No Biting

Ilya twists, braces for impact on instinct before his brain catches up. Droids, they must be in an ambush, that’s why he hadn’t felt anything coming—there must have been an explosion, the clones, LeClair, he prays to the force that they’re alright. He prays to the force that he won’t break anything when he lands against the–

Rock slams into him, the wall of the canyon they’ve been trekking through. It’s a horrible position, LeClair knew that, he told Ilya, it’s a deathtrap, if the droids get the drop on us we’re fish in a barrel. But the orders came from further up, and so they marched into the canyon with the clones in tow.

Ilya gets the wind knocked out of him. It hasn’t been that long since he’s gotten the wind knocked out of him, the last stint on Geonosis was brutal and messy and Ilya had been lucky when a landmine exploded and half of a squad died, and he only got the wind knocked out of him. He’d felt it coming a second before the clones did, but it wasn’t enough time to save any of them.

Save them. 

The thought strikes him across the temple harder than the rocky ground, spurring him to get his lightsaber, where is his lightsaber? Gasping, scrabbling over the rock, he finds it, his hands closing around the palm-warmed metal and instantly soothing something ugly and frightened inside him. 

This weapon is your life. This weapon is your men’s lives. 

When he gets to his feet he expects to see flames. He expects to see evidence of the explosion, expects to see burns and blood and droids above them, shooting down at fish in a barrel.

He doesn’t see that. He doesn’t even see the droids. What he sees makes no sense. 

LeClair with his arm outstretched–outstretched towards Ilya, he threw Ilya—his lightsaber weaving around him in a deadly arc, and the clones are–

“Run, Padawan!” LeClair is shouting, he’s fighting, he’s fighting back as the clones fire round after round at him, “Ilya, run!” 

Ilya feels the wind leave his chest again. His head throbs in time with his shoulder, where he hit the canyon wall. He tries to make sense of LeClair’s words and the images in front of him, his knuckles white on the hilt of his unignited lightsaber. 

“Ilya!” 

His body reacts before his mind does, operating on instinct, interpreting the prickle over his left chest and twisting and igniting his saber in time to keep the blaster bolt from ending him. 

The next comes seconds after, and then another, and another. Ilya lets his mind go blank, tries to clear a path through his mind for the force, tries to forget he’s sending blaster bolts back through the bodies of his friends—his men—and not mindless droids.

LeClair keeps yelling for him to run, Ilya scrambles for something, anything. An escape. His mind conjures an image, again, of fish trying to escape a barrel. LeClair had put it perfectly, even if Ilya hadn’t quite gotten the metaphor in basic at first. 

Ilya feels the moment LeClair loses.

 Ilya knows it isn’t a fatal wound. Between the smoking chaos he sees LeClair clutch at his shoulder and keep fighting. But the force ripples, pulses with fear and dread. It’s not a fatal wound. But it means LeClair is going to die. It means LeClair is going to lose. 

They lock eyes for a moment. Time slows. LeClair screams for him to run.  And for maybe the first time in his seventeen years, Ilya listens to the crushing fear in his chest. He doesn’t see LeClair die. He runs. And runs, tripping on rocks and leaping out of the canyon as it narrows, letting his frantic feet and instinct carry him forward, forward, forward. 

The force bends around him with pain and suffering, choking Ilya with death, fear, devastation. He doesn’t feel the moment LeClair dies, but he knows when he is dead, his absence pressing into Ilya’s temples along with the absence of hundreds—thousands–the force is in agony.

Ilya finds himself in a cave, his back to the wall, his knees to his chest, horror replaying inside his body again and again. He tries to breathe through it, but the force is a rushing and angry current, sweeping his mind downriver.

Focus. Focus. 

Ilya makes a choked sound as another wave of suffering overcomes him. His limbs shake, sweat beads at his forehead. He digs his fingers into his scalp. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Stop. STOP!

