The flight from Moscow to Boston was an arduous nine hours and thirty minutes long, and by the end, Ilya was usually stir-crazy and sometimes a little drunk. He could never get the local Boston hockey game, and there were only so many hours he could binge-watch the latest high fantasy TV show before he wanted a dragon.
That was usually when Marlow cut him off.
But Marlow wasn’t with him this time, and Ilya wasn’t due back in Boston until later in the week. On a whim, Ilya opened the Find A Friend app.
Sure enough, Hollander was a pitstop away in Paris.
A pitstop that was seven or eight hours one way because there were no direct flights.
Ilya booked his flights.
He landed less than twelve hours later, grateful that Hollander’s blip hadn’t moved out of the city center. He took a train from the airport into Paris, dropped his suitcase off at the hotel, and made his way to Café de Flore – where he saw a very North American-looking Shane Hollander.
Hollander sat in the middle of the clutter of tables, wearing a Montreal Metros’ baseball cap, a blue button up with rolled sleeves, khaki shorts, and suede loafers.
Ilya weaved between the tables and pulled out the empty chair across from Hollander. "You suck at this. You know that, yes?"
Hollander’s surprised but delighted grin was worth the double flight. “Says the guy who could pass as Parisian if he ever kept his mouth shut."
"First, you don't want me to do that." He winked; Hollander rolled his eyes. "Second, I do not speak French. You can probably do it with a perfect Parisian accent."
Hollander muttered something in French, which was not at all sexy, and then switched to English. "Unfortunately, something else makes me stick out."
He motioned toward his face, but Ilya shrugged.
"Your boringness? The French are never boring."
Hollander kicked him under the table, but not hard, and Ilya responded by resting his shoe next to Hollander's loafer. He wasn’t surprised when Hollander didn't pull it away.
"Whoever you are trying to hide from, they probably know you are already here. Maybe next time you should try wearing Figaret or Zara even. Leave the Roots at home."
"Fuck you.”
“Is why I’m here, yes.”
Hollander ignored that and jerked his chin toward an area beyond Ilya. Ilya lifted his phone and used the reflection in the black screen to see a well-dressed man at the very edge of the café. He sat with a woman much younger than him, and Ilya didn’t want to guess if she was the man’s wife or daughter. Perhaps neither.
“If I’m so out of place, go and pick that guy's pocket for me,” Hollander all but demanded, taking a sip of his ginger ale. “I need his phone."
Ilya flagged down the waiter and ordered a coke. "Oh, sure. Make me do the heavy lifting."
"I can do it, but you're telling me he knows I'm here."
"So now I become Canadian government errand boy? Nononono."
Hollander leaned forward and whispered, "Look, Monsieur Asshole over there is known for human trafficking. A guy like that shouldn't be on the streets. Even you can agree with that."
Ilya sighed and let the cold coke roll over his tongue. Ilya knew his father's criminal organization wasn't completely free of these types of transactions, but Ilya was. He never touched those, never would, and made sure his father knew that was his line.
He would run guns. He would extract information. He would even commit assassinations when need be and sell secrets to the highest bidder.
But he would never sell someone to another.
Ilya sighed and stood. "I better get a good reward for this."
"Dealer's choice," Hollander said with a wink, and Ilya hated how right Sveltana was about all this.
Shane Hollander would ruin him completely.
When Ilya returned sometime later, phone in hand, Hollander quickly went to work. He placed the phone under the table and spoke to a person via AirPods. "I'm attaching the dongle now, Rose. Do your thing."
"Did you just say 'dongle'?” Ilya laughed. “What is that? Your idea of foreplay?"
"Shut up. We can get out of here in a few minutes once Rose finishes her thing and you put this back."
Great, now he had to return it? "Two rounds, no sneaking out for another job."
Hollander looked up from under the rim of his hat with a baiting grin. "I'm all yours for the next forty-eight hours."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 7/7
Fandom: The Blacklist (TV)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington
Characters: Elizabeth Keen, Raymond Reddington, Donald Ressler
Additional Tags: Season/Series 02, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, What-If
Summary:
By the end of the second bottle of wine, Liz was starting to wonder if venting to Ressler was a good idea. [A what-if scenario exploring what could've happened between 2x08 and 2x09, set at some point post-2x10]
Okay okay I have a lot of flowers but this bush was very nice looking
So.. how about your favorite wip to be working on rn?
