Chapter Text
"Do not disappoint me, Rozanov. You can't afford to fail this country." The words echoed in Ilya's head as he watched the Canadian hockey player leave his car and walk towards his apartment. He sighed and jumped down from the ledge of the roof he was perched on.
He carefully slunk down to the street, keeping his head low as he passed through the door of the building after an old couple. They smiled at him and he awkwardly tried to nod and smile politely.
The couple gave a weary look but he thankfully didn't cause enough suspicion for them to get help or question him. The perks of being blonde with blue eyes and impossibly gorgeous in the west he supposed. Illya pulled his black baseball cap down and headed up the stairs. He already knew where his target's apartment was. He had broken in about an hour and a half ago to scope out the setup of the place in preparation.
He had no doubts about this mission. Get in get out, and hopefully don't shoot and alert the entire street. His gun in his hidden hostler by his side would stay hidden unless there was an emergency. Illya climbed the stairs slowly, counting the minutes it would take the target to reach his room. This would be flawless. It had to be. For Russia or whatever. Illya opened the door to the floor.
Now inside his apartment, Shane set his bag down and flopped onto his couch, groaning in pain. He lifted his practice jersey to reveal a deep purple bruise brandishing his side. He winced and rubbed his eyes. His coach had been nagging him about performance for the last week, threatening to bench him if he didn't get it together.
In Shane's defense, the events that led to the injury was far more important than pretending to be a hockey player. Not that he didn't like hockey; in a normal scenario he might have actually pursued hockey seriously. But life had a way of twisting his plans. His job as a CSIS agent basically took up his entire plan for the future.
The Canadian government had approached Shane after his father put in a favor for him at the top a few years back, and now he did most of the country's dirty work. Not that Canada had much work to do. Shane's work mostly consisted mostly of defensive protection or bodyguarding international negotiators. It came with no perks and was physically taxing on poor Shane Hollander.
Last month a deal has turned into a fight and Shane put himself in the middle of two Russians and got the shit beat out of him. Most of his injuries from then had healed, but his luck had granted him a terrible shove from his rival hockey team, and deepened the bruise on his side. Fuck that brat honestly, Shane thought. He hated that he had to be undercover as a hockey player. It seemed stupid in his opinion.
His face has constantly on Television, so he had to cover his entire face on missions.
Ilya approached the apartment door, preparing to knock with a knife tucked behind his back. He took a small breath and raised his hand to touch the door. Suddenly, the door opened and slammed into his face, knocking him back a few steps. Shane yelped and peeked over the door at the startled and now bloody-nosed Russian in front of him.
“Holy shit, are you ok?” Shane said nervously, inching near and holding out a hand. Ilya stared dumbly back at his target, holding out his hand to help him. Was he an idiot, perhaps?
“No,” Illya shoved Shane's hand away, “I’m fine.” He stood up and touched his face, staring at the blood coating his finger tips. Shane’s eyes widened.
“Oh- Fuck! I’m so sorry, do you need help, I have bandages- Please don’t sue me!” Shane stuttered.
“What the fuck do you think bandaid is going to do?” Ilya snapped. “Are you going to let me in or am I going to have to stand here bleeding?” he grumbled, gesturing to the open door before Shane could stutter a response. He tucked the knife into the back of his belt and covered it with the hem of his shirt. Shane weakly mumbled something apology-adjacent and nodded, allowing Illya through the door of his apartment. He really was an idiot.
The two walked into the apartment and Shane beelined for the first-aid kit he kept in his kitchen. Ilya wandered around the living room, settling on slumping angrily onto the couch. Honestly, he wasn’t even mad. He’s had worse than a simple nosebleed, but the whole interaction granted him access to the apartment without any hassle. He was extremely impressed with himself. He tried his best not to grin in approval of himself, which wasn’t hard because he already didn’t smile that much.
Shane appeared with gauze and cotton balls. Illya raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“What? Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want you getting blood on my white carpet.” Shane grumbled, almost pouting it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I look at you in no particular way.” Ilya shrugged. For some reason, his response made Shane snort out a laugh. The sound made Ilya itchy, in a sense. Uncomfortable, and embarrassed. Which was weird since Ilya didn’t get embarrassed.
“Hold still.” Shane instructed, tilting Ilya’s head back to gain better access to the blood still slowly sliding from his nose. He wiped at it with the cotton swabs, and Ilya’s hand twitched to the knife in his belt. Shane's eyes squinted as he carefully wiped at the wound. Ilya grimaced in disapproval. He had the perfect opening, with Shane sitting right next to him, all his attention on his nose. He wouldn’t even see it coming.
So Ilya went for it. He pulled the small blade and brought it up towards Shane’s eye to plunge it into his brain. He would be done and rid of the nuisance in a second flat. He wouldn’t even get the chance to cry out.
Except Shane, somehow, miraculously, caught his hand when the knife’s point was barely a breath away from his eye. Ilya frowned and attempted to press harder, but Shane had a firm grip over him. Other than his eyes being slightly widened he didn’t look all that surprised. He still had the bloody cotton swab in his other hand.
“The hell are you doing, dude?” Shane asked, perplexed. Ilya, struck dumb by the unexpected save from the Canadian, could only blink at him for a moment.
But then he recovered his wit and scowled at him.
“What am I doing? What does it look like I’m doing? I'm going to kill you.” he sneered, and Shane raised an eyebrow.
“Well you aren’t doing a very good job of that, Rozanov.” he pointed out with a slight smile, and Ilya tried to stab the knife forward into his eye again. Shane leaned away from it, pushed Ilya back against the couch, and disarmed him all in the same motion, and Ilya could only watch as the knife clattered out of his hand.
“What the fuck? Who are you?” Illya exclaimed in alarm. He backed up away from the couch. Shane kicked the knife, now on the floor, across the room and under a table. So much for that.
“I feel like if you’re trying to kill me, you should at least know my name. It’s kinda rude that you don’t.” Shane said calmly, standing up slowly. Ilya shook his head in disbelief.
“I know your fucking name, that’s not what I meant. I was told only your name and where to find you, not that you were trained!” He spat, all composure lost. Shane just lounged easily against the couch, one arm thrown over the back and his legs crossed.
“Mm, Well maybe whoever sent you should have given you a heads up. The Russians must be losing their touch.” Shane smirked, shaking his head. This was no stammering, stumbling idiot like Ilya had initially thought. “Come on now, Ilya, put up a fight at least.” He stood up and crossed his arms.”
Ilya's frown seemed to become permanently etched onto his face. He realized his fists had clenched without his knowledge. Ilya let his hands fall limp by his sides. Internally he was planning his next attack. This was supposed to be an easy fight. He would have to actually focus on what he was doing. He smiled to himself, a challenge was just what he needed.
Ilya stepped forward carefully, trying not to draw attention to himself. Shane stayed seated, which seemed like a good sign. Ilya took a short breath and closed the space between him and Shane.