Ilya doesn’t realize what he’s doing until it's done. Until he’s left alone, in a cave, with the aching in his shoulder and the sound of his own breathing. And there is no current, no river, no bleeding gash in the atmosphere. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until there is no Force. 

Ilya stays there for a long time. His brain rattles around in his skull, he touches his forehead and comes away with blood. Not surprising. He hit the canyon hard. 

He sits there in the dark until his communicator beeps. 

The sound is like a knife, Ilya jumps so hard his head smacks the cave wall behind him. 

Kriff. He rips the thing off of his arm. Kriff. 

The glowing circle blinks at him again. And Ilya immediately thinks of Shane. His battalion is somewhere in the system too. Ilya isn’t stupid enough to hope only he and LeClair’s men had turned against them.

Is Shane alive? Ilya doesn’t dare reach back into the Force–he isn’t even sure he can. 

They’re definitely looking for him. Even in this state Ilya can sense he’s being hunted.  He should destroy the com, he should get out of this cave, out of the Lonely Five altogether and off of Ryloth, he’s wasting time. 

But it could be Shane. As alone and scared as he is right now, trapped somewhere, hurt, or worse. Ilya does the stupid thing, and opens the channel.

“--message to all Jedi. Return to the Temple. The Clone War has ended. By order of the Supreme Chancellor–”

A trap. It has to be. Ilya is about to crush the stupid thing beneath his heel when static interrupts the message, 

“...This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Ilya stills, his fingers white around the communicator as he listens with baited breath, 

“I regret to inform you that both the Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire emerging to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi: Trust in the Force. Do not return to the temple. That time has passed, and our future is uncertain.” 

Ilya’s heart pounds in his chest. This can’t be real,

“Avoid Courascant. Avoid detection. Be secret…but be strong. We will each be challenged, our trust, our faith, our friendships…” 

Ilya closes his eyes tightly, thinking of nothing but Shane’s kind eyes and star-like freckles, 

“But we must persevere, and in time, I believe a new hope will emerge. May the Force be with you, always.”

May the Force be with you. Ilya can almost hear Shane saying, just hours ago as he climbed aboard a clone gunship, and left Shane onboard a cruiser. Ilya can’t imagine the chaos that would unfold inside that massive ship. He can’t imagine what escape looks like for a master and padawan with clones around every corner. He doesn’t want to let himself hope.

The message restarts. 

Ilya drags himself to his feet, using the wall to steady his shaking legs. It’s dark outside now, he must have been here for hours. 

“May the Force be with you, always”

Ilya throws the communicator to the ground, and stomps it into pieces under his heel. 

May the Force be with you. 

He leaves his lightsaber in the cave, wrapped in his cloak in some kind of memorial. The night air is chilled and dark, and full of stars. He doesn’t look up at them. It doesn’t keep Shane from his mind. 

If you are alive, he thinks, please be alive. And I will find you. 

Shane doesn’t escape. Everything that follows is because of that. 

Master Sol’a tells him to run. The Twi’lek, who always seemed so strong and sure and larger than life, looks at him with wide, fearful eyes as they take cover in the ship’s corridors, 

“You need to go, Padawan. Find an escape pod, get off of this ship.”

Shane starts shaking his head. They’re both out of breath, both hurt, both impossibly cornered. 

“Do not argue with me, Shane.”

She reaches for his arm, tugging the makeshift bandage there tight. Shane grits his teeth, but he can barely even feel the charred blaster wound there. 

“You won’t make it.” He says. He’s right. She knows it, even as she tugs the bandage around her chest tighter. Sol’a sets her jaw, 

“Padawan, listen to me.” She grips his uninjured shoulder, the way she does only once in a great while, when things are especially serious. It miffs Shane a little. As if he didn’t already know. 

“I am not leaving this cruiser.” She says, “I will be right behind you, once I can get back to the bridge and call for help.”

She’s lying. Shane knows she’s lying. He knows she can feel it like he can…there isn’t any help to call. 

“I’ll get you there.” he says anyway. 