Oooooh, that’s so pretty!
I’m going to share a bit more of Compromised (DP) because that fic is still near and dear to my heart. That’s the fic where I have immense fun writing outsider POV after someone discovers Vlad’s secret and goes to the Fentons for help. (I’m only throwing it under a read more because this post would be getting long otherwise, but it is so worth it for all those flower pics.)
“If destroying my evidence were enough,” countered Harriet, “we wouldn’t be standing here right now.”
“It’s enough for Mom and Dad. They still think Vlad’s their friend. But Vlad’s not stupid. He knows it’s not enough for everyone else.”
“And you don’t think someone who has allies in the Ghost Zone will hear that a human is wandering around in there?”
“More like floating. It’s…. It’s not like here. More like being in space, at least until you reach solid ground. And Vlad doesn’t have allies everywhere. There are some neutral ghosts.”
Neutral? In what war? That wasn’t a question she thought she’d get an answer to right now, though, so she filed it away for later. “What makes you think I’ll survive in there even if I won’t be immediately attacked for my humanity?”
Danny winced. “Okay. Look. Whatever Mom and Dad told you about ghosts, it’s not as bad as you think it is. They’re not all like Plasmius.” He bit his lip. “Actually, that’s a bad example. Plasmius is an outlier and should not be counted.”
She didn’t return his weak smile, and his expression sobered again.
“Yeah, some ghosts want to expand their power and have grand delusions of taking over the human world, but most of them don’t. Sometimes they just want to have fun, and sometimes that’s at the expense of people over here, but some of them just want a friend and don’t realize that they’re actually terrifying people instead of playing with them. Some of them just want to be left alone. Some rarely leave the Ghost Zone; a lot of them never have. But the ones who were once alive…. They haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be human.”
“That doesn’t mean this is safe.”
“It’s still safer than staying here. I…. Look. The Fenton Ghost Shield is really effective against ghosts, but humans can walk right through it.”
It wasn’t exactly hard to follow his point. Humans could walk through the ghost shield just fine. Vladimir Masters could walk through the ghost shield. And while his weapons would be nothing but honeyed words while Jack and Maddie were around—
Harriet took a shaky breath. Danny was still waiting for her response, waiting for her decision, because there was still the illusion of choice. If she so desired, she could turn around right now and go back up to bed, and he wouldn’t stop her.
But doing that, in his opinion, was as good as signing her own death certificate.
Send me a flower and I’ll post something from a WIP
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
7.1k | Spy/Mafia AU | Forbidden Love | Falling in Love | Tuna Melts and Chicken Parm as Love Notes | Mature
Chapter Summary: Ilya's family finds out about his betrayal, but so does Scott Hunter. And Shane makes his move.
Excerpt:
“Hollander.”
Ilya spoke before he even realized he had, but he recovered. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his voice from trembling, but he could at least act angry.
Ilya locked eyes with Rose, who blinked at his sudden attention upon her. He raised his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to the camera, which had reclaimed its red button. After a moment of consideration, she sighed and tapped her tablet to life. "We're all gonna be indicted for this."
The red light on the camera clicked off, and Ilya’s gaze snapped to Hollander. “Is okay, Shane. I will do this.”
“Shane?” Hunter parroted, but Shane ignored him.
“No. I won’t let you.”
“When we hooked up, what did you think was going to happen? Were only two ways this was going to end. This is better of them.”
“What are you talking about?” Shane demanded. He seemed so furious, so lost.
“Either I kill you, or my father kills me. I would never let anything happen to you, so…” He offered a helpless shrug. “…here we are.”
Go on,” Marly urged, practically giddy. “You will like this surprise.”
Ilya doubted it, but he proceeded to the door and opened it.
