Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Hi, Dima!" Sofie sing-songed as Ilya arrived, gym bag over his shoulder. He kept nothing at the club. Locks could too easily be picked.

"Hello, pretty woman," Ilya sing-songed right back. "Why are you even here tonight?"

"Georgie wants to take piano lessons," Sofie said brightly. "So when they said they needed bodies tonight, I figured I'd come in and get some piano money."

"You are a good mama," Ilya praised and Sofie preened.

"I know, right? I'll tell you that's not what my mother would've done if I wanted to learn anything."

"Babes!" The siren cry of Molly cut through the slowly filling dressing room. "You will not believe what happened! Do you know why we're short tonight?"

"Blow or blowjobs," Ilya muttered and Sofie stifled a laugh. Then louder he said, "What is it?"

The carrier of all gossip, Molly alighted between them, eyes wide with knowledge.

"You know the bartender? The one with a jaw that can cut glass?"

"Troy," Ilya supplied. The man was interesting, but ultimately unimportant in Ilya's plans.

"Yes, Troy!" Molly bounced eagerly, her tits already strapped into tonight's costume, but still managing to bobble around hypnotically. "He ran off with a customer."

"Ran off? Was he in prison?" Sofie snorted. "Molly, honestly, he's not even a dancer. He can just quit and walk off the job, no running required. Which customer? Had to be someone with cash, right? Was it Mr. Sweaty Face? Would absolutely love if he took him off our hands."

"No! It was that nice one with the beard."

"Harris?" Ilya asked, face expressionless as his house of cards collapsed.

"That's the one!"

Ilya picked up his makeup bag. "Too bad. He was a good tipper."

Molly kept talking as Ilya put on the makeup that kept his face from washing out under the lights.

"Are you okay?" Sofie asked when Molly went to go tell Talia and Shawna the news with equal verve.

"Only tired," he said.

"You're too young to be tired," she said without malice as she put on enough paint to hide the faint signs of her own age. "Maybe you need to find a sugar daddy like Troy and run off with him."

"That would be nice," Ilya said and gave a little laugh.

Already he was recalculating rapidly. He was tired. After years of loving his job, the joy had started to leech away. No score was enough, no new mask comfortable. Instead of sliding in and out like a chameleon, he was getting stuck here. Entrenched.

The promise Ilya had made himself and, more critically, to Sveta was that this was the last time. All his goals were in reach. The target was easy. Soft in every way. Drover had a sweetness to him, a melancholy that made him easy to woo. A few more dances, a kiss, a whisper and Ilya would be exactly where he needed to be.

And now Harris was gone, snatched up by the hot bartender. Ilya couldn't even be angry with either of them. Harris liked Ilya in the champagne room, but he was not one of those customers that made promises. Troy was a lonely heart, who desperately needed someone to take care of him. They'd probably be happy together, at least for awhile.

Ilya was getting soft. It was a very big fucking problem.

"What is the order tonight?"

"You're on second," Sofie said. "I'm fifth. Did you want to switch? See if your spender comes in?"

That was it. Plan B.

The Spender. It was risky. Very very risky. Ilya had been holding him in reserve. An idle plan. But he had done no real research. Maybe because- no. No use thinking about it now.

"Yes, thank you," Ilya said.

If The Spender didn't come in then Ilya would forget about it, he decided. He would accept the loss of Harris and wait for the next likely target. For one last time, he could be patient.

Even if the makeup made him itch tonight. Even if the costume no longer amused him. It had been fun becoming Dima Popov, daytime college student, nighttime exotic dancer. Ilya had liked painting on the leather pants, the sheer shirts and their tantalizing over layers. It was certainly more fun than being Igor Vasiliy, construction worker, and much much more interesting than being Boris Sergei, security guard. Dima could be a little flamboyant at least and the flirting was part of the appeal. It had made sense when he arrived in Montreal to try something entirely new.

But like everything else, the varnish had eventually worn away. The added spice of wandering hands had become an annoyance. Six months was too long. It was time.

So Ilya wasn't too upset when the confirmation rippled through the dressing room. The Spender was here. No one else was that excited, except for Ilya. They knew when Ilya had a good night, he shared it around a little in the form of a round of drinks. Unlike the handful of other male dancers, who tried to pretend they were above or, at least, separate from the women.

The co-ed club was unusual and fashionable right now. It was part of what had led Ilya to craft Dima in the first place after a chance visit while he got the lay of the city under his feet.

Now, Ilya's big spender was here. Ilya would close things in, do the job, and say goodbye to all of it.

The Spender was good at keeping his face neutral. It was hard to get a hold of what exactly he liked, but Ilya had had a dozen or so nights to make some observations. He chose a song without a pulsing beat, something you would fuck to on a quiet romantic night. With a gesture Ilya got the DJ to cut out the strobe lights . When Ilya strut out, he didn't look for The Spender right away. He didn't even scan the crowd. Instead, he went right for the pole, taking a running leap, grabbing it high up and walking himself up the rest as if it took no effort at all.

When he was high enough, he locked his thighs around the pole, then fell backward as if struck, hanging loose and easy. Only then did he find The Spender and make eye contact.

Tonight, the broad shoulders and trim waist were swamped in the usual gray hoodie. The pretty doe brown eyes were heavy-lidded, skittering away from Ilya's attempts at eye contact. Nothing about The Spender suggested money unless you knew where to look. The hoodie was simple, but devastatingly expensive, one of those designer items hiding in plain sight. It was pulled down practically over The Spender's hands as he if he didn't want the world to even accidentally touch him. Ilya knew there was a Rolex worth more than the whole club hidden beneath. Likely The Spender was wearing his black sneakers, easy to slide the eyes over unless you really knew your brands.

All The Spender's plain simple things added up to thousands of dollars of clothes that were treated like ordinary items.

Then there was the man himself. His haircut was unremarkable, but always sharply trimmed. His eyebrows were kept in a way that took effort, his nails always perfectly squared and manicured (never polished), and his skin was flawless. What little Ilya had seen beneath the swamping clothes was hard as a rock, muscle ruthlessly maintained.

A man with means and the leisure time to polish himself into a high gloss. He also had no discernible smell, detergent to shampoo to deodorant apparently scent-free.

Then there was the tipping that earned him the nickname. The Spender lavished money on Ilya, dropping tip money on him that he usually couldn't earn in a week. Cash too, never a card.

A mystery of a man that Ilya had been picking at for weeks and now regarded upside down with a saucy smirk. When The Spender met his gaze for a brief second, Ilya winked at him, grabbed the pole behind him and released his legs, pushing off to land on his feet. The other attendees were mostly ignoring him. Men came here to pretend they only cared about the women. That was fine. Ilya knew who was watching.

For The Spender, Ilya put on a certain kind of show. He made sure his athleticism showed in every removed piece of clothing.

See how I can hold this position effortlessly as I remove this useless shirt? Watch me do a one-handed push up and then a backwards bend that strains these pants as I run my hands down my thighs.

Keep your eyes right where I want them as the pants come away. Enjoy the jockstrap, a tease just for you. And as I leave, keep your eyes on my ass as I saunter away or follow up my spine to the width of my shoulders.

The key to any good trick: make them look in the wrong place.

"Dima!" The manager called not five minutes later. "You've got a champagne room request. The same guy from last week."

"Tell him five minutes," Ilya said, pleased. The Spender was predictable. He never waited for Ilya to get back on stage. He never stayed after his private dance. Ilya went on stage, he gave The Spender a private dance, he got his cash, and then they could both leave for the evening in their different directions.

Tonight, things would change.

Usually for private dances, 'Dima' would show up in the same outfit he'd had on the stage. Most men didn't care as long as it all wound up on the floor. For The Spender, especially for tonight, Ilya changed. He discarded everything he'd had on ruthlessly and slid into silky black shorts and a black tank top. Instead of the jock strap, there were white underwear made of material so thin as to be see-through. The kind of thing that even in the dim light of the champagne room showed Ilya's hard-won body off to best effect.

The customers came in to the champagne room through a thick curtain. The dancers had a door with a peep hole. You never wanted to be there when they arrived. You wanted an entrance.

The Spender knew where the peephole was. It was one of the first things that had made him interesting to Ilya. From the very first night, as The Spender had uncomfortable paced the room, his eyes had gone right to the tiny glass dot and stared it down. Ilya had taken a step back even though he knew there was no way The Spender could be seen through the fisheye. It had just startled him to be so abruptly nailed.

So tonight, Ilya didn't bother gazing through it. He only glanced, a quick assurance that The Spender was sitting in the dead center of the pleather couch, same as always. There was only a glass of water on the spindly table. No drinking for this man. He only came to Ilya with a clear head which was another interesting twist.

Ilya opened the door and stepped inside.

The immediate heat of The Spender's regard fell on him. The quick darting looks of a man who denied himself so many pleasures, he no longer knew how to take them. Ilya crossed the floor like a hungry lion, but he stopped a little short, just out of reach. He cocked his hip and raked his eyes down The Spender in turn.

"You came back," Ilya said in Dima's voice. He was a little lighter as Dima, a little more obviously queer. "I was hoping you would."

"It's Thursday," The Spender intoned. Did that voice fool people into thinking the man was a blank neutral? Ilya would guess that it did.

"It is," Dima agreed easily. "You want a dance?"