“No.” Her face hardens, “You are a skilled Jedi, Shane, and others will…need you–” She coughs, seemingly undisturbed when her hand comes away from her mouth bloody. Shane feels her weakness through the force, he can feel her life draining away, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“There isn’t…enough time. They are coming,.” 

Sol’a touches Shane’s face. It’s a surprisingly natural gesture, considering Shane can count on one hand the number of times Sol’a has been affectionate. She’s a kind Master, a fair one, but this is different. Maternal. Shane feels his heart is tearing into pieces inside of him, 

“I am proud of you, my Padawan.” she says, using her thumb to wipe a tear away from his cheek, “...May the Force be with you.”

Shane shakes his head. He asks her to hold on. He doesn’t know how to go on without her. It doesn’t help. He watches the light leave her eyes anyway. He feels his master become one with the Force. It feels like losing a limb, it feels like his chest is caving in, it feels like he should scream or cry or something. But he doesn’t. 

He can sense the clones drawing near. Boots on metal, voices that once meant camaraderie and protection barking orders at one another to find and kill. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispers, his voice trembling and his eyes wet. He closes his Master’s eyes. He takes her lightsaber. It’s still warm from her touch, Shane swears he can feel the crystal inside crying out. He presses a kiss to her forehead, 

“May the Force be with you.”

Shane makes it to the escape pod. But it doesn’t really matter. 

His hands fly over the controls despite their trembling, despite the fresh blaster wound in his side, and despite his eye swelling shut. He straps himself in (somewhere Ilya is making fun of him for that, but Shane can’t think of Ilya right now. He can’t wonder if Ilya is okay or alive on the surface of Ryloth. If he does, he’ll stop moving, and he can’t do that.)

He launches. The escape pod hurtles through space and Shane shuts his eyes, willing himself not to pass out or throw up. His knuckles go white on the throttle. When he opens his eyes he can see Ryloth far, far below, and the Jedi cruiser jumping to light speed.

Ilya. Shane’s throat closes. How is he going to find Ilya? His darkest secret and his reason for living. His mind goes back without his permission, remembering their stolen kisses and empty promises. It wasn’t what Jedi did. But all Shane can think of is those eyes and that smile being lost forever, violently ended on the surface of the planet below him.

It’s impossible to feel Ilya in the Force. Even when Shane closes his eyes and breathes deep. There’s too much suffering, too much anguish and loss clouding everything. Shane presses his palms into his eyes. 

Be alive. Please, just be alive. 

He drifts. And drifts. And drifts.

He’s not sure how much time passes. The pod loses power. Shane is going to die out here, alone, staring at the planet where Ilya could be dead or dying and not being able to do anything about it. The air grows thin. And thinner. And thinner. 

This is a stupid way to die, he thinks, he’s a Jedi. He should have stayed on the cruiser and been gunned down with his Master. 

Shane drifts. His eyes slide shut, his breaths fog the air. And outside, in the cold dark of space, a tractor beam catches a small Jedi escape pod as it orbits Ryloth.

“You’re almost to your contact, bud.”

Shane nodded to himself, ducking through the crowd.

“Copy.” he answered, scanning the well dressed men and women in the ballroom. “Do we know who it is yet?”

Hayden was silent for a moment over the comms, Shane could hear the clicking of his keyboard,

“’ll look again, but whoever it is got pulled in at the last second. I’m a tough guy to replace, you know?”

Shane rolled his eyes. Hayden had been on desk duty for the last week, with his wife expecting their third child. He was happy for Hayden, honest, but he certainly wasn’t looking forward to pulling this mission off with a stranger.

“Yeah, I don’t have anything in yet.” Said Hayden, “But he should be there. Look at the bar. Code phrase is a go.”

“Copy.”

“You know you don’t have to say copy every time right? It makes you look like you’re wearing an earpiece.”

“Shut up.”

“Copy.”

Shane focused on the task at hand.