Father turned then, a dangerous, vicious glint in his eyes. “Ah, Ilya! We were just talking about you. Come. Come! There is someone who has been waiting to see you.”
There was blood dripping from Father’s hands. His weapons remained on the counter, appearing cleaned and unused. He hadn’t dug into the cabinets yet for any toxins, and it was only those observations that kept Ilya sane when Father stepped aside to reveal the person strapped to the chair.
He was young – around Ilya’s age of twenty-seven – with his black hair askew and face bloody. Adorable freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, which were swollen and dark from Father’s work. He wore a simple blue work-out shirt over Adidas pants, and his athletic jacket had actually been removed and hung on a hook in the corner.
His eyes were half-lidded, pain-filled, not at all the bright and radiant gems Ilya knew them to be. They widened when set upon Ilya, and Ilya’s heart broke.
“Hollander…” he breathed.
Father slapped him hard on the back. “Yes, Ilya! We have captured your rival, and now it is time to find out all his and the Voyageurs’ secrets.”
(Nine years ago, CSIS Trainee Shane Hollander stole a file from the Boston Bears Crime Syndicate and the heart of its leader's son. Now, Ilya Rozanov's father calls him to the Raiders nightclub, the Bears' headquarters, to give him a gift - his captured archrival.
As Ilya is tasked with uncovering all Shane's and his organization's secrets, he has to fight to keep his relationship - and his betrayal - from being revealed - or risk losing the best thing that ever happened to him.
There are many things Ilya is willing to do for his father. Losing Shane Hollander is not one of them.)
M, 31k, Spy/Mafia AU, Love Notes Delivered as Chicken Parm. Read it on AO3.
Ilya shook his head. “There are times when things could be…”
“…less boring?” Shane hedged, jaw tightened.
Ilya’s bent knuckle caressed the freckles across Shane’s cheeks. “Boring is good. I like boring, but…maybe if I had learned to solve problems instead of making them, I would have liked being a CSIS officer, too.”
He didn’t miss his old life. He didn’t miss the gunfights or the drugs or his father and brother’s fists and threats, but sometimes, in the darkness of the night, he missed the adrenaline. He missed running from the American agents. He missed Shane smiling wild and alive as they had sex in Ilya’s orange Porsche outside of Scott Hunter’s burning apartment.
Shane didn’t leave Ilya’s lap and leaned down to kiss him in a slow, sensual way that explored all the crevasses of Ilya’s mouth. Ilya responded by arching up, hands running up Shane’s thighs and down his backside. Just as the heat started to stir in Ilya’s groin, Shane muttered against his cheek, “Hayden wants us to babysit this weekend.”
Ilya pulled away. “You want round two, yes? Then you need to stop mentioning Hayden.”
Shane at least had the decency to look apologetic, but the moment was ruined.
“Hayden wants us to drive two hours each way on our day off to take care of his little terrors.” Ilya sighed. “Really?”
Shane laughed, lips still inches from Ilya’s. “So I’ll tell him yes.”
“Of course you will tell him yes, but he better have his fridge stocked with coke this time.”
“I’ll remind him.”
“Cherry. I want cherry coke.” He added with a little smirk, “Ruby makes raptor noises when she drinks cherry coke. Large burps.”
“Oh, Hayd will love – ”
The doorbell rang unexpectedly. No one showed up to the Hollanov residence unexpectedly, and even if they did, they didn’t bypass the gate camera.
That meant whoever was at their door was a professional.
Ilya’s hand went under the back pillow. Shane reached underneath the couch. In tandem, they held pistols and cocked them. Then, Shane slid off Ilya’s lap and grabbed his phone off the coffee table. A few quick taps brought up the video doorbell’s feed.
“It’s Scott Hunter,” Shane said, flashing the screen toward Ilya. “Were you expecting Scott Hunter?”
“Yes, I invited him here for threesome. Anniversary surprise.”
Shane hit him on the shoulder and placed his pistol on the coffee table. He combed his fingers through his hair and eventually gave up on looking presentable. It was their first-meeting anniversary, and he looked debauched. There was no other word for it, and Ilya loved it.
