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“A lot of the town do not like me,” says Rozanov flatly. “The county.”
Shane blinks. “Why?” he asks, grimacing as he tries to swallow the vodka. Wasn’t the whole point of vodka, is that it is supposed to be tasteless? That’s why it’s the base of so many other drinks and cocktails.
“Am Russian,” Rozanov shrugs, stating the obvious, but Shane doesn’t put two and two together.
“They think I am Russian spy,” Rozanov sighs, realising Shane hasn’t understood his implication. “Putin’s man, sent here to…sabotage America.” Rozanov’s voice is bitter, as he gives a dry smile.
“Well…you aren’t,” Shane mumbles. “Right?” he adds, narrowing his eyes at Rozanov when he doesn’t say anything for a couple of beats too long. Hotch would never let the team live it down if they ended up collaborating with a literal Russian spy.
“Christ, Hollander, of course not!” Rozanov cries, grinning with genuine amusement. His eyes sparkle when he does so, his whole face shifting from the hard, sharp lines of a serious, professional detective, to someone wholly different, a young man with a shining smile who Shane barely recognises.
“You think I would come here, the middle of fucking nowhere, to be Russian spy? Hardly anything of value, even if I was spy.”
Shane manages a laugh, breathy and awkward. “But…does it make it hard? Being lead detective in an area like this? Your team seems to trust you.”
Rozanov nods, taking a sip from his glass. Shane notices how he doesn’t so much as blink at the taste that has been assaulting his own tastebuds.
“They trust me. Like me,” Rozanov confirms. “I worked hard to get where I am. Earned their respect.”
“Just…haven’t quite got the locals on board yet?”
Rozanov gives a chuckle, and Shane’s stomach flips, though it’s probably the vodka.
“No, they are not…on board,” he says. He’s smiling again as he looks at Shane. “I have been very vocal in my…dislike…of my home country,” Rozanov says carefully. “But they are still not fond of me.”
Shane pulls a face, trying to convey the unfortunate nature of Rozanov’s situation.
“And now I have two dead bodies lying in my morgue, with no fucking clue who has done this,” Rozanov sighs. Shane is abruptly reminded of the fact that he is here to discuss the case with Rozanov, to help build a profile of a killer that is already trending towards becoming serial.
“Yes, well, we hope to help with that,” says Shane, shifting in the uncomfortable motel chair, one of his legs having gone numb from his awkward position. “These kinds of killings, the nature of them, they’re pretty textbook, I’m sure the team will have something worked out by tomorrow. It’s just a matter of figuring out who in the community fits that profile. And I can help by narrowing down the geographical profile, based on the abduction sites and where the bodies were found. Though, really, I’d be able to build a stronger geographical profile if there were three or more bodies, but, also, best not to have a third woman murdered, obviously.”
Much to Shane’s surprise, Rozanov lets out a long, loud sigh, then blows a raspberry. “Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring,” he groans, voice low, accent thick.
Shane feels his lips part as his cheeks heat up in indignation.
“You seriously did not actually invite me back to your shitty motel room to talk about the case?” Rozanov says, eyebrows raised.
“You - you asked me where I was staying,” Shane mumbles, a little defensively. “And I told you. I thought - I thought you wanted…”
What had Shane thought about the lead detective of the local police department asking him where he was staying? Surely, if it were to be talk of the case, he would have asked Hotch, or JJ, or even Morgan, where the team was staying. Certainly not Shane, barely even a profiler, on the team since his mid-20s due to his advanced skills in analysis and behavioural psychology. He’s part of the BAU, sure, but he’s still junior, in comparison to the likes of Hotch, Morgan, and Prentiss. And Rozanov had only asked Shane where specifically he was staying. Not Hotch, not the team as a whole. Just Shane.
“You thought I wanted to talk the case?” Rozanov asks. He’s leaning against the table, hips set at a jaunty angle, glass of vodka cradled casually in the fingers of his right hand. “Why would I bring vodka to your motel room, if I wanted to talk about murder and profiling?”
“I - I don’t know,” Shane murmurs. There’s a strange warmth pooling in his gut as Rozanov looks at him keenly, that same, intense stare that Shane had caught him looking his way with on numerous occasions in the last couple of days.
“You are boring, Hollander, yes,” Rozanov repeats, and Shane’s ears burn as he opens his mouth to protest, to defend himself even a little.
“But you also make me very curious,” Rozanov finishes, before Shane has a chance to get anything out.
Shane blinks, lips parted stupidly, staring at the other man.
“Hm,” Rozanov hums, to no one in particular. “Very curious. Here I am, minding my own business, trying to solve murder in my middle-of-nowhere county, and here comes big, fancy BAU from the FBI.”
“You invited us -” Shane begins desperately, but the detective cuts him off.
“And there you are, hanging at the back of the group, in silly oversized suit, glasses, briefcase, like businessman from the 90s.”
“My - my suit is fine,” Shane protests. “It’s meant to be oversized. It’s fashionable.”
“Yes, in the 90s,” Rozanov says, grinning. He’s watching Shane with interest, as though testing how far he can push.
“I - you -”
Rozanov pushes off the table, and he’s abruptly leaning over Shane where he sits, frozen, in his chair. He feels his legs part, allowing Rozanov to move between them with ease, leaning himself on the arms of the chair, trapping Shane in his frame.
“Do I make you curious?” Rozanov says, his voice low and quiet, pale eyes piercing into Shane.
Shane swallows hard, looking up at Rozanov, feeling helpless. Trapped. Stuck.
“Maybe,” he croaks out. Rozanov smirks at him, that stupid, playful smirk that tugs the corner of his lips sideways, gives a hint of the smile lines that crinkle around his eyes. Only a hint.
Rozanov hums again, casting his eyes over Shane’s face, before his gaze drops lower, to his button shirt, to his belt, his waist, to his -
“Ah,” Rozanov quietly breathes, as though fascinated by what he sees. “I think I make you very curious.”
“Detective,” Shane says, desperately hoping to maintain some professionalism. He cannot be doing this. He cannot be trapped beneath the looming frame of the lead detective in a case he is assisting in, his dick straining in his pants. It goes beyond unprofessional. It was probably some kind of federal crime. Workplace fraternization. But…is it really workplace fraternization if the two of them don’t actually, technically, work at the same place?
“Agent.” Rozanov’s voice drags Shane from his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.
“This is a bad idea,” Shane murmurs.
Rozanov shrugs, lowering himself until his face is mere inches from Shane’s. “Makes it fun,” he whispers.
“We can’t do this,” Shane says firmly.
“We are not doing anything,” Rozanov hums. “Not yet.”
Shane lets out a shaky breath. “Please,” he hisses, though he’s not sure what he’s asking for. For Rozanov to leave? To walk out of the motel room like nothing happened? For Rozanov to kiss him? Touch him?
Rozanov senses his racing confusion. “Please, what?” he asks quietly, almost gently. His lips ghost over Shane’s forehead, over the bridge of his nose, across his cheek, not quite touching, but close enough to set Shane’s skin alight.
“Kiss me,” Shane breathes.
Rozanov obliges.