The bar was ornate, under a massive chandelier right in the center of the room and surrounded by rich guests all in varying states of drunkenness. Shane moved through them politely, doing his best not to draw attention to himself.

He scoped out the bar, eyes lingering on a couple of different suits who were nursing drinks. Businessmen, CEOs, and there, right in the middle of all of them…

“Oh you’re fucking kidding me.”

“What?” Hayden asked, “What is it? Do you need an extraction?”

Shane sighed,

“No. Not yet.”

Ilya Rozanov grinned at him from across the bar, raising a glass of something he absolutely shouldn’t be drinking towards Shane.

Anyone but him.

“Found my contact.” Shane muttered, watching Ilya down the rest of his glass and get up from his seat. He walked around the bar in no hurry, flashing that stupid perfect smile as he stepped around women in their dresses,

“Oh…wait.” Hayden said, “No way it’s 81–”

“It is.” Shane hissed, forcing himself to turn away from Rozanov and find his own seat at the bar, “Shut up.”

He ordered a ginger ale before Rozanov quietly slid into the seat beside him. Shane didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him, he just stared straight ahead and tried to get his pulse under control.

I can do this. I can fucking do this.

“So…” Rozanov tried, “...Is…nice to see you here.”

Shane didn’t say anything. Ten seconds. He was going to give himself ten more seconds and pray Hayden wasn’t listening too closely.

“Nice place.” Rozanov gestured to the chandelier, “Crazy fucking expensive I bet. Have you been to Prague before?”

Shane shook his head slowly. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep, long breath, and answered,

“I haven’t. But I finally got my passport last year.”

Rozanov nodded at the coded phrase. They didn’t need it, really. If there was one person Shane could never mistake in the entire agency, it was Ilya fucking Rozanov.

“So, we get to business?”

The bartender dropped off Shane’s can of ginger ale. Shane took it gratefully, drinking down the ice cold soda. It helped ground him, and quell the churning in his gut that had started the second Ilya’s eyes had met his.

“Oh so you drink on the job now?”

“It’s ginger ale, asshole.” Shane said, looking up at him, “And I saw you finish that vodka.”

Rozanov shrugged,

“Killing time. Waiting for you to show up.”

He looked…good. Better than the last time Shane had seen him, covered in soot and blood and sweat. He’d gotten broader since then too, his shoulders filling out his perfectly tailored suit, almost distracting from how brilliantly the black silk brought out his eyes. Almost.

Shane tore his gaze away as soon as he realized he was staring. But it was no use. Rozanov noticed. He always noticed. The silence between them hung on for just a second too long before, mercifully, Rozanov cleared his throat,

“I’m getting go ahead,” he tapped at his ear piece, “Is your guy ready?”

“35?” Shane asked, draining the last of his ginger ale, “Are we good?”

“Ready when you are.” Hayden chirped, “Just let us know when to cut the power.”

Shane put his drink down, and stood up from the bar,

“I think I need to go find the restroom.” he said, “Do you know where it is?”

Ilya smiled a little mischievously, like he always did before a mission got going,

“Let me show you!”

Shane gestured for Ilya to lead the way.

Shane always hated working at big parties like this. There were too many variables to keep track of, too many people, too many noises and smells and lights. His collar pressed uncomfortably into his neck, his skin damp with sweat under the ridiculous suit. If Ilya felt the same way, he didn’t show it. He thrived on missions like this. Always charming, always smooth-talking even if his first language wasn’t English. It pissed Shane off.

Hayden spoke in his ear,

“You guys in position yet?”

Shane peered over Ilya’s shoulder, at the restroom sign carefully integrated into the gilded decor.

“Almost.”

“Cool. I’m patching Vetrova in now–you and Rozanov should be able to talk to her and each other.”

Great. Now Rozanov could bother him even when they weren’t standing next to one another. With an audience.

“Good evening, Hollander.” Svetlana Vetrova.

. Level-headed, competent, beautiful, and very close with Rozanov. Shane didn’t want to begin unpacking how he felt about her, or imagine how she must feel about him.