A nod, no eye contact. The Spender's hands went flat against the couch on either side of him. The very first time, Ilya had explained the no touching rule that had been The Spender's immediate reaction. Endearing and ridiculous. From then on, Ilya had tried everything in his power to get The Spender to break that rule. He never had. The rules, it seemed, were part of the pleasure.

So Dima had playfully (and Ilya very seriously) implemented other rules. For one, Dima was definitely allowed to touch. For another, it would be very embarrassing if a customer was to come from all that touching. The dance would have to be cut short, obviously.

It was so fucking fun to tease this doe-eyed man with his finely-manicured hands.

Tonight though, Ilya didn't bother with the preamble of reminding The Spender of the rules.

"You're always so good," he purred instead. "We can just start so we don't waste any of your time."

Even that small change in routine put tension into the pretty face, so Ilya started the music and kept things more regular for awhile. He always started dancing without touching, at least a minute or two to ease them both into it. The no touching was actually a club rule, but it was a rule enforced so lazily as to be utterly useless.

For The Spender, Ilya pretended it was true for a little while.

When The Spender was relaxed again, Ilya leaned down to plant his hands on The Spender's knees. "Do you want me in your lap, pretty man?"

"Not pretty." The same protest every time.

"Mmm, you are to me," Ilya said. "Yes or no?"

"Yes." The consent was also a plea. Not in the voice, not in the face, but in the way The Spender bent to him like a flower reaching for the sun.

Ilya straddled his thighs and leaned back to grab the edge of the couch, then did the kind of body roll that had gotten him laid a hundred times. His chest strained the too-tight tank top.

"Do I leave this on?" he teased a hand under one strap. "I'm not sure you want me so naked when you are not allowed to touch."

"Take it off, please." The request was whisper-thin, but Ilya didn't make him say it louder this time. He pulled off his top.

"If you could, would you get your mouth on me?" Ilya wondered aloud. "Put your pretty mouth on my tits and suck?"

"Yes."

Short, declarative, needy and wanting. Ilya could've had him weeks ago. Why had he waited? Why did it come to this now?

"I know you would be sweet, mm? Treat me nice?" Ilya ran his hands over the tiny shorts. "These too?"

A frantic nod.

"You know, I am so tired," Ilya slid back off his lap. "I do not want to do this myself."

A new game. The Spender was tense again, but in the good way. Trying to figure out what Ilya wanted. He'd put him out of his misery.

"You cannot touch me," Ilya reminded him, "but you can touch my clothes."

With a sharp inhalation, the mission had been set. Deft, long fingers were pried off the couch and reached out. They hovered, deciding the best course of action, before wisely seizing not on the waistband, but on the looser bottom part of the shorts. Without so much as grazing a knuckle against Ilya's legs, The Spender pulled Ilya's shorts off so quickly that Ilya automatically stepped out of them before processing it.

That had been deft. Easy. The Spender had a flicker of a smile on now, even as he devoured the sight before him.

"What about these?" Ilya outlined his dick with his hands obscenely in the white underwear. "This would be too hard for you, I think. That's why I bought these, you know. So you could see even when you cannot touch."

"For me?" The Spender asked in confusion.

"Mmhm. Just you." Which was true. Ilya had ran his hand over the fabric in the store and put them in his bag without much thought abut when he would deploy them, "I do not let everyone see so much."

"Don't you?" The Spender frowned, but his eyes were locked with Ilya's crotch. Where Ilya was maybe starting to get a little hard. So what? A hot guy, a dark room and some interest were enough for a lot of people.

"No, pretty man. You get all my best things."

"I can get them off."

The declaration was as firm as those doe eyes were soft. An iron certainty.

"They are painted on," Ilya laughed. "You cannot do this without touching me. And if you touch me, I must leave."

The threat was toothless tonight, but The Spender didn't know that.

Without any further boasting, quick fingers were on the seams, pinching fine fabric without any contact and with only that small hold, Ilya watched in fascination as his underwear was actually draw down his legs without snagging on his rapidly interested cock. When the tiny scrap of white was pooled on the floor, Ilya kicked them away without moving his regard from The Spender's very pleased face.

"You have very good hands," Ilya said.

"Thanks," The Spender said. "You have good…everything."

Ilya had never been naked in this room before. It was not technically allowed and he'd had no desire to be. Now he relished it, running his hands slowly down his chest and over his own hips again, drawing attention down. He wanted this man to look. Not only for what needed doing either.

A problem. This was why The Spender had never been a target in the first place. Ilya didn't like to mix business with pleasure.

"Lean back and let me show you what your good hands get you," Ilya said.

It was amazing The Spender didn't crack his head against the wall he went back so fast. Straddling his lap again, Ilya rested his hands on broad strong shoulders. Muscle through and through. He gave his best lap dance to date, slow, sensual, and heated.

When The Spender's pupils were totally blown and his breathing had gone ragged, Ilya knew he had him. He leaned and whispered into the perfect shell of The Spender's ear: "The rules are only for this room, you know. I get off in an hour if you want to have me without them."

Instead of excitement or the pounce that Ilya had been certain was coming, the body below him went stiff.

"No." The word was firm. Crushing. The kind of 'no' that had no crack for Ilya to wiggle through.

Ilya pulled back with a frown that was genuine. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you're- no. It stays here," The Spender said. "You have to stay here."

"It is a job, I do go home," Ilya said pretending not to fully understand.

But he could see his miscalculation now. He had assumed that The Spender was some kind of closeted. He had not realized it was so far in the closet that even the suggestion of something outside this place was too much.

"I can't- please get off me."

Ilya stood, heart racing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He had screwed this up and now he was going to have to do things he didn't want to do. This could've been far easier and more fun for both of them.

As he stood, he ghosted his hand over The Spender's pockets. He stood over his clothes with a sullen air, using the pretend pouting to cover some very real panic.

The Spender got to his feet and bolted towards the door like Ilya had tried to assault him. He stopped though, hand on the knob. He glanced back and muttered, "I'll still tip you."

Then disappeared.

The tip was usually tucked in Ilya's underwear, a final tease before goodbye. It would apparently be left elsewhere tonight. Great. Fuck.

Ilya fished out the wallet he'd lifted out of The Spender's pocket and tucked between the cushions. He would have to get his intel from there. None of this would be as clean as he wanted.

Opening the incredibly soft leather wallet, Ilya fished around for an ID. Then for a credit card. Then for a fucking library card. There was nothing. Only far more cash than one person should carry around with them and the business card for a dental office. That was it. Not even loose change.

Shit. Ilya had seconds. He threw his skimpy outfit back on and dashed back out across the floor. The Spender was trying to get someone's attention at the swamped bar. Ilya avoided a few reaching hands to get to him.

Ilya didn't know The Spender's name and even if he did, he wouldn't call it out across the club. Instead he got close enough to touch his elbow, startling him again. The man was a bundle of nerves.

"This was on the couch," Ilya said, extending the wallet to him. He poured himself into acting as silly and innocent as Dima was with every other customer. "I am sorry that I upset you so much."

"Thanks," The Spender said hoarsely, taking the wallet with no apparent concern. Why would he care? There was nothing worth losing it aside from the cash which apparently he could easily part with. "Don't apologize. I'm sorry. I have to- here."

All of the cash came out of the wallet and went into Ilya's hand.

"This is too much," Ilya said automatically in Dima's voice.

"It's not. I- yeah. Bye."

Ilya waited only until The Spender was sure the man wasn't looking back. Then he took off. He might only have one chance at this. He muttered something about bad food to Sofie, who gave him a sympathetic look as he dashed through, grabbing his duffel bag and heading for his car.

The car was a piece of shit, but that was fine. It was temporary. Right now, Ilya needed it to go only fast enough to keep up with one nervy customer. It would've been better if Ilya had paused to put on his shoes, but there was no fucking time.

He knew what it looked like when someone was leaving and would never coming back. He couldn't afford to lose this tail.

Apparently The Spender drove a bland Range Rover, probably secretly outfitted with every expensive aftermarket touch inside. It would be the car equivalent of his designer hoodies. Ilya waited for him to pull out onto the street before pulling out himself. It was late enough that Ilya had to keep a lot of distance between them to avoid being spotted.

It became more of a problem as they left the city behind. Ilya had been counting on the predictable complications of an apartment building. Houses presented so many variables. Though it did mean no guessing about the right unit which was helpful.

It would've been so much easier to have been brought inside willingly. That had been the plan with Harris. That had been the whole stripper plan in general. Beguile his way into a rich man's home, fuck him so good he passed out, then case the place quickly and efficiently. Safe cracking was one of Ilya's best skills and that was his favorite place to lift from. People didn't think to check safes unless other things went missing first.

Construction had gotten him into a dozen buildings before the heat had started to singe him. Security had let him check a thousand IDs, memorizing the locations of every rich douchebag who looked at him wrong until he was almost caught on his way out. Carrying a clipboard and a generic named company's work shirt had let him slide through several office buildings undetected. There had even been a very ridiculous stint as a temp at a law firm where he'd almost gotten fired before he could get what was needed.

The stripping was the first time that the cover job also paid well with cash. Ilya's stockpile had grown as he waited for his mark. The last of the gems from the construction era had been fenced. He was so close to the right number now.

He had promised Sveta that he was nearly done.

Just one more job. Just The Spender left to write in then cross off on his list. If only the man had been relaxed enough to take him home. Ilya would've had a fun night and taken things that could've been easily replenished and replaced. Enough for Ilya and Sveta to live off. Maybe a little embarrassment for The Spender if he ever figured out who ripped him off, but he would have had a good, if expensive, night too. No real losers, wins all around.

