Chapter Text
New York, Museum of Modern Art
“Eighty-one, answer me. Agent eighty-one!” Shane Hollander sorta whispered into the sapphire cufflinks of his tux. They were disguised microphones which were meant to let him communicate with the small earpiece worn by none other than Ilya Rozanov, the Russian spy who transferred from the Boston division—tax and money laundering to Montreal, art heists—a week ago. And that his boss, Jackie Pike, had assigned as Shane’s partner for this particular intel recon mission at the MoMa.
Though Shane protested, Jackie wouldn’t relent or even tell him why she chose Rozanov to be his new partner.
Shane was tucked behind one of the elaborate modern sculptures, scared shitless that someone had heard him call for his very annoying, very cocky, and unfairly attractive partner. But Rozanov hadn’t answered in over ten minutes. And though Shane liked to think he wasn’t paranoid, his heart was pounding harder with each passing minute of silence. Soon Shane's heart beat would break some kind of world record, he was sure. If Rozanov was incapacitated to some degree, Shane would have to call for backup. In his ten years at the agency, he had never called for backup.
“Eighty-one!” he repeated, losing his cool this time. There was a twinge of panic in his voice. Shane Hollander was the top spy at The Agency, the largest spy contractor enterprise in the world—which is no wonder why Jackie had assigned him to this case: finding the most prolific art thieves in the world. The art thieves had robbed the Louvre earlier in the year, and the agency's intel predicted they would be hitting the MoMA or the Mexican Modern Museum of Art next, which in Shane’s opinion, made total sense. What came from left field was that they would assign Rozanov to be his partner. In most occasions, Shane preferred to work solo. Art he understood. People…not so much. And when he really needed a partner, Jackie would pair him up with Scott Hunter, from New York, but he retired early. Hunter said the life of espionage was incompatible with the quiet life he wanted with his new husband, Kip. Shane was happy for him, sort of, anyway. Because now, instead of having nice and smiley Scott Hunter, he was stuck with Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Ever since they arrived at the MoMa fundraising Gala—separately, to pretend not to know each other—Rozanov disappeared. Then he would emerge with a drink in hand, only to disappear again. It seemed like every time Shane took his eyes off him, Ilya turned into smoke. It felt a lot like babysitting and Shane didn’t have the time or energy to hold someone’s hand. No matter how attractive, the owner of that hand may be.
A twisted part of him hoped Rozanov would mess up so bad he would get kicked out of the assignment. Maybe if he was lucky, Jackie would send Rozanov back to the Boston office. Then, Shane wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about Ilya Rozanov, or be hyper-aware of his every move, or all the things Ilya Rozanov made him feel.
“Are you looking for someone, twenty-four?” Someone in a heavy Russian accent said not through his earpiece, but next to his actual ear.
The hairs in Shane’s entire body prickled in pleasure as Rozanov’s warm breath caressed his skin.
If Shane wasn’t annoyed before, he was now.
Shane turned around, eyebrows bunched. “Where were you?” He leaned closer to Ilya and the other man’s earthy cologne hit his nostrils. God, Ilya smelled good. He always had.
“What does it matter? I am here now, yes?” Ilya said.
Shane’s blood pressure was rising faster than bubbles from mentos thrown inside a bottle of soda. “I almost got caught trying to find you! We have work to do.”
Rozanov smirked. He fucking smirked at Shane, and Shane didn’t know if he wanted to shake him or erase that smirk off Ilya Rozanov’s face with a hard kiss. Those kind of thoughts infiltrated Shane’s brain way more often than he was comfortable with. For the past ten years, he had been good at shaking them off. After all, he and Rozanov only saw each other a few times a year at the agency's retreats. It didn’t help that those sporadic encounters often ended with Shane pinned against the wall of some hotel room while Rozanov kneeled to suck him off. Or viceversa.
Every time they parted ways, Shane would chastise himself for being weak when it came to Ilya Rozanov. It’s not that Shane was ashamed or anything of liking men, he just was ashamed the man that made him weak in the knees was a complete asshole. If being an asshole was an Olympic sport, then Ilya Rozanov would certainly take the gold. That’s why three months ago, Shane decided to put an end to the hook ups. He wanted a man that would be there for him, someone he could build a life with, just like Scott Hunter had with Kip. And Shane knew he would never be able to find his person if he kept hanging on to the idea of Ilya Rozanov.
“If you must know, I was with that beautiful woman over there.” Ilya pointed at a gorgeous woman in a red dress. When she looked over her shoulder towards them, Ilya waved and then winked.
Okay, now Shane was just plain angry. “You almost blew our mission because you wanted to flirt with some heiress?”
“Are you jealous?” Ilya’s accent only accentuated the sarcasm.
“No. I’m annoyed.” Maybe also a little jealous, but Shane wasn’t going to dwell on those specific feelings in the middle of a mission.
Ilya rolled his eyes and leaned in closer. For a split second, Shane thought Ilya was going to kiss him, but instead, Ilya whispered against his ear, “That’s Maria Villanueva. She owns the auction house that sold Frida Kahlo’s painting last week.” Ilya pointed at the canvas of the Mexican artist’s Self-portrait with cropped hair. The Agency had intel that the thieves would be here, in disguise, of course. After the record-breaking auction of Frida’s El Sueño (The dream), it made sense they would target the artist’s paintings that were going on a world tour: Self-portrait with cropped hair, Two Fridas, and Viva La Vida. After all, that’s exactly how the Picasso was stolen in Granada less than two months ago.
Shane was still seething from his lack of luck at learning who the thieves were back then.
