Chapter Text
Ottawa. 2009.
It was an unassuming building that loomed over Shane. Drab gray concrete walls in front of an even more drab gray sky. It was hard to believe this was everything he’d ever dreamed of, this unassuming, boring building. That it contained the culmination of his childhood, of why and how he was raised.
This was everything he’d been training for since he was a kid. Since he could walk. Everything he’d ever pinned his hopes and dreams on. The International Intelligence Agency was the stuff of legends– at least to Shane. Like the Avengers, or the Justice League. An invisible, guiding hand involved in almost every major political event worldwide, known and unknown, attempting to keep order and stability. He grew up on stories of his mom’s time here– Yuna Hollander was legendary. But she wasn’t a field agent, not anymore. Now she wore fancy suits and made big decisions from behind a big desk. Shane didn’t think he’d ever be able to throw in the towel like that– assuming he even made it. It was a big deal to be asked to show up to boot camp, but he knew most people who showed up today wouldn’t be graduating. It was tough. There was a lot to get through. Shane had an advantage: Yuna had been raising him on stuff like this. He was a menace to fight, was fluent in seven languages, could lie and cheat and steal all day, if it meant he got what he needed.
So he’d be fine. No need to be nervous.
At least, he told himself this as he stood in front of his locker, changing into IIA-issued shorts and a shirt with his name across the back. Hollander. As if declaring his lineage. His potential. It was more than intimidating.
“Hollander. That sounds familiar.” A voice drawled from behind him, thick with a Russian accent. Shane turned, tugging his shirt the rest of the way over his stomach.
“Uh. Yeah.” He said, dumbly. The recruit before him was… well. There weren’t words for all the ways he was attractive. Taller than Shane by a few inches, wild brown curls, hazel eyes drenched in mirth.
The young man dropped his duffel on the bench and opened his assigned locker, tugging off his hoodie. Shane made a point not to look at his bare skin, turning back to his own belongings. He heard a snap of the fingers, as if revelatory, and then the man spoke again.
“That actor. Tom Hollander. You know–” Shane turned, just in time to see the other tug a shirt over his head, Rozanov emblazoned on the back. “Pride and Prejudice. Pirates of the Caribbean. Yes?”
“Pride and– what? No.” Shane shook his head. This guy was teasing him. Had to be. Even if Yuna wasn’t the absolute legend she was, she was also in charge of the recruiting initiative here. If this kid was here, he'd have met Yuna. “Yuna Hollander is my mom.”
A gasp, suspiciously sarcastic. “No!” Disbelief, played up. Shane rolled his eyes and slammed his locker shut.
“See you out there.” He said, in lieu of actually having to come up with an equally snarky reply. Shane wasn’t good at that stuff. He was good at fighting, at training, at spying. At perfecting his craft. Everything else had always fallen to the wayside, and Shane had never seen a problem with that. Not until now. Not until a sarcastic boy with sparkling eyes and a distracting mole on his cheek had shown up, all smirks and charm.
Ilya had never necessarily wanted to be associated with a global intelligence agency. He’d never necessarily felt the urge to spy, to sneak. He was good at it though, good at getting around unseen, even with his towering frame. He’d grown up like that– tiptoeing to the kitchen, hoping he wouldn’t wake his cruel father or his angry brother. Sneaking in flowers for Mama, blankets for himself. It got cold in Russia.
He’d been sixteen when a woman had approached him on the street– Yuna, she’d said her name was. She’d watched Ilya sneak around, in and out of his house, up to the cemetery where his mother rested. She saw him fight off those boys who’d been picking on his friend, and had seen the way he’d dominated the neighborhood pond hockey game. Potential, she’d said. She’d given him her card, said to call them when he turned eighteen.
Everything she’d pointed out had felt obvious. Of course he snuck in and out of his house– anything to not draw attention to himself. Of course he visited his mother, every chance he could. And of course he’d scared off those boys who couldn’t seem to leave Svetlana alone. And the hockey– well, that had just been for fun. To show himself, and all the neighborhood kids that he could.
On the morning of June 15th, 2009, he did two things: he brought his mother flowers, said goodbye. And then he called Yuna Hollander.
Even after two years, Yuna remembered him. Told him to pack a small bag, say his goodbyes. Then he’d made his way to the airport, and now he was in Canada. In Ottawa. He hadn’t been able to get out fast enough. After Mama died, his father had only grown worse, even more so now that his memory was slipping. And Alexei– Ilya could hardly comprehend how they came from the same mother. Cruel in every way possible, never missing an opportunity to inflict pain. Ilya would not miss him, or his father, or Moscow.
He was ranked second in the class at the end of the first day of boot camp. Good. Not good enough. Ilya had to succeed here. He had to thrive. He would not go back to Russia, though he missed Svetlana and his mother. He would do whatever it took to be the best.
It was unfortunate that his main opponent was so easy to fluster. Shane Hollander, golden boy with those freckles. Yuna’s son– Ilya had put that together right away. That little Tom Hollander dig had just been for fun. And teasing Shane was fun. There was no way around it, the way his eyebrows would pinch, a little divot forming between them. The way his lips would tug into a frown, the way his cheeks would begin to heat, just a little, the very tips of his ears turning a marvelous shade of red. God, it was so much fun.
After the first day, the trainees had retired to their dorm rooms. Small concrete boxes, barely enough for a bed, a dresser, and a desk. After showering in the locker room with everyone else, he went to his room. There was so much time until dinner, and he wasn’t good at waiting. At being alone. So he tugged on his athletic shoes, and promptly left again for the gym.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Hollander was there, dripping sweat, feet pounding on the treadmill like it had personally insulted him. Ilya didn’t speak, only got on the treadmill beside him. Obnoxious, he knew, when there were at least ten treadmills lined up. But the way Shane side eyed him was worth it.
They ran hard. He realized it was a competition when Hollander upped his speed. Ilya followed suit, and soon they were sprinting. Sweating and out of breath, they slammed their hands on the stop button at the same time. The room was quiet now, too quiet, filled only with the sound of their panting.
“I was cooling down when you came in.” Hollander said, tone accusatory.
Ilya only smirked. “Then why race me, Hollander?” Hazel eyes traced a drop of sweat as it ran down Hollander’s temple, down his jaw, down his neck, disappearing into his t-shirt.
Hollander shifted, shrugged. “Couldn’t help it.” He looked at Ilya, gave an awkward sort of smile. Ilya couldn’t help but return it.
It was dangerous, this game they were playing. Ilya was risking everything, and though he knew others in their cohort believed Hollander could get away with murder because of his mother, Ilya knew the truth. That this secret could ruin everything, if they let it. A distraction, the head council would say. Or they’d argue that emotions would get tangled up, that it could endanger themselves and the mission. They could certainly bring up the morality argument– that two men simply weren’t meant to be together– but Ilya knew there were so many more undeniable arguments to be made that the morality one wouldn’t need to be touched.
That night after the treadmills, they showered, then did more than shower. Hollander had chastised him– not here. Too dangerous. So that night, Ilya knocked on his door. It had become something of a bad habit, after that.
It was just sex. It could only ever just be sex. But Ilya loved the moments after, before Hollander decided he had to go, or Ilya had to, if they were in Hollander’s room. When Hollander tucked up close to him, out of breath and sweaty. Disheveled, glowing. His, if only just for a moment.