Did she even know about him and Ilya?

“Good evening.” Shane responded politely, “Glad to have you.”

“Hm. He is nice, Ilyusha. Maybe you could learn to appreciate poor Svetlana from him?”

Ilya shrugged, “Maybe.”

He tugged the bathroom door open, beckoning Shane inside. Shane glanced over his shoulder, making sure no party guests' eyes were lingering on the two of them.

“Come on, Hollander, we do not have all night.”

The bathroom was just as nice as the rest of the building. Dim lights, black marble for the floors, walls, and ceiling. The mirror was inlaid with a dim light, making Ilya’s reflection golden and beautiful next to Shane’s.

They stared at each other for only a moment. God, they hadn’t been alone with each other since that whole mess with Rose–since before that. It wasn’t lost on Shane, and clearly it wasn’t lost on Rozanov either.

Ilya opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. He tilted his head towards the stall doors. Right. Shane gently pushed them open, Ilya doing the same at the far end of the bathroom, making sure they were empty.

“What the fuck is with black toilet paper?” Ilya leaned out of the last stall, holding up a roll of, yep, black toilet paper, “Rich people cannot handle seeing their own shit or what?”

Shane laughed a little, “Yeah, that’s weird."

“Are you in the clear?” Svetlana asked, “Or is there a listening device in the black toilet paper?”

Ilya snorted,

“No listening device. Hollander, lock the door.”

“That is weird.” Hayden said over the coms, while Shane turned the deadbolt to the bathroom door.

“Not important right now.”

“Hey, I’m ready when you are, pal.”

Ilya was in a stall, standing on top of a toilet seat. He smoothly pulled himself up on the stall wall and sat on the divider before he reached up for the vent.

“Let me get this open, Pike. Then you can kill power when we get to the target.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” Shane asked, leaning against the wall.

“No, but I bet you have blueprints memorized. It was my job to find us an access point.”

Shane sighed. Rozanov wasn’t wrong. He had memorized the layout of the building, ventilation system included, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to crawling through it.

The last of the bolts came loose, nearly sending the grate into Ilya’s face,

“Watch it!”

“It’s fine, I got it.” Ilya steadied the swinging metal, “Professional.”

He turned to Shane with his hand outstretched,

“Care to join me?”

Here goes nothing. Shane put a hand to his earpiece,

“35?”

“Here.”

“We’re entering the vents now. I’ll let you know when we’re above the vault.”

“Sounds good, Shane. Be careful, Vetrova and I are standing by.”

Shane clambered onto the toilet, awkwardly squeezing into the space between the divider and the ceiling next to Rozanov. He did not think about how close they were, or think about Rozanov watching him as he put his foot on the top of the divider and lifted himself into the dark vent.

Rozanov pulled himself in after. If it was a tight squeeze for Shane, it was almost impossible for Ilya. He felt a little bad. He hoped the guy wasn’t claustrophobic.

It was his idea to use the vents in the first place. But Shane couldn’t really fault him for that, and he certainly didn’t have a better idea.

“We’re in, Sveta.” Ilya said. He swung the grate closed behind them, and set on replacing one of the bolts to keep it shut.

“Copy. Tell me when you’re ready. And remember we can only keep the power down for ten minutes. Maybe a little less.”

“Understood.” Shane was already sweating. He undid the first couple of buttons on his collar.

“Okay, is closed. Let’s go.”

Shane dug around in his jacket pocket for his penlight. It wasn’t much, but it was better than feeling around in the dark.

“Right. It’s not far, I don’t think.”

It was far. Or maybe Shane just felt that way because he was hot and miserable, and covered in dust by the time they reached their destination.

Rozanov had been quiet, besides the occasional check in with Vetrova and Hayden. Shane was a little grateful for that. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, or for teasing.

“Okay, we’re here.”

Shane clicked off his light, and tucked it back into his jacket. In front of them was their exit, another vent. Shane could just barely see down into the room, enough to make out the laser alarm system and the shelves holding their target: weaponry microchips. Rows and rows of them, stolen and ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. He and Rozanov were here to make them useless.