Ilya sneaked into the foyer and rested against the stairwell, pistol behind his back, arms crossed, shirtless. He locked in his expression as “pissed.” Scott was interrupting, and Ilya was going to let him know it.
Shane welcomed Scott into their home with a quick handshake, but Scott was different this time. Ilya knew Special Agent Scott Hunter – suit, tie, long jacket, stupid face with a sexy serious stare. This Scott stood in Ilya’s home wearing jeans, a tight athletic shirt, and a navy blue bomber jacket.
After a quick greeting, to which Ilya simply nodded, Scott took inventory – the various clothing articles on the floor, Shane’s hair, Ilya’s lack of a shirt.
“You were in the middle of something,” he said with hesitation and some embarrassment.
“Yes, we were,” Ilya replied, pointed. “What do you want?”
“God, Ilya,” Shane huffed before motioning toward the living room. “Why don’t you take a seat, Scott? Would you like something to drink?”
Ilya swiped his nose. “I’d like him to leave.”
Shane hit him on the shoulder as he passed.
Scott ignored the various items and weapons that littered the coffee table as he took a seat in one of their chairs. Shane went back to the couch, and Ilya – being Ilya – took up residence on the couch’s arm next to Shane.
“What made you go with Hollanov?” Scott started with a tiny, teasing smile. “Why not Rozander?”
Shane put a hand to his forehead and warned, “Please do not get him started.”
Too late. “Rozander is better name. I bet we can change it, Shane.”
“Shut up. We are not changing our last names again.” He rested a hand on Ilya’s knee, which equally elated and surprised Ilya. Shane was being possessive and casual and affectionate in front of Scott Hunter. “What’s going on, Scott?”
Scott could not be deterred. He looked between shirtless Ilya and disheveled Shane and said, “You both look…happy.”
“Satisfied,” Ilya offered, his own hand coming to rest on the back of Shane’s neck and play with the tiny strands there. “Satiated, perhaps. Pleasured.”
“Okay, enough of that,” Shane admonished as Scott raised his voice, “Happy. I meant happy.”
“What do you want, Hunter?” Ilya demanded again.
The real reason for Ilya’s rejoinders – Scott Hunter just didn’t show up at someone’s doorstep at eight p.m. because he was in the neighborhood and wanted to hang out. Scott Hunter showed up at your door because something was wrong and he needed help. That help probably required a gun and C4.
“The FBI has limitations. There are some things we can’t do, and there are some things we shouldn’t do. Sometimes, the things we can’t do and the things we shouldn’t do – aren’t the same.” Scott looked directly at Shane when he spoke, “You taught me that. Being compromised – it doesn’t mean you can’t still be effective in the field. Sometimes, it just means you need a little help to get done what needs to get done.”
Shane’s hand instinctively found Ilya’s and squeezed.
“I’m putting together a team of people who aren’t afraid to work outside the lines. I know I shouldn’t be the one making decisions on what needs to be done, but maybe – together – we can figure out how best to stop some bad guys and save some people.”
“What do you mean?” Shane said softly. “Like – freelance spies but without the paycheck?”
Scott let out a quick, measured sigh. “Yeah. Essentially. Think of it as a hobby. Like stamp collecting. And Rozanov here can use his toxin knowledge and tactical skills.”
“Things we can do with other couples?” Ilya hedged. “Instead of cooking classes, we take down…what? Drug lords? Human trafficking rings? Ponzi schemes?”
“Maybe.” Scott pulled out his cell phone and placed it on the coffee table, next to Shane’s pistol and the empty ice cream container. “You know this guy?”
Shane shook his head; Ilya’s stomach turned to ice. “Yes. His name is Dubek. He was a contact of my brother’s in Moscow.”
The hand in Ilya’s tightened.
“Word is he’s coming to North America. Going to take over the Bears’ organization. We need to stop him before he restarts what we dismantled. You in?”
Ilya had more than six thousand hours of apprenticeship left before he could get his automotive service technician license. Shane needed to be at the arena tomorrow at eight a.m. to meet with the goaltenders and goalie coach.