Instead they were doing it this way, but the results would be the same. Get in, get out with the goods.

And then…and then. Ilya would have to get a real life. Open the dog shelter he had said he would for years. Apply properly for citizenship and keep his fingers out of other people's pockets. Transmute himself somehow into something palatable and safe. He could finally relax the ever present tension in his shoulders. Sveta's college debt settled, she could have the life she wanted. They would be free.

Finally truly free with Ilya's father in the ground and Russia dead to him. Free in the way only a man without a past could be.

Ilya turned when The Spender turned and followed him into a cluster of huge homes. Of course, this was where the money went! The Spender poured it into some extraordinary house which likely had excellent security. That was fine. Ilya was great at circumnavigating security systems.

He fell back even further, careful to stay only just in view of the tail lights. Instead of pulling into a driveway, The Spender parked under a few trees with low hanging branches. Bemused, Ilya turned into a driveway himself to defer suspicion, careful to pick a house that had no lights on. Ilya pulled his track pants and a hoodie out of his bag, in case someone did call the cops on him, they would be hard pressed to describe him. He was pulling on his sneakers when The Spender got out of the car.

The Spender didn't head towards a house right away. Instead, he stood, still and quiet in shadows the tree branches cast. If Ilya hadn't been staring right at him, he would've lost him entirely. What was he doing? Taking in the night air?

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only five minutes, The Spender moved. He stayed along the treeline and walked away from Ilya's spot.

Cursing, Ilya got out of the car and didn't close the car door all the way to avoid the noise. The treeline was a good idea, so Ilya followed it too, walking with the light step he had perfected in his teen years when making noise at night had been as dangerous as drinking poison.

For a moment when he reached the end of the trees, Ilya was certain he had lost track of The Spender. He scanned the area desperately then finally made him out approaching a massive house. Not up the driveway or the front path, but going around the side.

The Spender must have a wife he was trying to hide from. That would explain everything. The cash without ID, the fear when Ilya had suggested coming home with him.

Now that Ilya had chased him back to his house, Ilya could go back to his car and start his own long wait for everyone to leave in the morning. That was the practical move. Except that in a neighborhood like this, a shitty car not moving would raise a lot of suspicion. Ilya wavered.

It would be good at least try to scope out the security system, if nothing else. Maybe if the getting in was good, he'd take the risk tonight to avoid the tangle of problems the sun could bring.

On cat feet, Ilya followed The Spender, sticking to the darkest parts of the lawn. He heard a sliding door open. No alarm. Had The Spender disarmed it before leaving so the wife wouldn't be alerted he was headed out or coming back in? Or maybe they were the kind of family so secure in their wealth that they forgot other people coveted it.

Ilya slid around the house and kept his ears pricked for the little digital sounds of a keypad. Nothing. So The Spender hadn't armed the system either. Interesting.

Even more interesting, the sliding door had been left open. Not by much, only a tiny crack.

The Spender hadn't turned the lights on. He must be hoping to sneak all way back into bed. In general, Ilya didn't care about other people's marriages, but this whole charade seemed particularly sad to him.

Ilya watched The Spender walk through a dark room and then around the corner, then the faintest creak that suggested stairs.

Now Ilya should leave. He could see the keypad for the security system, memorized the brand. It was one he was familiar with and could easily handle. It was time to leave.

Yet his fingertips tingled. Some part of him had noticed something, an instinct that he trusted implicitly. He scanned again, trying to figure out what had caught his attention.

There! The picture above the fireplace in the living room, shrouded in shadows. It was hard to make out like this, but it was definitely a family portrait, blown up comically large. Mother, father, two teenage kids. Everyone smiling, their white teeth illuminated even in the dark.

White teeth and white skin and blond hair.

Not a hint of the lovely sandy skin tone of the man Ilya had oozed over forty minutes ago.

There was no wife. The Spender wasn't a married man. He was something far more interesting: an interloper. Maybe even a competitor?

Ilya slid the door open very very quietly and only wide enough slot himself through. He moved soundlessly through the living room and turned the corner. It was hard to be silent on stairs, but Ilya could manage. A new plan fell into place. He would take his competitor by surprise, then demand a cut of his take. Or maybe see if he was amenable to a partnership for a job or two. Clearly The Spender knew how to pick good targets or he wouldn't have the kind of watch Ilya would have to sell an organ for.

With his breath held, Ilya tested the banister and found it sturdy. He put his weight on it and ghosted up the stairs.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Ilya's eyes had adjusted to the dark. He paused, listening and then caught the faint shadow of movement as a door in the hall hung a little more ajar than the others. Moving painfully slowly, Ilya reached that inviting opening and peered through.

Then froze in his tracks.

The Spender stood over a bed. An occupied bed. Someone slumbered beneath the comforter. Ilya stifled a sharp inhalation. This was all wrong. He had miscalculated tremendously. Whatever was happening here was something else all together. Maybe an affair? Please be an affair.

But instead of waking the person the bed, The Spender reached into his hoodie pocket. The dull sheen of metal was impossible to misinterpret.

In one smooth movement, The Spender took aim and fired. The sound was not as loud as Ilya braced himself for. It was a dull thunk of a sound. Once. Twice. Three times. The beating of Ilya's heart in his ears was far louder than the gunshots.

He had to move. He had to run.

The Spender sighed, then he turned unerringly towards Ilya like he had all those months ago to stare down the peephole. He asked with the same flat voice he used to tell 'Dima' that he understood the rules: "You're going to be a pain in the ass, aren't you?"

That got Ilya to run. No longer so concerned with silence, he sprinted with all the speed of someone who had known their whole life how important it was to stay ahead of danger. No one had been able to catch him. Not his father, not his brother, not the politsiya, not the drug cartel he'd accidentally pissed off in Boston or the gang in Toronto. Ilya had been running his entire life. Not even his own grief had caught him yet.

So he was sure he was in the clear as he made it out the sliding glass door.

That was when two hundred pounds of muscle impacted with him and he slammed down to the ground with only enough time to shield his head from the worst of the impact.

"If you wanted a full contact night, I did try to offer. Now you want for free?" Ilya hissed out, his brain apparently defaulting to chirping under stress even after all these years.

"Shut up," came the sharp command and Ilya, despite himself, went silent. "Fuck. I knew you were a thief, I didn't know you were a stupid one."

"I am not a thief," Ilya said though which part he was denying, he couldn't say.

"I've seen your warrants," The Spender scoffed, changing his hand hold as Ilya squirmed under him.

Taking that as an opening, Ilya bucked back hard, unseating his aggressor and scrambling to get away.

Or that's what he attempted to do. Instead, an arm locked around his neck, the muzzle of the gun pressed to his spine.

"Stay down, Rozanov."

Whatever fear Ilya had managed to hold at bay crashed over like a tsunami.

"How do you know that name?"

The Spender ignored the question. "You have made this so fucking complicated."

All at once, Ilya was back on his feet. He was not a small man. In fact, he was reasonably sure he out massed The Spender. It didn't seem to matter, The Spender could haul him around easily aided by the threat of the gun.

I'm so sorry, Sveta, Ilya sent the thought into the night air. She was on all his accounts at least. When he didn't pick up the phone and she came to look for him, she would find his place clearly not intentionally abandoned. She would mourn him, but she would have everything he'd tucked away for her. It wasn't enough to change her life, but it would at least make it a little easier.

Maybe it was for the better. Ilya had never really been sure how he would live on the other side. Maybe he always would've wound up here eventually. Better now before it stained her life too.

"You're going to walk here the same way you walked in," the flat voice informed him. "You will get into the passenger side of the car. You will not scream and you will not run. If you try to get anyone's attention, I will shoot you and then put you in the trunk instead."

Ilya believed him. Where was the man who had followed the 'no touching' rule with such exacting attention? Had that been an act?

No. Ilya was almost sure it hadn't been. People had layers. This was what lay beneath the trembling want. A bedrock of unfeeling certainty.

Ilya walked to the car. He had jumped from a moving car once before. He could do it again if he had to. The gun was held on him the whole time as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"Buckle up."

Ilya gave his new captor a baffled look. "Why?"

There was a brief flit of annoyance over that calm face. "Do you want to go through the windshield?"

"Is that better or worse than the trunk?" Ilya asked bitterly, but he buckled his seatbelt.

The gun stayed visible as the shadow crossed over the hood of the car and the driver's side door opened.

"I'm going to drive. You're going to stay where you are. I don't need to have the gun trained on you to shoot you before you make a move."

It was not a brag. It was a statement of fact.

As they pulled away from the curb, Ilya took the chance of running his finger over the door lock. Just to test. Only he found nothing. The lock had been removed as had the handle.

"Are you a serial killer?" Ilya asked, incredulously. What were the fucking odds of that? It would be just his luck.

"That depends on how you're defining it." Unconcerned. Calm. "If you go by the textbook definition, then yes. But I don't fit into the general categorization. I'm doing it for money, not power or because it does something for me sexually."

Someone bland, but expensive. A pretty man with muscle hidden under his clothes. A man who only carried cash and a single business card.

"You are a hit man?" Ilya asked incredulously.

"I prefer 'fixer."

The sound Ilya made was not exactly a laugh, but it wasn't not one either.

"This is very nice word for killing people."

"I don't just kill people," The Spender said as if that was a practical response. "I make problems go away."

"And I am a problem," Ilya realized.