Rozanov made quick work of the grate, while Shane anchored a grapple line in the vent walls. The laser alarm would be their main problem, criss–crossing through the entire room. Hence Vetrova and Hayden ready to kill the power to the entire building. If he and Ilya were lucky, they’d be long gone by the time it came back on.

Shane gave a tug on the line, ensuring it was secure.

“You have the equipment?”

Rozanov nodded, patting at his right pocket,

“You?”

Shane nodded. He took the grapple line in his hands, and braced his feet on the other side of the open vent.

“You there, 35?”

“Yep. Ready to go?”

Rozanov nodded again.

“Okay, cut the power.”

They plunged into darkness.

Shane wasted no time, Vetrova’s ten minute warning very present in his mind. His dress shoes hit the carpet silently, Rozanov right behind him,

“Not bad, Pike.”

“Be quiet. ” Shane hissed. He put his penlight between his teeth and went for the nearest row of microchips.

“So bossy, Hollander. We can work boring mission and also have a little fun. Will not kill us.”

Shane rolled his eyes. God, Rozanov still riled him up like no one else.

They worked quickly, using the equipment to interface with the microchips and burn them out one by one. It was tedious, but not slow going. Shane’s nose wrinkled as the room started to smell like burnt electronics.

“Time?” Ilya asked.

“Seven minutes left.” Vetrova answered, “But hurry. I do not think security is going to be occupied with the party guests much longer.”

“Copy.”

Shane fell into a rhythm. Attach the burner, activate for five seconds, turn it off, move to the next chip. They were almost done by the time Hayden gave them a five minute warning. Shane had one more case of the chips left.

Maybe he should see how far Rozanov was? He was making great time.

And Shane maybe should have known things were going too well. Because at minute four, Hayden and Vetrova came back over the coms.

“Guys.” Hayden said, “We might be losing the power grid sooner than later. You have a few minutes left, but you might wanna wrap things–”

“Blyat! Pike, get them out of there–Hollander, Ilya, get out of there, now!”

Fuck.

Shane shoved the burner back in his pocket. Ilya was already in motion behind him, slamming the final case of them shut. Shane got one hand on the grapple line–

The lights came back on. Him and Ilya looked at one another, frozen, showered in the red laser alarms.

And the room went white.

Shane clapped his hands over his head as ear–splitting alarms screamed through the air. The doors slammed open, Ilya darted towards Shane, maybe hopeful that they could still escape through the vents.

Security guards flooded the room, shouting in Czech and brandishing guns. Fuck. Okay, time to think fast. Hayden was shouting something in his ear that he couldn’t catch through the noise.

Shane’s focus narrowed to the door. He had a really stupid idea.

He grabbed Ilya by the arm and sprinted for it, getting in too close for the security guards to start shooting.

“Fuck, 24!”

Rozanov went with him, ducking blows as they crashed out into the hallway.

“Left!” Shane shouted, nearly losing his footing as they turned hard–the marble hallways were not ideal for giving chase. Neither were the stupid dress shoes or the stupid suit. Rozanov swore loudly in Russian. The grand staircase was swarming with security.

They ran in the opposite direction, back towards the secure rooms, Shane prayed that the close quarters would keep them from using those ugly looking guns.

He probably should have prayed harder.

Shots rang out through the hallway, making Shane’s ears ring and knocking marble dust down onto the two of them. Below, the party goers screamed.

“Right!” he told Ilya. If they were fast enough they could lose them, find another stupid vent to crawl into.

“Right again!”

They nearly collided with a trio of security right around the corner.

Rozanov moved first, throwing fists and shoving one into another. Shane squared up with the third, throwing a well-placed elbow right to his chin.

“Fucking American!”

That pissed him off. They grappled, Shane making sure to trade blows with the third guard every so often–checking that Ilya was still on his feet–

Shane pushed the guard backwards, shoving him back until his head met the marble wall with a satisfying crack. The guard went limp.