Regardless of his failure, Shane and Ilya were to scout the party and rule out possible suspects. If they could find who was behind the heists now, it would save them a trip to Mexico City—where the other two paintings currently resided—and the trip to Europe, where the three paintings would start their world tour. Though Shane loved Mexico, Madrid, Amsterdam, and Paris, there was no way he wanted to spend that much time with Ilya Rozanov. Not if he wanted his heart to move on.
“I knew that,” Shane grumbled. And he did. In his little fit of annoyance, he didn’t recognize Maria Villanueva. In his defense, she was even more striking in person than in the pictures Shane had meticulously studied before coming over. Having Rozanov so close was really throwing Shane off his game. And that’s something Shane wouldn’t allow.
Ilya chuckled. “Sure. Is this why Jackie sent me to babysit you?”
Shane’s head was awfully close to exploding. “You? Babysit me? Glad to know you’re still a fucking asshole.”
Ilya shrugged. “I am better agent than you. Or you forgot I got agent of the year last month for infiltrating that money laundering circle?”
When Shane was sure one of his forehead veins would, in fact, explode, Ilya said. “Relax, Hollander.” He patted Shane on both shoulders. The contact made Shane stiffened. “Enjoy the party. Have a drink or something. We’re not supposed to know each other, yes? I’ll debrief with you later.” And with that, Ilya Rozanov sauntered back to Maria Villanueva. Leaving Shane mouth slightly agape—with a non-existent comeback on the tip of his tongue—staring after him.
Though Shane abstained from drinking at work events, he realized this would be a long night. So he crossed the room, plucked a champagne glass from a passing waiter, down the sparky liquid in one gulp, and set himself to socialize—the second thing he hated most after Ilya Rozanov.
* * *
Ilya Rozanov loved the socializing part of the agent gig. He found it so interesting to meet new people—even if some of those people were real baddies. That’s why back in his training days, ten years ago, he had gone into money laundering and not something boring like… well, art heists.
He knew why Hollander liked this division. It was safe. Art wasn’t dangerous. But Ilya himself craved the adrenaline he got from tricking (and then running) from the baddies.
However, Jackie had benched him. Not because of anything he’d done, but the last gig left him…in a precarious position. And by precarious he meant the baddies were trying to find his real identity and potentially retaliate for bringing their whole organization down. Jackie’s first offer was to send him on a long sabbatical. At least until things calmed down, because there were no open positions in any of the current missions.
But then, legendary agent Scott Hunter retired.
When Jackie called Ilya to deliver the news of his reassignment, Ilya wondered what had taken Scott Hunter so long to retire. The guy was like one-thousand years old. Okay, in reality he was pushing forty, just eight years Ilya’s senior. But still, in agent years, Scott Hunter was dinosaur-level ancient.
Ilya knew the agency was trying to protect him when they assigned him as Hollander’s partner, but it felt an awful lot like he was being punished.
He kept telling himself that working with Hollander would be fine.
Well, not so fine.
Actually, it had been pretty shitty so far.
Hollander had put an end to their hookups three months, and in the process managed to break Ilya's heart. They were having sex on Ilya's hotel room couch, and then Ilya was stupid enough to call Hollander by his first name. Shane panicked and practically ran out of the door, leaving Ilya covered in both their cum and with a deep ache in his heart. Ilya promised himself he wouldn't let the memory of Shane Hollander haunt him. And keeping that promise to himself would be extremely easy, if they hadn't been thrusted into this mission together.
Now Ilya had to look at those beautiful freckles with the knowledge he would never get to drop kisses on them again. So yeah, this reassignment was his own personal hell.
Trying hard to focus on the conversation at hand—and not on Shane strolling around the exhibit hall—Ilya smiled and nodded at what the group of art aficionados were saying. Maria Villanueva, their main suspect so far, being among them. If anyone had a motive to steal pieces of art, is the person with the most opportunity to sell it to the highest bidder. Ilya schooled his features and got back into character—an under-the-radar millionaire who had an affinity for sports cars and expensive art to dodge paying taxes.
“So you do not know if Viva La Vida will be auctioned?” Ilya asked the group, in a neutral tone. “It would look great with my latest collection.” He added a smirk for good measure.
Maria Villanueva gave him a coy smile. “The Mexican government won’t approve a sale on that piece, I’m afraid. It’s considered a historical treasure.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow.“But they are okay to let it roam the world even after what happened in Granada and the Louvre?”
To that, a guy named Kyle shrugged. “Everyone always thinks they’re the exception.”
Ilya clocked him as another potential suspect. What made Ilya a great spy was his attention to detail. Micro expressions were his specialty, which is why his gut told him Maria Villanueva wasn’t the person they were looking for. But Kyle…Kyle looked awfully smug for a person who’d previously expressed he had no interest in art and only came to support his boyfriend, Eric Bennett, a former hockey player and a patron of the arts.
“I guess you’re right. It would really be a shame to lose those paintings,” Ilya insisted.
Kyle was about to reply when a loud crash came from the other side of the room. Ilya’s heart stuttered at the sound, until he realized it was a waiter who had dropped a tray full of glasses. And apologizing profusely to said waiter, was none other than Shane Hollander.
Ilya stared across the exhibition hall as Shane got on his knees to help the waiter with the mess. Even from this distance, Ilya could tell the waiter was flirting with Shane, giving him a wide smile and lingering after touching Shane's arm. Shane didn’t seem to notice, though.
Before he could rationalize his actions, Ilya was excusing himself from the conversation and making his way to the other side of the exhibition hall.