well.

When he finally looks up, Ilya’s grinning at him. “Okay.”

“...Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

Shane furrows his brows. “What do you mean ‘Okay?’”

“I mean that I am glad you are finally catching up, because I am pretty sure I’m falling in love with you.”

Whatever expression is on Shane’s face, Ilya bursts out laughing at it. He’s so handsome when he’s happy, it’s infuriating.

“You…”

“Me,” Ilya agrees, smug. “Is it really so surprising? I have been trying to date you.”

“No,” Shane denies. “No, you have not.”

“Shane, you cannot argue this.”

Yes, he can. “You said you wanted casual sex,” he says, torn between overjoyed and annoyed. In love? Ilya Rozanov, in love with him? “That’s what we’ve been having!”

“No, it is not,” Ilya says, still beaming. Has Shane ever seen him this happy? His eyes are practically crescents. “It really, really is not. And I am the biggest idiot in the world for suggesting it. I can never be casual about you. I have never been able to. Not at the Academy, and not now.”

“The Academy?” Shane repeats. There’s something wrong with the gravity in his apartment; he might just be floating away.

“Da.”

“But you were such a dick to me!”

“I like to push your buttons,” Ilya says, biting his thumb nail. He looks young, face open. Still smiling that crooked smile. “It gets you to look at me.”

Shane narrowly avoids saying his initial thought – I’m always looking at you – and just laughs, incredulous. “You could have told me, you know.”

“Is more fun this way,” Ilya says. He steps closer, and closer, reaching out to trace Shane’s jaw. The back of his knuckles skim the bridge of his nose and cheeks, where his freckles are the densest. “You have no idea what you do to me. Or what I want to do to you.”

Shane is still slightly concerned he had carbon monoxide poisoning, or something. He doesn’t protest when Ilya tilts his chin up and finally, finally, presses their lips together in a firm, assured kiss. At least that hasn’t changed – no one kisses him like Ilya. When their mouths are pressed together, he’s back on solid ground.

“Do you have plans today?” he asks abruptly. Kissing Ilya was a palate cleanser; it’s like his sinuses have been cleared. The path forward is obvious – it’s the only one he wants to take.

Ilya gestures at him. “What do you think?” he asks. The I showed up at your doorstep to apologize and confess my love goes unsaid.

Shane takes his hand and leads him backward to the bedroom. “I think I want my boyfriend to take me to bed.”

He doesn’t quite shriek when Ilya tackles him, but it’s a near thing. “The guys are going to be insufferable about this,” he says.

“Sweetheart,” Ilya says, and crushes his mouth into a bruising, perfect kiss. "We will suffer together."

-

then

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Hollander is saying from above him. He reminds Ilya of a hummingbird: beautiful, flushed, frantic. His hair is sticking up at odd angles at the back of his head, but he doesn’t feel like telling him.

Ilya stands, slowly, his knees protesting. He’s not a small man, and the supply closet isn’t exactly spacious; Hollander still manages to avoid touching him.

“Was fun,” he says, because it was, but it doesn’t seem like Hollander even registers what he’s saying.

“Such a bad idea,” he’s muttering. “And I’m going to be late.”

Ilya figures now is probably his best shot at this. “I was wondering,” he starts.

“I’m sorry,” Hollander says, always panicking, “but I really need to go. Thanks.” He’s slipping out the door before Ilya can get another word out.

“...if you wanted to get dinner,” Ilya finishes, to an audience of brooms and cleaning supplies. He pushes down the ache in his chest and stretches out his legs. Whatever. He needs a cigarette.

When he exits a few minutes later, Hollander is nowhere to be found. He’s right, anyway.

It’s probably a bad idea.