"Not exactly. You're a complication."

That seemed mildly better, but not by much. "What does this mean?"

"It means we have to talk. I missed dinner. So we'll eat and talk and if it goes well, then there's no problem."

"Okay," Ilya said. Because what the fuck else was he going to do? They were going fast enough that trying to attack his abductor would mean endangering himself too.

His phone was still in his pocket, but there was no way he could get it out and text without attracting knowledge. Maybe he could do that thing with the buttons that called emergency services, but then what? Would this efficient murderer simply let Ilya walk out into the custody of the police?

Not to mention if they checked Ilya's ID, 'Dima' would be quickly proven as an alias which would cause a chain of new problems.

Fuck.

They drove in silence even further away from the city. The spaces between the houses got further and further. Then there was abrupt turn up a small unpaved road.

"You have a murder house," Ilya determined.

"No. It's just a regular house. I don't kill people at home. Too risky."

He was being taken to this man's actual house?

Though as it crested over the hill, calling it a house quickly seemed like an understatement. It was a gorgeous enormous spread of windows and wood, overlooking a lake. The kind of place they'd put on a television show about finding your perfect home.

It was also very isolated. He had to sit in his seat and wait for him to come around to open the door like a sick parody of chivalry.

"Come on, let's get inside. You don't have a coat and it's cold."

Ilya slid out of the car. He watched what pocket the man put his keys in.

"I was not expecting to be outside," Ilya said crisply. "Do you have a name?"

That put a hitch in his abductor's stride. "You can call me Hollander."

Hollander. A last name? A code name? It didn't sound made up on the spot, but that didn't mean much. Any kind of name was better than nothing. Calling him a cute customer nickname felt all wrong now. Ilya followed Hollander up the steps into the house. There was a lock on the door and no other discernible security system. When they stepped inside, Hollander turned on the lights, revealing an equally attractive interior. It even smelled good.

No security system had been visibly disarmed.

Ilya frowned. Maybe it was something newer and more sophisticated. Bluetooth activated maybe? He glanced at the huge windows and saw not one sensor, even a pinpoint small one. When he turned back to the door, nothing.

"What are you looking for?" Hollander asked with a faint hint of amusement.

"Where is your security?" Ilya demanded.

Hollander waved the gun at him a little.

"But when you are not home?"

"Oh, it's a pretty safe area and I'm kind of far out here. I don't worry about it," Hollander said, taking off his shoes.

Fucking terrifying.

Ilya would've liked to keep his shoes on. Running without them was harder. Then again, he was quieter on his bare feet. Also, he didn't want to be shot because he'd tracked mud into the house. He took off his shoes and put them beside Hollander's on the shoe rack. There were practical winter boots there and a pair of flip-flops.

"You must have enemies."

"Not really," Hollander said and gestured Ilya ahead of him. "Kitchen is around the corner."

"You work for bad people. Even if you do not, somehow, then they might attack you, yes?"

"They've tried," Hollander agreed. "They haven't had much luck."

"And thieves?" Ilya asked, moving deeper into the house.

The kitchen was ,well-appointed and clean. It was a bit of an open concept with the living room nestled alongside the kitchen, sunk down a few steps. Very spacious, very pretty, very expensive. Very normal.

"You're the first one to make it this far," Hollander said wryly. "I'm just going to reheat some chicken, rice and mashed turnips. You hungry?"

Ilya didn't eat right before going to the club. Hanging upside down on a full stomach wasn't a particularly good idea. He had since run for his life, been held at gunpoint, and faced death. His stomach was in knots, but he was, at heart, a practical scavenger. Calories mattered.

"Yes," he said.

Ilya took a seat at the island on one of the stools and watched as Hollander made his gun disappear again and started taking containers out of the fridge. Ilya could probably take him if he moved quickly, especially in here where there were all sorts of interesting surfaces. He could smack Hollander's head against his lovely marble counter tops hard enough to really ring his bell, take his keys, the gun, and get to the car before Hollander gathered his senses.

And then what? If Ilya left Hollander alive, he'd be hunted down. He certainly couldn't go back to the strip club. He'd have to start all over again, scratching around for the last score despite all his promises, but with a killer on his heels this time.

So Ilya sat and he watched warily. When Hollander slid a plate in front of him, he waited for Hollander to eat a bite of each thing first before starting on it himself.

"How long have you known who I am?" Ilya asked as he cut into the chicken. It was as bland as everything else about Hollander, but it was food.

"I looked into you before I asked for a lap dance," Hollander said. "Being alone with someone in a dark room with a stranger is a risk."

But it was fine to have no security system in your secluded cottage? The man's logic was insane.

"I am not a risk?" Ilya frowned. "I am not safe."

"Safe enough. I know you almost beat that guy in Toronto to death, but it seems to me like you were forced into that."

That had been a fucking ugly situation. "How do you know about this?"

"I've got ins with every major crime network in the country. There's not a lot I don't know about," Hollander said with a shrug. "You're very good. Maybe one of the best I've ever heard of. No one else has put together all your identities as far as I can tell. Then again, that would require them to talk to the Americans or for the Americans to talk to them. Unlikely for non-violent breaking and entering."

That was slightly reassuring.

"Even then they would not get to Rozanov," Ilya said. "You did. How?"

"You used your real passport to get to America and applied to one job that did a basic background check. I tracked you back to that."

"You used fucking Starbucks?" Ilya was almost as impressed as he was offended by the idea.

"I'll use whatever it takes," Hollander said. "You were interesting."

"Okay," Ilya said bemused and tried a forkful of 'mashed turnips' which was as terrible as it sounded. He concentrated on the chicken and the rice. "You were definitely interested in my ass."

And all the easy confidence, the surety went out of Hollander all at once. He was again the stiff twitchy nervous man who pinned his own hands to a couch in a room that smelled like five different perfumes and stale desire.

"I didn't think it would matter," Hollander muttered. "It was just supposed to be Thursday nights. Why did you follow me?"

"Why do you think?" Ilya asked dryly.

Hollander frowned, "Because I turned you down?"

"No!" Ilya said quickly, but then it occurred to him he had no reason to lie. What was he hiding? "Yes, a little. You were supposed to say yes, take me to your house, let me fuck you, and then I could take enough money from you while you were sleeping that I could be done."

Hollander set down his fork and Ilya had a brief moment to consider if honesty was really the best policy here.

"You would've slept with me for money? Have you done that before?"

"I am a sex worker." Ilya pointed out.

"No, you're a thief pretending to be a sex worker."

"Do you think this means I do not dance for people? That I do not turn them on for cash? It is a cover, but it is also work."

"Oh, yeah, I didn't-" Hollander cut himself off. "Yes. Of course. But I mean, the stripping is one thing."

"You're not right, but also…I am not, I think, really one. Sex workers do what they say they are going to do. Money for sex. Very moral, very upstanding, I think. This is not me. I am a liar. I fuck and I steal. Does that offend you, Mr. Assassin?"

He could practically hear Sveta hissing in his ear, are you trying to die?

No, Sveta, I promise.

But maybe Ilya wasn't that invested in preserving his life either, especially if he could watch a very competent, very hot man squirm.

"You wanted to come home with me to steal from me."

"And fuck you," Ilya said firmly. "I very much wanted to fuck you. But then you ran away so I had to do it the regular way. Very boring, Hollander."

"You had no idea who I was?"

"No," Ilya admitted which was painful. He was observant. He should know. But he had been operating alone, not with some vast network of criminal knowledge. "You were not supposed to be my mark so I did not do research."

"I wasn't?" Hollander asked like he was trying to decide if that offended him. "I mean, I didn't think I was. That's why you surprised me."

"I was aiming for another man, but he ran off with the bartender tonight. So I changed plans to you."

Hollander blinked once, then nodded slowly. "So all the dancing and the flirting was just for fun? You really weren't working for someone else?"

"You think- did you think I was hitting on you because I knew what you did?"

Hollander went red. "The thought occurred to me."

"What did you think I was doing?" Ilya couldn't even imagine that scam. "Risking my life to fish out some coins from your pocket?"

"I thought maybe someone had paid you to get to me or get information out of me, at least, but then you never asked me anything. So I started to think maybe you were biding your time."

"And you still paid for dances?" Ilya asked, bemused. "Because you liked them? Even though I might try to do something bad to you?"

"I know. Stupid trap. You were doing your job. Both your jobs, apparently. And then I led you straight into mine." With a groan, Hollander dropped his head into his hands. "I thought when you followed me tonight, you'd gotten sick of lying or something. That you wanted me to know that you knew."

"That would be nice," Ilya said, staring at him. He could definitely take Hollander right now. He was upset and not even looking in Ilya's direction. "Makes me sound smart."

All he could think about was the nights of Hollander obeying him so stringently. At the time, Ilya had been proud of the control he had wielded over a wealthy, handsome, strong man, but now it was an even bigger high. In the palms of his hands, Ilya had held a force of nature, a man so powerful he could track down an inconsequential thief through two countries and five aliases to tie him to a sad coffee shop worker. A man who could kill with ease and feared no intruder had let Ilya grind on him and forbid him from coming for his own amusement.

"You are smart," Hollander said.

"None of tonight was very smart. I was impatient. Lazy," Ilya scoffed.

"That's not true." Hollander said, still to his dinner plate. "You're meticulous usually. Careful. You're one of the best, I meant that. You don't get there being lazy."

"I liked Thursdays," Ilya blurted out, the compliment landing too sticky in his chest. "They were nice. Something good to look forward to."

