the bodyguard (part one)
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ ilya rozanov is being stalked. he's convinced he can handle it, but svetlana isn't so sure, so she calls in the old head of her protective detail to try and wrangle ilya in. both stubborn assholes convinced that they are infallibly incorrect, y/n and ilya clash immediately — but, below the fighting, there's something that neither one of them are quite willing to acknowledge.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ bodyguard!reader, ilya rozanov x reader, male!reader. warning: mention of a dead rabbit, not graphic. based on this post i wrote the other day.
Svetlana ambushes you at Mary’s on Sunday.
Mary’s is your sacred time. You’ve had Sunday breakfast at the hole-in-the-wall diner every weekend for the past five years, filling out the crossword on yesterday’s paper with a stubby little golf pencil that Marge leaves at the host stand for you. You’ve been here bleeding, crying, sweating — it’s one of the only places left in New York where you can feel your mind go quiet.
You’d told Svetlana this, once. You had taken her here while you were in her protection detail, ordered her a strawberry milkshake, and waited until her hands stopped shaking to get a slice of pie. God, the pie here was fantastic.
Of course, you probably shouldn’t have trusted her with Mary’s, because now she’s dropping in during crossword time. She settles down across from you in a flurry of soft perfume and elaborate clothing, plucking a blueberry off the top of your pancake stack and popping it into her mouth.
“Yeah, good morning to you too,” You grumble, folding up the paper and tucking it under your thigh. “Can I help you?”
Svetlana grins, lacing her fingers together and propping her elbows up on the table, head cradled on the back of her interwoven hands. “Aw, come on, sourpuss. Not happy to see me?”
She makes a move for your coffee, sliding a manicured hand across the table to slip through the mug’s handle, and you throw the golf pencil at her. “Oh, I’d have been happy to see you in about forty-five minutes, when breakfast is over.”
“Sharing is caring!” Svetlana exclaims, yanking her hand back as if burned, and you close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation.
“Your dad doesn’t sign my paychecks anymore, Sveta. I’m no longer contractually obligated to be nice to you. Order your own coffee.”
“You were hardly nice to me when he was signing your paychecks,” Svetlana says, grinning.
“Yeah, fair enough,” you admit, sliding your coffee across the table to her. You snag a couple of sugar packets for her as well, and she nods gratefully.
“Thanks, sourpuss.”
“What are you doing here?” You ask, choosing to ignore the nickname. “Thought you were over in Boston for the winter?”
“Still keeping tabs on me?” Svetlana says, grinning. “Nice to know you care.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You sink your knife through the stack of pancakes, cutting them easily in half, then start to divide them into more bite-sized pieces. A blueberry bursts under the pressure, a shoot of purple-blue pulp.
Svetlana watches the steady movement of your knife for a second, scuffed silver against chipped ceramic. “I need a favor.”
“Everything okay?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter. “Is Ivan —”
Svetlana waves a dismissive hand in the air. “No, no, I’m fine. You beat the shit out of Ivan bad enough that I think he’s still scared to step foot in New York.”
You relax, slightly. Ivan had been a fucking creep. Watching Svetlana had been a favor to her father, who had pulled strings at the Bureau to get recommendations for a private protection agency. You’d initially thought Svetlana was just a spoiled rich girl, but had become quickly endeared to her and deeply protective. When Ivan, a scorned ex-boyfriend, had laid in wait in her New York apartment for her, you’d reacted proportionately.
It’d been a little bloody, but the strawberry milkshake had made up for it.
“What’s up, then?” You ask.
“Do you remember Ilya?” Svetlana says, taking a deep pull of coffee. Her fingers are clenched tight around the mug, you note, knuckles white with tension.
“The Boston hockey player friend?” You set the knife down and spear the first bite of pancake, hesitate, and then push the entire plate to Svetlana. She looks worn and a little tired, like she hasn’t eaten in a while. It was easy to miss — she was very deliberate with her makeup, but now that you were looking for it, it was obvious.
“Oh, thanks.” Svetlana says, taking the fork from you with a little prodding. “That’s the one. He, uh, he’s been getting death threats, lately.”
“Credible ones?”
Svetlana laughs. “Someone left a dead rabbit on his doorstep. He said it didn’t freak him out, but… Jesus, Y/n. He sent me a picture, and it was fucking gruesome. He’s refusing to involve the police, too. Doesn’t want to blow it out of proportion.”