“I’m from Canada, asshole.” he panted, turning away to see Rozanov grappling with the first guard–while the third one poorly aimed a handgun–

“Rozanov!”

Shane moved without thinking, clamping down on the man’s wrists and on the gun, shoving the barrel down towards the marble floor as they fought for control.

Shane tried to headbutt the guard, the motion pushing them both across the floor.

A shot went off, the man hit Shane in the side hard. Shane got the gun, and hit him across the temple with it. The man crumpled.

Ilya.

The first guard was prone on the floor. Ilya stood over him, panting, his hands on his knees.

“Are you–”

Ilya gave him a thumbs up. For a millisecond, they caught their breath. Shane didn’t let himself think of the aches and bruises, and neither did Ilya. That was for later. After a moment, Rozanov straightened,

“Let’s–” his eyes caught on Shane, and dropped to his suit, “Fuck…Hollander, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m…” Shane looked down. Sure enough, there was blood–a lot of blood–seeping through his crisp white button down, “...Fuck…”

He pulled back his jacket, and suddenly Rozanov was on him, pulling him around the corner of the hallway as more boots passed by,

“We have to get out of here.” Ilya pulled him along, pushing them deeper into the building, “Emergency exit, something, Hollander. Where?”

Fuck if Shane knew. He tapped at his comm,

“35? 35 are you there? We–”

Rozanov pulled him into an alcove as a swarm of security guards ran past. The motion tugged at his ribs, where he thought he’d been punched or kicked, but had probably been shot.

“35? We–we might need an extraction. Are you there?”

“Signal is gone.” Ilya said, “I can’t talk to Svetlana either.” He looked out around the alcove, checking if the coast was clear, “Let me see.”

He let Rozanov lift up his shirt, gritting his teeth when it pulled at his side–his side, where he got shot. He was becoming more and more aware of the wound, the whole of his ribcage throbbing. If he’d really taken a bullet, he was fucked.

Rozanov pushed his jacket aside, mumbling an apology when Shane winced again. He looked scared. Shane didn’t want to think about why.

After a moment Ilya sighed in relief, “Is graze.” He wadded up some of Shane's shirt and pressed it over the wound. “Is deep, but graze. You will need stitches. Maybe broken rib.”

Shane nodded. A broken rib sounded right. Every breath he took ached and pulled at his side. Just a graze. Lucky, even if it did hurt like a bitch.

“Hold here.” Shane mechanically took over for Rozanov, keeping his hand on his wadded shirt and his bullet graze.

“Hollander, how do we get out of here?”

“Uh…” Shane closed his eyes, trying to remember the layout of this stupidly large building. They took two right turns to get here, that means they should be near the atrium. The plan was to climb the atrium walls while the power was still down.

“The atrium is further down the hall, to the left.”

“Atrium is not going to work.” Rozanov checked over his shoulder again, “You can’t climb. And it will be crawling with security by now.”

“Then you fucking figure it out.” Shane hissed.

“Fine.”

Ilya grabbed Shane by the bicep,

“Stay close.”

They ducked out into the hall. Shane would have been–should have been–paying attention to where they were going, but as they wound deeper into the building all he could focus on was staying upright. He wasn’t going to die, but he was still bleeding. His ribcage twinged with every step he took.

Ilya seemed to notice. He put his hand more firmly under Shane’s arm,

“Almost there.”

“Right.” Shane panted.

Footsteps thundered behind them, Rozanov quickened their pace. They turned the corner just in time. He really hoped he knew where they were going.

Ilya stilled for a moment, pressing at his comm with his free hand,

“Svetka?”

Static crackled in Shane’s ear,

"--24? It’s 35, do you read?”

Shane smiled, but judging from the look Ilya gave him it might’ve been more of a grimace. He swallowed,

“We’re here, 35. A little banged up. We might need an extraction.”