Ilya took solace in the feel of Shane’s wedding ring against his skin. “I still have not learned how to play pickleball.”
This time, they would be working on the same team and could help save some people.
Never letting go of Ilya’s hand, Shane nodded. “We’re in.”
Fin
A/N: This was the original ending of the story since I wanted to include Scott’s role a la The Long Game. But Ilya kept saying that he wanted to be happy and have a “boring life” and not worry anymore, so I had to indulge him. My apologies to anyone who liked this one better.
Ilya meant to stay only a few days – a week tops – but he ended up staying a full thirteen days to recover at Shane’s safehouse. Hollander helped him shower, cooked him meals, laid him out on the bed several times and worked him to a slow, indulgent, exhaustive release.
Even though each time left him all warm and limp on the bed, Ilya would whine, “I want to fuck you,” to which Shane would poke his ribs. Ilya would jerk and grimace and lose the fight. But overall, he couldn’t complain about the medicinal blowjobs.
They cuddled on the sectional couch – actually cuddled - and watched the local hockey team’s games. They would talk about things they shouldn’t – about Ilya’s mother, about Shane’s father, about the jobs or case they hated, about Svetlana and Rose, and about the normal life neither of them had.
“What do you think you would have done if you hadn’t joined the CSIS?” Ilya asked one evening, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island.
Shane blinked, taken back, before putting some thought into it. “I was always good at hockey. I originally went to McGill on a hockey scholarship.”
“Whoa! McGill? Seriously?”
Shane threw a dish towel at him. “Shut up. It has a great hockey team.” Shane sliced up some cheese on the kitchen island in front of Ilya and placed it on top of a set of chicken breasts. “But I was recruited by the CSIS my freshman year and ended up not playing for the team. Duty called, y’know?”
Ilya didn’t. He never had a choice, and “duty” meant something different to Shane than it did to him.
“What about you?” Shane prompted. “What would you have done if you hadn’t gone to work for your father?”
“I dunno,” Ilya admitted. “I played hockey, too. Maybe could have made a career. Maybe would have been a race car driver or mechanic.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He shouldn’t have asked.
When Shane turned off the sauce that had been simmering on the stove, Ilya asked, “What are you making?”
“Chicken parm. It’s not the best recipe, and I’m not the best cook but – ”
“You’re making me chicken parm?” No one had ever gone out of their way to make his favorite food before.
“Yeah, it was either this or Kraft Mac and Cheese.” Shane poured the sauce over the chicken breasts. “Figured I’d give this a try.”
Shane was making him chicken parm. There was coke in the refrigerator, a toothbrush in the bathroom, Ilya’s phone on the nightstand next to the bed.
“Ya lyublya tebya.”
“Not sure what you just said but I hope it wasn’t, ‘I hate chicken parm.’ That would suck.”
Ilya could lie, but it always felt wrong to lie to Hollander. And now that he said the words, he wanted Shane to know. “I love you.”
Shane stopped in mid-pour, his tender, glistening eyes finding Ilya’s. “Holy shit.”
Oh, God, he’d fucked this up, hadn’t he? Ilya had destroyed the best thing he’d known, the best thing he’d ever know, with the only person in the world that mattered. Shane couldn’t want a relationship beyond casual hook-ups with a criminal. There was no way for Shane to have a future in the CSIS if he dated – or God forbid married - a member of the Boston Bears Crime Syndicate.
It was only a matter of time before Shane realized that and ended this thing between them. Ilya had been fortunate to hold onto it for all these years, and of course, he’d be the one to fuck it –
“I love you, too.”
Oh. Oh. Shane Hollander was in love with him.
Shane abandoned the chicken parm to wrap his arms around Ilya, and Ilya responded with kisses to his forehead, his cheek, his neck, his chest. Any part of Shane’s skin Ilya could touch with his lips, he did. Over and over, he murmured, “Ya lyublya tebya. Ya lyublya tebya. Ya lyublya tebya.”
The next few days were the best in Ilya’s life. He woke up and fell asleep next to the man he loved. Shane finally gave in and allowed them to have slow, lazy, incredible sex, even if it did hurt Ilya’s ribs a bit. Thankfully, Shane did most of the work.