Hollander lifted his chin at last, brow furrowed. "You did?"

"I did," Ilya said and since honesty seemed to be getting himself somewhere, he pressed on. "I did not want to steal from you even though you were the best target I met. The one I lost tonight would not really have had enough. I told myself it was better, but it wasn't. I just did not want to do that to you."

"Why not?" Hollander asked, all his calm monotone broken away.

"Why didn't you shoot me? You say you have a use for me, but it would be better to kill me and put the gun in my hand after. Make it looks like something else."

"Staging crimes is an easy way to get caught," Hollander said as if this were common knowledge. "But…yeah. I didn't want to kill you. Collateral damage is messy. Complicating. And I do have a use for you."

"A use that means you take me home. To your real home and feed me," Ilya said, trying to soften his voice a little. "If it was business thing, we could have talked in the car."

"It is a business thing," Hollander insisted, but his gaze was skittering everywhere except Ilya's face.

"Thank you," Ilya said, still soft, so soft, "For not shooting me and feeding me. I like your house."

Hollander gave a small nod. "Do you want me to tell you about the job now?"

"Yes," Ilya decided to give them both the out.

Instead of talking, Hollander cleaned up. A good guest would offer to help, but considering Ilya was more of a hostage, he wandered into the living room, waiting for Hollander to stop him. He didn't.

The furniture was all big solid comfortable looking pieces. There were a few books on the coffee table, the kind of generic oversized art books that nice homes seemed to accumulate. None of them looked read. There were a few knickknacks on a low shelf, but they were all very 'show house' things. None of them suggested personality. There were no photos on the walls. It was a warm inviting space, but it could've been anyone's.

None of it felt like Hollander. None of it was worth stealing.

Before Ilya could test the limits and scout out other rooms, Hollander finished up and took the few steps down to join him. They sat on opposite ends of the couch.

"A client of mine was involved in an ugly incident a few years ago," Hollander said, composed and flat again. "A piece of evidence of that incident has surfaced where it shouldn't be. I need help extracting that evidence."

Ilya nodded, then waited. Hollander didn't say anything else.

"This is no information," Ilya said. "That is nothing. You want me to steal something from somewhere?"

"I need you to break into a heavily guarded home and steal back a brick of heroin."

Ilya sat up straighter. "I do not like drugs."

"Me either. I'm not asking you to snort it. Please don't, actually, that would cause a lot more problems than it would solve."

"What is this home?"

Hollander sighed. "How much do you know about local crime politics?"

"Enough," Ilya said.

"Crowell."

"He owns a lot of this city," Ilya frowned. "You want me to steal from him?"

"Yes."

"Why not kill him?

"It would destabilize a lot of things that I would prefer to keep stable. I'll go with you, of course. Watch your back."

"Make sure I do not stab you in yours," Ilya guessed and Hollander, to his credit, nodded. "And what do I get?"

"What do you want?"

The question hung between them. What did Ilya want? He considered his options.

"A real Canadian passport. And money, of course."

"That's it?" Hollander asked.

That was it. The sum total of Ilya's ambitions. All of it now rendered down to a simple dismissive question by a dangerous man on Thursday night in the middle of nowhere.

"That is it," Ilya said softly. "That is…more than you can imagine. That is freedom and a future."

"What name do you want the passport in?"

"Ilya Rozanov."

"Done. How much money?"

"Five million," Ilya said because he might as well shoot for the moon.

"Done."

Done. One job and he'd have far far more than he'd ever intended to get through theft. Unless he did all this and Hollander simply killed him after which would be the smart thing to do.

"The money is not only for me. I want some up front and put into someone else's account."

"Svetlana Vetrova?" Hollander asked, eyes blazing despite the tone of his voice not changing. Ilya did not like that he knew that name. Not even a little.

"She is not in this. Not any of it," Ilya said with as much authority as he could muster in this moment. "She does not need to know."

"Why? So you can still marry her some day?"

The question was so absurd, the emotion behind it so out of place with the rest of the evening that Ilya had to laugh or he might start screaming.

"We are not like that," he managed to say between cackles. "She is my friend. I want her life to be better. I have only made her life worse until now. Always having to wonder where I am, what I am doing. If what I'm doing will make her life more dangerous. It is not a fair thing to do to her. So. Money. I buy her out of school debt, give her enough to start a beautiful life."

"And then what will you do?" Hollander asked. "With a passport and money?"

"Open a dog shelter," Ilya said

Hollander stared at him. Ilya stared back defiantly, daring him to laugh. Was that a thing Hollander even did? If it was, he didn't do it now.

"Okay," Hollander said. "One million in her offshore account tomorrow as a show of good faith. The rest when the job is done."

A million was still far more than Ilya had hoped to give her. A million was her debt erased, her future off to a good start. With that kind of money, Svetlana's cleverness would make a good start of whatever she wanted.

Ilya would've agreed to worse than that for less.

"Okay," he said, sealing the deal with a man that might actually be the devil.

A very pretty, jealous devil.

"You'll stay here," Hollander said. "Until it's over. Where I can see you."

"Fine," Ilya agreed. "Do you want my phone?"

"It won't work out here anyway. There's no signal and I'm not giving you the WiFi password."

"Ah, so it is torture then," Ilya sighed.

Hollander shook his head at him. "If I wanted to torture you, I would. This is just a sensible precaution."

"It was a joke," Ilya said. "I do not have clothes. And my car is in someone's driveway."

"I'll take care of your car. You can borrow something for tonight and I'll drive you back to your place tomorrow so you can pack a bag. Anything else?"

Probably a million things, but none of them came to Ilya in the moment. "No."

"Okay. I'll show you where you can sleep."

That was it. Ilya was shown unceremoniously to a guest room with a finger pointed at the bathroom.

"I'll find you something to wear," Hollander said and then he was gone.

Ilya's desire to snoop warred with his desire to stay on Hollander's good side. If only he could've stayed on his best side and still been at the club straddling the man's lap, edging him for weeks. He had edged a stone cold killer. Now that the first wave of fear had passed him by, there was a bit of a giddy adrenaline rush over that.

Ilya cased the guest bedroom. It was tastefully bland and empty. The bedside tables contained nothing. The closet didn't even have hangers. When Ilya sat down on the bed, the covers crinkled under him. Who else had stayed here? Where were they buried?

There was a polite tap on the door frame.

"You do not have to knock," Ilya pointed out. "This is your house. I am a hostage."

"You are not," Hollander said with a faint scoff as if Ilya was being ridiculous. "You're a colleague now."

"Oh, then I can leave?" he asked incredulously.

Some expression made a break for it across Hollander's face, but it fled too fast for Ilya to pin down. "You can try."

"You are a bad co-worker. The worst, maybe," Ilya said with the shake of his head. "You have clothes for me?"

"Just some things to sleep in and for tomorrow. I'd like them back."

"You think I steal everything?" Ilya scoffed. "It is an art."

"I know," Hollander said gravely, setting the pile in his arms on the dresser (also empty). "Good night."

"Good night," Ilya said.

Hollander didn't close the door on the way out. That was as good as an invitation to go exploring, but when Ilya got to the doorway, he hesitated and shut the door himself. The lock was on his side of the door. Ilya locked it, tested it, and then tested it again. It held.

It was late and it had been a very long night. The clothes Hollander had left for him were all very soft, heavy warm things. Pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt, Ilya crawled under the blankets and pulled them over his head. Either he'd wake up or he wouldn't.

His phone was at fifty percent battery. As Hollander had said, he had no signal. Maybe he could call emergency services, but what good would that do? Ilya turned off his phone to preserve the battery. He curled up on himself and thought of nothing. He was good at that.

Whatever it said about him, Ilya slept well in a killer's house.

He woke up to rain. He sat up slowly, turned his phone back on to check the time. 6am. An hour he had not seen in some time. The windows that had been mostly black voids last night, now showed him picturesque lake with a dock, and thick forest to either side. The rain came down heavily, splattering a little against the window. Ilya sat and watched it for some time, one arm wrapped around his knees.

The house was silent as he slipped out of his room and used the bathroom. The shower was inviting, a line of pristine products with fancy labels sitting on a shelf and a fluffy white towel over the towel rack. Ilya debated then figured he might as well sluice off the panic sweat and body glitter.

Showered, dried and in Hollander's borrowed clothes (boxer-briefs still in the packaging, gray slacks, white t-shirt, gray crew neck sweatshirt, all some of the softest things he'd ever worn), Ilya felt a little more put together. He was alive and apparently had a job ahead of him.

There was also a house to explore. He stayed barefoot, ignoring the socks that had come with the pile. He moved best with nothing between his soles and the floor.

The place was enormous. He found two more guest rooms almost identical to the one he was in. They were made up and undisturbed like a filming crew had staged them then sneaked away. There was a half bathroom that was as neatly outfitted for a potential guest as the one Ilya had used. The soap bar was still perfectly rectangular.

Ilya continued deeper and found a game room with a ping pong table and a pool table. The ping pong table was immaculate, balls still sitting in a package, but the pool table had been used. There were a few small scratches on the wood and the felt was only almost pristine.

The next room was a well-appointed home gym, signs of use far more obvious. An office followed with a large oak desk without a single paper on it. All the drawers were available to rifle through, but were largely empty again, except for the middle one which had the usual assortment of pens, tiny useless giveaway notepads, and paper clips. There was a charger for a laptop, but no sign of the machine. No sign of a safe either.