“Let me see?”
Svetlana sets her purse down on the tabletop, winces when the leather sticks to the surface, and pulls it back to balance in her lap instead. After rifling through the contents, she extracts her phone and hands it to you.
The photo is blurry, but unmistakable.
“Christ,” you mutter, zooming in slightly. “Anything else showed up at the house?”
“Just that,” Svetlana said. “How’d they get his address?”
“Lots of ways,” you muse. “Probably followed him home from practice. The Raiders have a semi-open access rink, right?”
“This is so fucked,” Svetlana mutters. “Look, Y/n, I hate to ask, but Ilya is… he’s incredibly important to me.”
“I’ll fly out,” you say immediately. “No big deal, Sveta. More than happy to help. I just got off a gig here, anyway. I need the work.”
Svetlana brightens immediately. “Oh, god, would you? I’ll pay, of course.”
You nod, once. “Sure. He knows I’m coming?”
“He will,” Svetlana promises. It’s a bit of an odd answer. “Thank you, Y/n. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah. Finish your pancakes.”
Svetlana insists on escorting you back to your apartment to pack a bag.
You grab a duffle from the closet and shove a few pairs of jeans and shirts inside, throw your toothbrush into a ziploc bag, and snag a tube of toothpaste and stick of deodorant from the bathroom.
“Alright, should be good for a couple of days,” You say, dusting your hands off. “Anything I don’t have I’ll grab from Chuck’s house.”
Chuck, your buddy from the agency, retired last month after getting shot on a senator’s detail. He’d complained endlessly about the injury, but had confessed to you privately that he was glad — Chuck had wanted to get out of the field, focus more on raising a family. He and his wife lived in Boston, now, where she taught high school mathematics and he helped run clerical coordination for the agency. Chuck was always nagging you to pop by and visit, so you figured you’d swing by once you met Rozanov.
“That’s it?” Svetlana asks, unimpressed. “Can I take you shopping?”
“Do I look like Julia Roberts?” You ask, exasperated. “Sveta, this is fine.”
“Not even a handgun?” Svetlana asks.
“And how am I supposed to get that past TSA? The agency will ship gear after me.”
“Yeah, sorry, you’re right,” Svetlana says, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Shit. Sorry.”
You cross across the room to her and fold her into your arms, one hand coming up to scratch at the top of her head. She presses her face into your chest, inhales a shaky breath.
“I’m gonna figure this out, Sveta. I promise.”
“I know.” Svetlana says. “I know you are.”
Ilya is not pleased to see you.
He’s definitely pleased to see Sveta, wrenching open the door as soon as she rings the bell to pull her into a hug, but he visibly startles when he sees you standing behind her.
You reach out a hand and rap on the wooden door to check the material. “You have a peephole. Use it.”
“Yes, da, hello to you too, Mr. Bodyguard. No one is waiting to ambush me other than your cologne.”
You grin. You aren’t wearing any cologne. According to the game footage Svetlana had made you watch on the plane, picking unnecessary fights was classic Ilya Rozanov. While you’d only met Ilya tangentially when you were still on Svetlana’s protection detail, you could tell this was consistent.
“Let’s hope the only one lying in wait is Tom Ford, Mr. Rozanov.” You say, stepping past him, not sure that you could name what a Tom Ford cologne smelled like with a gun to your head.
Svetlana hits him on the shoulder and whispers something to him in hissed Russian as you set your bag down by the door. Ilya ushers Svetlana into the kitchen and closes the door behind him with a soft snick.
“You do not need to be here,” he says, arms crossed over his chest. He’s shirtless except for a pair of low-slung sweatpants, hair mussed. “She’s overreacting.”
“She just cares about you,” You respond, eyes straying slightly to his chest before you force yourself to look away. “Now go put a shirt on. I want to review protocol while she’s still here to stop you from being a total asshole.”
Ilya grins. “Impossible.”
“Oh, don’t I know it.”
Thirty minutes later, Svetlana is fussing around in Ilya’s refrigerator while he monitors her from his seat at the dining table. True to form, Ilya did not end up putting on a shirt. You’re almost tempted to tug your own over your head, just to show him that two stubborn jerks could play this game, but then there’d just be two half-nude guys in the house, which you don’t think would positively contribute to this situation.