Ilya enjoyed being the instigator, but he also enjoyed the times when Shane took charge, gave into his desires, and came completely undone in Ilya’s arms.
God, he loved Shane Hollander so much. Probably too much.
“How did we let this happen?” he whispered, lips ghosting Shane’s neck.
“We were stupid, irresponsible.”
But Ilya didn’t regret it. He didn’t regret any of it.
It took them eight years to get to this point, where they could be honest with their feelings and what they wanted, and though Ilya seriously doubted he could be with Shane Hollander forever, he would steal these precious days with the love of his life.
And this would end. It was a matter when, not if, and Ilya knew he would never get over Shane Hollander.
…seriously, how the fuck did he fall for a Voyageur? Freckles. It was those adorable freckles.
On day thirteen, he finally got a text.
Svetlana: Stalled as long as possible. Grigori wants Kip Grady. Thinks he can get Hunter to find you. Also putting bounty on Hollander.
Ilya: Coming.
Literally.
Shane collapsed upon his chest, breath tickling his collarbone, lips dusting the underside of his chin. Tired, dazed eyes drifted upward. A tiny frown darkened Shane’s expression.
“Are you seriously texting during sex?”
Ilya shrugged, clearly amused, but still breathing heavily. “You are…huff… that boring.”
Shane lightly punched him in the side. “Fuck you.” He then froze, seeing the look on Ilya’s face, and said in a broken whisper, “You’re leaving.”
Ilya captured those swollen and glistening lips again, nipped Shane’s bottom lip, and dove inside. It was somehow both tender and filthy and needy, for he refused to let Shane leave his embrace without knowing just how much he meant to Ilya. Words would always be insufficient, no matter how many times he said them, but he would always show Shane just how much this meant to him, how much he meant to Ilya.
Shane was everything.
A few hours later, Ilya led Shane to the front door, their fingers threaded. When Ilya grabbed the knob, Shane put his hand upon the door to keep it shut. He took a deep, bracing breath, then met Ilya’s worried gaze with pleading eyes.
“Stay.”
“Shane – ”
“Don’t go to Boston. Stay here. With me. In Canada.”
Don’t make this harder than it already is. “In your boring country, in your boring safehouse, with your boring coffee and doughnuts?”
“Don’t knock the Timbits.”
Ilya loved the blueberry and sour cream ones, though he wouldn’t say that. “We can’t… be whatever you want, Hollander. You know that.”
“You can be asset. The Voyageurs would let you – ”
“So I can become lapdog for the Canadian government? My father would find me and kill me after finding and killing you.” He shook his head. “No, I will go back. We will keep this up, and – ”
“We’ll figure something out,” Shane vowed. He gripped Ilya’s hand in both his own. “He doesn’t own you.”
Perhaps that was why Ilya hated his father’s human tracking business so much. He always thought it was the morality his mother gave him, but perhaps he felt his father owned his life, too.
Ilya wanted to be free. He wanted to stay here in this boring country with his boring boyfriend, but Grigori had his own assets everywhere. The fact that he’d taken Ilya back after the Toronto debacle was a miracle in and of itself.
So Ilya would have his boyfriend. He’d indulge in this love, for however long he was allowed, and then he would accept its end, however it came.
He only hoped it would come on their terms and not his father’s.
For Seven Sentence Sunday - from “Compromised” (working title) -
If there was one thing Ilya Rozanov could say about “arch rival,” as Father called him, it would be that he could fill out a black suit and cargo pants.
"Shane Hollander."
Hollander whipped around, and Ilya added a point to his mental total. He had effectively sneaked up on the Canadian spy.
He acknowledged Ilya with a tiny nod. "Ilya Rozanov."
Ilya wasn't surprised, and Hollander didn't look it, either.
There were assets and moles in every organization. The Boston Bears Criminal Syndicate was no different. It had a whole drive on what they had learned about the Montreal Voyageurs' newest phenomenon, and Ilya would have been disappointed if Hollander's organization didn't have one on him.