Ilya moved on.

There were empty rooms. They were towards the back of the house with windows that viewed the woods instead of the lake. The kinds of rooms that most guests would never poke far enough back to see.

It made the hair on the back of Ilya's neck rise up.

He found a short set of stairs and went up them, eager to put room between himself and the empty, useless space.

There was only one door at the top of the steps and it was every so slightly ajar. Ilya slowed his breathing, steadied himself and moved. He didn't try to open it further, only peered through the slender gap.

This bedroom was different. It was warmer, not only in temperature, but in color palette. The walls were a cream instead of a white. The duvet cover was a soft blue. The bedside table had some clutter: a clock, a glass of water, and a book with a pair of glasses resting on top of it. On one pillow, dark hair fanned out over the pillow case. The duvet mounded over a man's body.

All at once, Ilya was in the night-soaked bedroom, following Hollander like an idiot. The gun. The shots. Shadows pooling on the comforter as if the blood were only more darkness.

That had been in the dark, he reminded himself, shaking free of the memory. Even with the dreariness of the weather, this room was suffused with natural light. Hollander was very much alive. Probably.

Ilya touched the door with a single fingertip experimentally. No creak. None of the doors in this house creaked. He pushed it open inch by inch until the gap was wide enough for him to step into the room.

"Do you have a death wish?"

Wasn't that an interesting question to contemplate as your blood went cold and you stood in a killer's bedroom?

Hollander didn't move much. The duvet twitched a little, only enough for Ilya to spot a flash of silver.

"You sleep with your gun?" Ilya asked. "That can not be safe."

"You were worried about my security system last night. Now you're looking at it."

"You are your security system," Ilya said flatly.

"Yes," Hollander sighed and sat up. The covers fell away from him.

Despite the full coverage pajamas Hollander had left for Ilya, Hollander apparently slept shirtless. Ilya studied a very impressive chest and abs. That gym definitely saw a lot of use. His biceps were incredible too. The gun was a little distracting, now resting on Hollander's lap, only vaguely pointing in Ilya's direction.

"Breakfast?" Ilya asked.

Hollander tilted his head. "You missed the garage and the storage rooms. I assumed you wanted to do a thorough casing before you ate."

"You heard me?" The thought was appalling.

"I'm very aware of this house," Hollander said simply. "So?"

"I think I have seen enough" Ilya said. "This house is very boring."

"It's a good house," Hollander contended, a frown starting on the edges of his lips. "I designed it."

"Yes. The design is nice. The things it are nice. So much nice," Ilya said with distaste. "I only like this room, I think. And even then only a little."

"Why this room?" Hollander glanced around like he might find some hidden door that Ilya had spotted.

"You are in it," Ilya said simply.

"And I'm not boring?"

"You are very boring," Ilya countered. "But you are not nice. So."

"I'm nice," Hollander said.

Ilya waited a beat to make sure that wasn't a joke. "Hollander, are you fucking with me?"

"No?"

"Okay," Ilya said. Hollander thought of himself as nice. Sure. Why not? "Your shoulders and stomach are very nice. You should put away your tits before I get ideas."

The scandalized way Hollander drew up the duvet up over his chest tickled Ilya immensely. It also made him a little bolder than was strictly wise.

Who was he kidding? He had left wise on the floor of his father's house along with most of his worldly possessions.

"Now I'm almost positive you have a death wish," Hollander said, his voice significantly less steady as Ilya came closer.

"You do not want to kill me," Ilya said with a confidence he didn't entirely have.

"I don't have to want to do it for it to happen," Hollander said, but the gun was lax in his lap, even as Ilya came alongside the bed.

"You said I was not supposed to leave the club," Ilya recalled. "Last night. When I wanted to come home with you. Why?"

Hollander's jaw clenched. "I was warning you."

"You were not." That Ilya was confident about. That had not been warning. It had been inadvertent. Fear-driven.

Hollander was allowing him in here. He wasn't threatening him beyond theoretical. Weighing his options, Ilya decided that he was sick of not having any control over this situation. He sat down on the edge of the bed. The hand on the gun twitched, then settled.

"I was," Hollander said.

"I think," Ilya said, "that you wanted me to stay there. For you to visit in a room with money, so that you can keep me contained. You can close me away, yes? Keep me neat like your gym and your office."

"I was keeping you away from me for good reason," Hollander said.

"Oh? Every Thursday, you come in and you give me money to tell you not to come so I would stay away?" Ilya was practically purring now. Not even intentionally, but how could he do anything less? "I do not think this is what you want."

"I want…" Hollander stared at him. The gun was not forgotten exactly, but certainly no longer actively in play.

"Tell me," Ilya cajoled. "I will give it to you."

"You," Hollander breathed out. "I want you."

"You can have me," Ilya said. "Do you want me to give you rules? You were following me so nice last night before you ran away."

"I had a job," Hollander said pointlessly.

"I saw," Ilya reminded him. He had seen. He pushed the moment away again, the threat of those shadows on the comforter. Not right now. There would be time to spiral out about that later. Much later.

"It's different at the club. You're doing your job. Your fake job that was also real," Hollander blinked a few times as if he could wake himself from this moment. "I paid you."

"You are still paying me."

"Not for this," Hollander said defensively. "I'm paying you to steal."

"I am stealing right now," Ilya retorted. "I want to take what you do not want to give me. Five million dollars. That is a lot of money. If it helps, then you are paying me right now. One million to Svetlana. Good faith."

"It's already done," Hollander said tightly. "You can check the account on my laptop right now if you want."

Ilya should. What good was Hollander's word? And he didn't want to press pause on this moment.

"I believe you. Yes or no, Hollander? No club rules, only mine. We know you can stop me. You did last night."

The brutally easy way Hollander had put Ilya down still stung. If Ilya had been prepared, he could have put up a better fight. He likely still would've lost. Honing his body mattered to him, but his muscle was for climbing, running and sneaking. Ilya was strong. Hollander was stronger.

The wide wanting brown eyes were finally locked on Ilya. The spray of beautiful freckles (like a fine mist of blood settled and drying, dyeing him forever) that Ilya had barely been able to make out in the dark of the club were obvious now.

A large part of being a good thief was patience. The lack of it had landed Ilya here. A blessing or a curse? Either way, he had refound the well of calm in himself. Tapping into it, he sat back and went quiet. The only sound in the room was their breathing and the rain on the windows.

Hollander could be very still. A good killer needed to wait too, Ilya imagined. They waited each out in breathy silence. Outside, normal life continued for most people. In here, time stood still.

Between one blink and the next, Hollander made the gun disappear again.

"Yes," Hollander said.

That was all Ilya needed. He took off the soft sweatshirt, the lie of comfort and tossed it to the floor.

"You will not touch," Ilya said firmly, gratified as Hollander's hands went flat to the mattress. The silly veil of modesty from the duvet fell away. "You will not talk unless I ask a question. I will ask a few right now and you will be honest in your answers. If you lie, then that is your fucking fault if I do something you do not like. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Hollander said.

"Good. Do you want me to hurt you?" Ilya asked.

The question hung in the air for a second too long before Hollander said, "It's not a good idea. If you surprise me, I might hurt you back."

"That is not what I asked," Ilya said, standing. He only intended to remove his pants, but he could see the sudden flit of panic across Hollander's face. "This is not punishment, but it will be if you answer badly again. Do you want me to hurt you?"

"No," Hollander settled on. Not the entire truth, but Ilya didn't want to come to blows instead of blowjobs, so he accepted it.

"Is there anywhere you do not want me to touch?"

Hollander's eyes were on Ilya's stomach. "No."

"Is there anything you do not want me to do?"

"I don't know."

That threw Ilya. 'No' he could have understood. He studied Hollander's face, pivoting a little. "You need a word then. Something to say so I will stop. What is your word?"

"Why wouldn't 'no' or 'stop' work?" Hollander asked in return.

Ilya reviewed a clip show of Thursdays. A man with tight control, unraveling on a pleather couch from a body that he wasn't allowed to touch. Hollander was beautifully manicured from his perfect body to his perfect, empty house. There was no sign of other human beings in his life. Was he fresh to all of this? Still in the packaging like Ilya's borrowed underwear?

It was only one time. Hollander wanted to get the job done soon. They weren't starting some give and take. Ilya didn't have to offer an education that he'd barely scrapped together himself over a bare handful of times getting to do what he actually wanted with a partner.

"They can," Ilya said and knelt on the edge of the bed. Hollander watched him in a coil of tension. "For today."

He reached out and snagged the duvet, pulling it slowly down. Plain black boxer-briefs gave way to thick thighs and strong calves. Ilya took his time admiring the whole of him, listening to Hollander's breathing quicken.

"I like this," Ilya said, tapping Hollander's thigh with a single finger. "You make yourself very useful and very very beautiful."

Hollander said nothing, but Ilya could watch the tremor of interest moving over him. The strain to please.

In a parody of the night before, Ilya straddled Hollander's lap, careful that no point of them actually touched just yet. He continued his surveillance, casing Hollander's chest, shoulders, and neck like he was looking for a diamond. When he reached Hollander's face, he made of show of examining his lips, the rise of his cheeks. Hollander's stare stayed at Ilya's neck as if Ilya were the sun, too hard to look at directly.

With a soft exhalation, Ilya reached out and took Hollander's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Give me your pretty eyes, Hollander."