“Why don’t you start from the top?” You say instead, leaning back against the bar and crossing your arms against your chest. “Have you had any contact with your stalker before the rabbit?”
Ilya scowls. “I am a professional hockey player, Mr. Bodyguard. I am unsure what you think you could handle that I could not.”
“If you want a dick measuring contest, Rozanov, you can do that on the ice. Try and keep it in your pants when Sveta’s paying me by the hour.”
Ilya grins, pushing up from where he was sprawled in a dining room chair to stalk into your space. “Buy me dinner first, yes? Then we can see.”
You tap your watch, mockingly. Yeah, okay, you’re being a bit of an asshole.
Svetlana scoffs. “Calm down, Ilyusha. He’s here to help.”
“No one asked your boyfriend to come here and babysit me!” Ilya exclaims. “I am fine on my own.”
“Not her boyfriend,” You say easily. “And I can’t help if you don’t let me, Ilya. Sit back down.”
“Are you going to make me?” Ilya asks. Svetlana sighs, stepping forward, and you shake your head subtly. Leave it alone.
“I’m not here to prove to you that I’m capable of doing my job, Rozanov. I’m here to consult on the situation. If I believe that it genuinely merits protection, you can arrange for someone else from my agency if you’re not comfortable with me,” You say, spreading your hands slightly. A peace gesture.
“No,” Svetlana says, firmly, before Ilya even opens his mouth. “The situation does merit protection, and it will be you, Y/n.”
“Sveta, all due respect, but unless Ilya wants me here, cooperates with me, there’s not much that I can do.”
Ilya clears his throat. “Bozhe. You both talk of me as if I am not in the room. I am capable of making my own decisions.”
“Yeah, not if they involve a t-shirt, pal,” You remark off-handedly, then wince at your tone. “Shit, sorry. That was out of line.”
“So he can apologize,” Ilya muses. You flip him off.
“Ilyusha, sit.” Svetlana orders, and steps forward to walk Ilya back into the dining table chair. He flops into it, posture loose, facing the opening to the kitchen. You don’t push off the counter; you don’t want to be too close, make it seem like you’re cornering him.
“Tell him, now. What you told me.” She says, and Ilya scowls.
“Someone has been texting me,” Ilya grounds out. “They send me pictures, all ones that they should not have. Me at bar. Me at rink. Me through window of my bedroom. And then… the rabbit.”
“Alright,” You say. “Can I see the photos?”
Ilya dutifully pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the thread, holding it out for you to take. You focus mainly on the one taken through his bedroom window, eyeing the approximate angle on the photo.
“Can I get a few copies of these? I’ll have tech take a look at the number, too. See if they find anything.”
“Tech” would probably be Chuck and a few beers, but it sounded more authoritative if it seemed to be more Q-branch-esque.
“Yeah, of course,” Svetlana says. “I can take care of that. Ilya, go rest.”
“I am not tired.” Ilya scoffs, snatching the phone back from you.
You gentle your expression. “Why don’t you take a nap on the couch? I’ll close the blinds, watch the door. It’s alright.”
“I don’t need your assurances, Mr. Bodyguard,” Ilya says, but picks himself up and trudges toward the living room.
Thank you, Svetlana mouths.
You spend the next three hours combing through security footage. Svetlana pulls up the feeds of the cameras on Ilya’s laptop while he’s knocked out on the couch, grainy squares of black-and-white time-stamped through last week.
The footage is largely innocuous, but you make a couple notes to check out anyway.
Ilya wanders back into the dining room — where you’d set up shop — about an hour after you’d finished watching the last of the footage. He’s significantly more rumpled, but his eyes have softened and a bit of color has come back to his cheeks.
“Nice nap?” You ask, and he flips you off.
“Otyebis.”
“I know what that one means,” you laugh. “Fuck you too, dude.”
“I told you, Mr. Bodyguard, not until you buy me dinner first. So eager,” Ilya teases as he wrenches open his fridge.
“Ah, Sveta said that there wasn’t anything in there. She went shopping. Asked us to pick up dinner, though. She didn’t want to cook.”
Ilya lets the fridge close, smacks his lips together thoughtfully. “Alright. How do you feel about pizza, Kevin Costner?”
“Overwhelmingly positively,” you answer.
“Mm. Then we will get Thai,” Ilya says, and you laugh.
“I think we’re gonna get along fine.”
