Chapter Text
Rose had had a Russian co-star once on one of her early films.
Yevgeni was 45 to her 16, a muscular hard man with a terrifyingly blank expression. He was playing the bad guy - of course, Hollywood was nothing without its tropes. The film was ridiculous and cliché as well - Rose was a mob boss’s daughter and Yevgeni was the enforcer sent to stuff her in the trunk of his car and try to ship her across country before she escaped with the help of a young man at a truck stop (who would later turn out to be an undercover FBI agent). When they arrived on set, it had been hard to imagine this silent, glowering man delivering his lines at all, let alone with any feeling.
She’d resigned herself to another bad film credit and avoiding her terrifying costar for the first week. Then he’d come into the gym one morning as the stunt coordinator tried for the fifth time to get her back to bend in a way it just couldn’t, even with all her teenage flexibility. His eyes scanned her face, where Rose’s own frustration at herself was coming out in tears, and he’d turned that terrifyingly blank look on the coordinator. “Leave. Now.”
The stunt coordinator couldn’t have packed up any quicker and Rose had found herself gripped by the elbow, and escorted - not dragged, but only because he was moving slow enough, telegraphing every move, that she found it easy to keep up - to his Winnebago. He made her sit then he poured tea and ladled jam into it. “Drink this.” When Rose hesitated, thinking about the ridiculous diet the producers had her on to keep her ‘looking like a girl’, he poked it towards her. “One cup is not going to ruin your day. With all that work you will need the sugar.”
Rose took it then, sipping cautiously, watching him warily. Yevgeni looked satisfied, his face softening for the first time. “My daughter is a little younger than you. I’m not sure I would want her to do this job.”
Rose had blinked in surprise, and her brain to mouth filter failed her. “I didn’t know you could speak English.” She felt herself blush instantly but he had just laughed, his rich, deep guffaw another surprise. “I’ve been in America thirty years, my dear. My English is fine. Better than Simon’s anyway.” Simon the stunt coordinator had a deep Texan accent and said “ain’t” a lot, and Rose found herself snorting into her tea.
“My Mimi is 14 and she loves your films. It is actually why I auditioned for this part.” Rose’s head shot up in surprise so she saw when Yevgeni’s face clouded over again. “If Simon had put his hands on her and made her cry, he would not have them by the end of the day.”
Rose snorted again. “Oh it’s really fine - he didn’t upset me, I’m just pissed at myself that I can’t fold into a pretzel. They never checked that during the auditions, you know?”
Yevgeni searched her face for a moment and gave a little nod, seeming satisfied she was telling the truth. “My Mimi is also very good at ballet - she can get her leg all the way over her head, and her head all the way to her ankles. How about if I get her to show you how, you sign a poster for her, and we call it square?” He held out a hand, and she took it as they shook on the deal.
In the end it had been one of the best few weeks Rose had had on a set. Mimi had blushed and stuttered and gushed for several minutes before Yevgeni had teased her that he’d take her home if she couldn’t string a sentence together and Rose showed her how far she'd got with Simon. Suddenly Rose had a miniature tyrant on her hands - or more accurately on her hips, taking her through stretches that left her aching but happily clasping her ankles to her forehead within days.
On the long filming days folded into the backseat and trunk of the onset car, Rose found herself getting a masterclass from Yevgeni on how to keep a straight face, as he whispered dry, darkly comic observations about the crew and the set whenever the mikes were off or they were resetting, never once cracking a smile.
Rose thought of Yevgeni now as she stared up at Ilya Rozanov standing in the doorway, his face schooled into that same Slavic blankness.
She could do this.
“Can I come in?” He asked again, and Rose blinked stepping back. “Of course, sorry." She felt the need to explain her hesitance. "I thought you were Shane.”
“He does not have to apologise to you - I do.”
Rose tried to wave it off but Ilya’s eyes tightened when she did. “I was rude. I am sorry.”
“Yeah ok. You were. But none of us are our best when we’re hurt. I’m sorry for overstepping with anything I said, and I’m really sorry I didn’t dig a little into what Shane had going on before I agreed to go on a date with him.” It was Ilya’s turn to try and shrug it off and hers to push back. “I’m not just saying that for you - I’m sorry for me and him that we wasted our time when he could have been happier already.”
Ilya mouth twitched, almost like she’d said something funny. “Not sure that’s true. He needed to date you to know he was gay. Apparently years of begging for my cock was not enough for him to be sure.”
Rose couldn’t help her bark of laughter and Ilya looked pleased with himself. “Would it help if I told you what happened between us? I know Shane’s told you it wasn’t good, but if you need the gory details I’m happy to confirm.”
She could have done. She could have talked about how Shane had gone down on her and he’d been pretty good, if a little inexperienced, but when she’d reciprocated he’d flagged the moment her mouth was on him, gently moving her off with a mumbled comment about the feel of lipgloss. She could have talked about how she’d chalked the first time up to nerves, but that two dates where a guy can’t get it up without screwing his eyes shut to think about something else was enough for her to know.
But Ilya just shook his head. “Shane could tell me if he wants but I know he does not. And I do not need to know it was bad with other lovers to know it is better with us.”
There was something challenging in his expression as he said it, as if he expected her to protest but Rose had no interest in doing that. “I can see you guys are great together. It’s good to see Shane relax for once - he never really did that with me, you know? He was always on edge. I don’t think I realised how much until I got to see him here with you.” She felt like she was talking too much, but she couldn’t help herself. “And the way he looks at you? I dream of a guy looking at me like that one day.”
Ilya’s eyes sparked with pride this time and his lips smirked up, just a little smug. “I feel the same. I am - what is the word, wanting to keep something for you only?”
“Possessive?” Rose supplied and he nodded. “Yes - I am possessive now he is all mine.”
Rose laughed. “You don’t seem very sorry about that at least.” Ilya shrugged. “Would you be?” Rose shook her head, smiling.
It was a risk after clearing the air to raise it again, but Rose felt they hadn’t quite settled everything they needed to. “Did you tell Shane you wanted something more before we got together?”
Ilya grimaced before his face settled back into blankness. “We did not talk about what we are to each other. Not until this last week.”
Selfishly, Rose found that reassuring - at least it meant Shane hadn’t been using her knowing what else was on offer - but then Ilya continued. “I tried to show him. I make him food, I ask him to stay. He did not want.”
“Ah." She considered him, the hand running through his curls and the unhappy moue of his mouth that, if she had called out as a pout, would probably have had him turning on his heel again. "He's not the best at reading signals if you don't spell them out."
Ilya's pout turned into a smirk, although not exactly a happy one. "Now this word, 'understatement', I do know."
Rose grinned back at him. "He's also an overthinker. He's probably downstairs overthinking what's happening up here right now." Ilya glanced back over his shoulder, his face softening and Rose's heart swelled because that look? That look was as soft, and careful, and devastatingly devoted as Shane deserved.