They flickered up to his, warm sweet depths of brown. If someone knew nothing about him, maybe they would say he was nice. Kind. Who could have those kinds of eyes and be steel inside? Hollander, apparently.

He was not steel right now though. At this moment, he was dough in Ilya's grip, waiting to be kneaded and flattened out.

"Good," Ilya said and then he finally closed the distance between them to kiss him.

If the way Hollander kissed was any sign of how he fucked, Ilya was about to have a very good morning. Without any resistance, Hollander gave way to him, invited in the invasion of Ilya's tongue and met it with his own. When Ilya pulled back, Hollander tried to chase after him, his eyes closed and his skin already flushed.

Instead of scolding him, Ilya traced his lips down Hollander's neck, kissing and nipping while Hollander made very small noises practically under his breath. When Ilya grabbed his pec and squeezed, the noises broke into a wanting moan. With a shitty grin, Ilya moved down to lap at one pebbled brown nipple, keeping an eye on Hollander's hands were they fisted into the sheets.

The boxer briefs were already tented, a damp spot growing on them (shadows on a duvet spreading, spreading - no, not right now). Some of Ilya's composure flew out the window and he dropped down to press a filthy kiss through the fabric. Hollander made a broken noise, but still didn't say a word.

"Very good," Ilya murmured and sat back up, regarding him. "On your knees next to the bed. You've earned a little touching."

The speed with which Hollander could move was borderline unnatural. It was graceful too, in an economical way. None of it was done for show, just the liquid ease of a man who was certain of his body even if he was uncertain of everything else. On his knees beside the bed, Ilya couldn't imagine him doing anything worse than jaywalking. Hollander had the face of a euphoric angel just now.

Ilya stood over him and shed his underwear, tossing them over his shoulder, before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He stroked himself a few times to full hardness, watching as Hollander tracked his hand with rapt attention.

"No hands," Ilya told him, then set his own on the bed, leaning back. "Mouth only. Go ahead."

If he had been expecting any tentativeness, Ilya was sorely mistaken. Hollander fell on him like a starving man, taking Ilya's cock into his mouth with no finesse and all the hungry enthusiasm that could fit in one person. It was far from the best blowjob that Ilya had ever gotten, but the pure wanton hunger made up for the lack of skill. Ilya was immediately on edge, turned on beyond belief. The power play had given way to genuine desire.

"Enough," he said with as much authority as he could still manage. "Off."

Hollander back off, wide-eyed, lips pinker and far wetter then they had been two minutes ago. Reaching out, Ilya traced over Hollander's bottom lip with his thumb and got a tiny lick from the point of his tongue, then a quick darting look to see if he'd overstepped. Ilya fed him the whole digit and Hollander sucked on it diligently.

"Come here," Ilya ordered, when watching that was doing his head in too much, and pat his thighs.

Hollander took stock for a moment then was flowing upwards again. He planted his knees on either side of Ilya's thighs and held the same position Ilya had when they started. Straddling him, but not touching.

"Such a good boy," Ilya murmured and Hollander's shoulders went loose like Ilya had lifted a tremendous weight from them. "You may sit now. Touch is allowed, but no hands."

Carefully, Hollander lowered himself down. He was heavy and Ilya reached out to steady him and also grope him a little in the process.

"Have you ever been fucked?"

The wild look in Hollander's eye answered the question before his hoarse, "Not by another person."

"Would you like to be?" Ilya asked.

For a brief moment, Ilya thought Hollander might bolt. Or shoot him. The gun was somewhere on or in this bed somewhere because Hollander had run out of places to hide it on his person. Unless the bulge in his underwear was very deceptive.

"Yes," Hollander said.

"Kiss me," Ilya coaxed.

With his new rule, Hollander pressed himself to Ilya as close as he could before kissing him. He wanted contact. He wanted Ilya. Ilya could work with that.

"Arms around my neck," Ilya murmured and when Hollander obeyed, he started to roll them to the mattress.

Hollander was not below him when Ilya hit the sheets. He was standing beside the bed, all ease gone from him. Twitchy.

"What was that?" Ilya asked bemused.

"You moved too fast," Hollander said, his eyes glued to the floor. "It startled me."

"Ah."

They stared at each other, the moment broken. Ilya had danger before him and a soft bed beneath him. He was still hard. So was Hollander.

"We can just fuck," Ilya suggested when it seemed like Hollander might bolt out of his own bedroom. "No rules. You can speak and touch. I think maybe, this is best for a first time?"

Hollander shook his head once, trying to negate the thought. His jaw tightened.

"Mm. How about this?" Ilya's mind raced. Hollander was like a safe. Ilya was excellent with safes. "The rules are this: you may touch and you may speak. But you must still obey me. Yes?"

Hollander weighed that than nodded once.

"You have lube and condoms? I did not bring them with me," Ilya said wryly. "If I had some warning, I would be more prepared."

"Yes," Hollander said, not rising to that. He opened the nightstand drawer and Ilya got a flash of a large serious-looking black dildo that boded well for Hollander's first time. Damn.

Dragging Hollander's underwear off, Ilya indulged himself in sucking the very pretty and thick cock into his mouth. Hollander's hands landed on his shoulders, tentative at first, then sinking in as he lost himself in the feeling.

His hands were so strong. Ilya could feel the restraint in his touch even as he held on tight. Ilya pulled off and looked up his body. Beautiful.

"Lay down," Ilya instructed.

What followed was the dream to the nightmare of the night before. Hollander was the most responsive partner Ilya had ever had. Everywhere he touched him provoked a reaction, every time he kissed him, Hollander's skill seemed to level up. By the time Ilya was pushing into him, those incredible legs hoisted without complaint or strain on Ilya's shoulders, they were both sweating, needy wrecks though Ilya hoped he was hiding it better. They rocked together, Hollander's pupils blow open and his hands soft on Ilya's arms as if he couldn't believe he got to touch him at all.

When Hollander came untouched, arching up off the bed, he was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen and he had been to many, many museums. Hollander was better than sculpture because he was warm and alive, falling back to the mattress like an angel abruptly booted out of heaven.

Ilya came hard, watching the confused bliss on Hollander's face. He kissed him after, spooning up around him and gathering him in close. Something small, hard and lethal pressed into Ilya's back and he ignored it for now. Reality could wait.

They held it at bay for at least five more minutes. Hollander stayed pliable in Ilya's arms, regaining his breath and accepting small kisses to his shoulder.

"We should wash. Eat," he said eventually and all the charming hoarseness was already fading away. "There's things I have to show you."

"Yes," Ilya allowed, the warmth draining way. He rolled off Hollander and to his feet.

"Kitchen in twenty," Hollander said, no longer looking at him.

All the power was back in Hollander's hands. As quickly as Ilya had seized the reins, he had lost it. Fine. That was fine. He'd gotten under Hollander's skin. It was harder to kill a man when he fucked you so good that you came untouched. Probably. For most people.

Ilya reclaimed the clothing that Hollander had loaned him, but didn't put it back on. He walked out of the room, leaving Hollander with an afterimage of his nudity to follow.

The guest bathroom was no more lived in for Ilya's first shower of the day. He didn't bother being thorough this time. A rinse, a second use of the fluffy towel, and back into things he didn't own. He checked his phone without much hope, found no bars, then turned it off again.

The kitchen was empty when he arrived. Ilya considered starting breakfast like a good little one-night-stand. If that was what he'd actually been, he might have done it. It would also have been a good reason to give for poking around, but Hollander already knew he was doing that. So, he didn't have to pretend anything. Ilya checked ever cabinet and cupboard, then opened a door that proved to be a walk in pantry. It was filled with bulk dried goods and the kind of household goods every large house seemed to accumulate. Ilya stepped into it to inspect the shelves and heard a very small, very particular kind of creak.

With a grin, Ilya squatted down and ran his hands over the innocuous floorboards. The catch was minuscule and likely relied on a tool to open it. Hollander had too much confidence in himself. He wouldn't keep the tool too far away. Some hunting in the shelves and Ilya found a container of sugary cereal that was at odds with all the other healthy choices. Fishing around in it produced the slender shimmy. Perfect.

Ilya moved quickly, minutes counting down in his head. The shimmy went in and three floorboards came up together. Beneath them, a safe. Fantastic! Ilya ran his fingers over the keypad. It was a very nice safe, the kind you spent a lot of money on so there were no raised buttons that wore away over time to give away the combination. Instead there was glass with glowing numbers and if you tilted your head the right way, fingerprints did the work for you.

There were a lot of possible combinations for four numbers, of course, but there were things that pointed in the right direction usually. Ilya got it in three guesses. 2481.

The door clicked and Ilya pulled it open.

Not a safe at all. The door must've been repurposed or perhaps it was the same company. Leading down into the dark was a set of stairs.

If Ilya went down there and Hollander discovered him, he could easily get stuck in the dark. Though Hollander had been patient with Ilya's nosiness, this was something else altogether. While he was weighing his options a voice behind him said,

"How did you do that?"

Ilya was very proud that he didn't startle. Nor did he turn around. "You said that I was a good thief."

"I did," Hollander allowed. "Walk me through it."

So Ilya explained his process while Hollander made something with far too much greenery for breakfast, producing thick sludge of nutritionally dense and frankly disgusting smoothie. When Hollander split it in two and set one glass before, he stared at it with all the offense in the world. Maybe he could try the cereal in the dummy box, even if Hollander had been hiding metal tools in it for who knew how long.

"But how did you guess the code?"

"You like hockey," Ilya said.