“Hm, Did Illyushka break his beautiful face? I tell him to be more careful.”

Rozanov started moving again, still keeping that steady hand on Shane’s arm.

“No, my face is fine. Hollander decided to do bullet catch.”

“What? Shane, are you–”

“It’s just a graze.” Shane said, rolling his eyes, “Rozanov thinks he’s funny.”

“He is still bleeding.”

“Not bleeding out.” Shane choked back a yelp as they narrowly avoided more security.

“That’s…not good, Vetrova.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What is it?” Shane asked. They seemed to be moving towards an exit now, a small back door and a window to an employee parking lot.

“You…will have to lay low for a few days. Maybe a week or two before we can get to you.”

That didn’t bode well with his ribs all fucked up. Rozanov stiffened next to him,

“Is safe house compromised?”

“Not that we know of.” Svetlana answered, “You can lay low there. Should be medical supplies as well.”

Rozanov pushed open the door. It was almost funny how anti-climactic their exit was. No security, no partiers. Just a group of women off in the bushes holding one girl’s hair while she threw up. Shane was grateful for the cover of darkness.

“Car is this way. Not far.”

Shane nodded, or at least he thought he did. His head felt like a bowling ball, his pulse rapid and pounding in his neck.

“Stay awake, Hollander.”

Shane startled. He was sitting down all of the sudden, it took him too long to realize he was in a car. Was he driving? He was on the driver’s side–

No. Prague. Ilya. Ilya?

“Yes I am here. Stay awake and hold pressure on your side, Hollander.”

“Awake.”

“Buddy?” Hayden said in his ear, “How are we doing?”

“Good.” Shane thought he said it. He was sure he did, but things were starting to blur together; the night and the chill and his own racing heartbeat. How much blood had he lost?

Before he knew it, Rozanov was shaking him awake, those stupidly beautiful eyes staring right through his soul.

‘We are at safe house,” he said. Was Shane imagining the hand on his face? Or Ilya’s thumb tracing the skin under his eye back and forth? “You have to get up, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes wandered to the building above them. What had Vetrova said? A week? Two? Maybe…bullet graze aside…he could get used to this. To having Rozanov close, where he could see him and touch him and know he was okay.

“Shane?”

“M’here.” Shane slurred, taking Ilya’s offered hand out of the car. Getting upright was a challenge, staying upright was even harder. But Ilya was there. To anyone else they looked like they were coming home from a drunken night out.

The building was nearly deserted. By the time Shane and Ilya made it to the third floor it was nearly three in the morning. The safehouse–a tidy little apartment stocked with agency–approved furniture and supplies–was startlingly quiet.

Ilya locked the door behind them, letting Shane stand on his own for a second. He felt like a piece of tissue paper. He was freezing.

“Hollander.”

Shane blinked hard. Had Rozanov said something?

“What?”

“I said you need to sit down–Hollander!”

Ilya lunged for him when his knees buckled, but Shane was faster. He caught himself on the back of the couch, twinging his side horribly on the way down to the floor.

“Fuck.” he breathed, and tried to blink away the black dots swarming his vision, “Fuck, sorry…I’m good.”

“Is okay.” When did Ilya get so close? “Let’s get you on the couch. More comfortable, yes? I don’t know why you decided on floor.”

“Asshole” Shane said, with no real bite to it. He let Rozanov help him up, and sit him down on the agency–issued slightly uncomfortable couch. Ilya fixed him with a look.

“Wait here. I’ll be back with first aid from the bathroom.”

Shane cracked a smile, “Where am I gonna go?”

“Oh who is the asshole now?”

“Still you.”

Ilya hummed, his eyes lingering for just a second too long before he left Shane on the couch. Shane tilted his head back. A week. Maybe even two weeks. It was his worst nightmare and everything he wanted wrapped up in one. Well, and a bullet graze for his troubles.

He let his eyes slip closed. Too much to think about. He’d have plenty of time for it in the morning, after Ilya stitched him up, and he got some damn sleep.