"How do you know that?" The question cracked through the air like thunder.

Where was the willing wide-eyed fallen angel? Where did Hollander tuck him the rest of the time?

"The book on your nightstand," Ilya said. "You do not leave much around so what you do leave must mean something."

"Fine. So I like hockey. From there you got-"

"Jersey numbers," Ilya said. "Two best players in the league right now, yes?"

"You watch hockey?"

"A little. I used to play."

"So did I," Hollander said then grimaced and chugged down half his smoothie as if to smother that sliver of freely given information.

24 and 81. Ottawa players. Lemaire and Haas. They were exceptional, both of them, despite the terrible team they were saddled with.

"Impressed?" Ilya asked and risked a tiny sip of the smoothie. It tasted like kale and despair. "Fuck this. Do you have anything else?"

"That's not very good guest behavior," Hollander said.

"Is it good hostage behavior?" Ilya bit back. "Tell me there is actual food."

Before Hollander could answer, his phone rang. Fucking WiFi. Ilya hadn't even found the router. Where was the fairness in that?

"Hi, Mom," Hollander answered, walking off with the phone, taking his glass with him. He didn't go far, lingering in the living room looking out over the lake. "Yes, of course. I apologize for not texting last night, there was a minor complication."

Did Hollander's mother know? There was no way. Maybe it wasn't really his mother, but a code name for a handler. Or maybe it was his mother and Hollander lied to her in a strange way. Ilya went to the fridge, opening it while he listened.

"I had to move some money around, but I have it under control," Hollander said, then paused, listening ostensibly. "Less than a yellow. I think it might be a net positive in the end. No…no. I'll tell you on Sunday… Of course. Yes. Mom, no….because they're awful to work with. They always wants to meet in a warehouse which is cliche and ridiculous. Yes, I know what their offering, but I can afford to be picky."

Ilya stared at the vast vegetable patch that was Hollander's fridge and tried to process that. Apparently, Hollander's mother did know and perhaps was involved?

He gave up on the fridge, checked the freezer. Nothing worthwhile. He'd already poked through the cabinets and found very little food. He went back to the pantry and with a resigned sigh chose a non-sugary cereal that looked like it had been purchased in the last decade at least. Carrying it out, he found Hollander off the phone and returned to his smoothie.

"Do you tell your mother you have a hostage?" Ilya asked tartly, getting out a bowl and helping himself to the almond milk.

"I don't think hostages are allowed to help themselves to food," Hollander pointed out, watching him move around his kitchen.

"Hostages still have to eat," Ilya countered.

"She knows that I've got a partner for the next job and that they're staying with me."

"Interesting."

The cereal was aggressively fine, but definitely better than the green monstrosity sweating condensation that Hollander had made. Even once Hollander had finished his glass, he stayed, his attention on every move Ilya made. It would've been flattering if it wasn't so unsettling.

"The basement," Ilya prompted when he couldn't take the silence anymore. "What's in it?"

"You can come see. I'm not going to lock you in there."

"I don't believe you."

The wounded expression that flitted across Hollander's face almost made Ilya feel badly.

"I could have killed you a thousand different ways before now. Or incapacitated you."

"Maybe," Ilya said. "But that would be messy. Especially in your nice tidy house. Starving me out in a basement that only I could find would be neater."

"I could've strangled you in bed," Hollander said flatly. "It would've been easy and left very little mess. I'd have as long as I needed to hide the body."

The hair on the back of Ilya's neck stood on end. Thanks to the contradictory nature of the human body and Ilya's own particular brand of fucked-upedness, he also got a semi.

"You couldn't," Ilya countered. "Not while I had you on your knees. You go somewhere else. Not so big and bad and tough then."

As he watched, a faint flush spread over Hollander's neck, barely visible. "I still could. I just don't want to."

"Mm," Ilya said and repressed a smile. "I see. Fine. Show me your murder basement."

It was not reassuring that Hollander didn't correct him on the descriptor. Instead, he waited for Ilya to put his bowl in the sink, then hovered until Ilya huffed at him and washed it, then set it into the dishwasher. When Ilya made a little 'happy now?' gesture, Hollander nodded and led him back into the pantry.

Without needing to be asked, Hollander went down first. Ilya could've slammed the door on him, locking Hollander in his own basement, then fleeing. That had several issues. For one, it was entirely possible that Hollander had another way out and Ilya would only be blindsided by an angry murderer. For another, Ilya was still unclear as to where he was and reasonably sure that Hollander still held the car keys.

For another…whatever else was happening here, Ilya had not yet become a person that could leave another human being to slowly die in prison of their own making.

So, he followed his captor (lover? Ilya could still taste Hollander's desire on his tongue), down into the dark.

A flicker and then the basement lit up. It was an enormous space, likely running the entire length of the house. It had been finished and three of the walls were covered in acoustic foam. On the remaining wall, there was a range of guns and knives elegantly mounted like they were on display with a work table beneath it.

At the far end of the room was a target.

"You have a shooting range," Ilya said.

"Yes. It's useful. I keep other things down here. Supplies in case I need to stay for a few days. There's a bathroom. A sleeping bag."

A place for a clever fox to go to ground and wait for the dogs to pass by overhead. There was almost certainly another exit. Hollander was too smart to trap himself down here.

"No jewels? Cash?" Ilya prodded.

"Why would I tell you that?" Hollander challenged. He had moved a little further into the room, all grace and strength as he showed off his domain.

But now, he was turning to look at Ilya with a trace of uncertainty.

Why? About Ilya teasing him about valuables?

"Because you want me to feel at home as a guest," Ilya suggested.

"No," Hollander said, his thumbs sliding into his belt loops. "Do you know how to shoot?"

"No," Ilya admitted. "I have never bothered. If I need a gun, job has already gone too bad to be saved."

"That's bad logic," Hollander said with a slight frown.

"Is it?" Ilya asked. "You want to teach me then?"

The glance up and away. No. Something else.

"If you want."

"Show me," Ilya said instead and Hollander's shoulders came down a notch. That was it.

This was Hollander's place of power. He wanted to show Ilya that he wasn't the man that got down on his knees at a snap. Or maybe that at least that wasn't all he was. As if Ilya hadn't seem him at work last night.

Shadows. There were many of them down here with the bright the clinical lighting failing to reach the corners.

Crossing to the table, Hollander pulled down a gun that looked reasonably sized. Ilya had never bothered learning about them. He usually carried a knife and that had to be enough for tight quarters.

Hollander checked the gun over, loaded in bullets from a drawer under the table. Then he put on giant headphones.

"Here," Hollander said, passing Ilya a matching pair of headphones. "Ear protection."

"Yes, would not want to harm my ears."

"Your hearing," Hollander clarified.

"Yes, I know," Ilya said and put them on. The world went quieter.

Watching Hollander step up to a line that Ilya couldn't see, he wondered how he was going to fake being impressed. The man took in a breath, squared his shoulders, and fired. Another breath, another shot. Another. Another.

Hollander held himself so still, so focused that Ilya watched him instead of the gun. His face was beautiful, objectively, his body chiseled and finely made, objectively, and he smelled amazing, objectively. Also objectively, this man was the kind of person that raged like a bonfire and consumed anyone who got close.

Subjectively, Ilya wanted to fuck him again.

So he did.

It must've been what Hollander was really angling for anyway, given how quickly he dropped to his knees. Not before he put the safety on the gun and set it several feet away even though it was definitely out of bullets. Hollander's hands were still scented with gunpowder as he grabbed at Ilya's hips. The smell of it would transfer, temporarily marking Ilya's skin.

No rules this time, no talking at all. Only Hollander's mouth on Ilya's cock, Ilya's hand fisted in his hair. Then Hollander in Ilya's fist, his breath coming in hot little pants against Ilya's neck as Ilya sank his teeth into his shoulder, pulling an orgasm out of him by force. It was not guest behavior. It was not hostage behavior.

While Hollander recovered, Ilya pulled his zipper back up and ran a hand over his hair. Then he stepped around the man stood before the wall of weaponry. He reached out and he could feel Hollander come to attention behind him. For a moment, Ilya toyed with grabbing one of the guns, but he had no doubt that would only wind up with him getting shot.

Instead, he found a knife. He balanced it on his hand, got the weight of it. Then he took in a breath expelled it. Without moving to Hollander's mental line, Ilya simply took aim and threw.

The knife struck neatly in the dead center of Hollander's ring of bullet holes.

"Holy shit," Hollander said like the words had been pulled from him without his consent.

Ilya smirked. "You are not the only man with good aim. Are we going?"

They went.

Hollander didn't need directions to Ilya's apartment building which was both expected and extremely eerie. Without being invited, Hollander followed Ilya up to his unit. The one bedroom was cramped and barely furnished. Most of the things in it weren't really Ilya's. The unit wasn't his or even Dima's, but a non-consensual sublet while the real renter was overseas. It had been a good find, an eavesdropped conversation and a little legwork, a lock pick then a changed lock, and he'd had a place to stay without any paperwork.

The traveler would be back in a few more weeks.

Ilya had always been running out of time here. In this apartment. In Dima's life. In his own life too, maybe.

"This is it?" Hollander asked as he came around the car to open Ilya's door.

"Rude," Ilya said without weight as he went to the bedroom to gather up his clothing. He wouldn't be returning, he decided, so he abandoned Dima's wardrobe and concentrated on the clothes that had stayed packed away when he settled here. Nothing really important, but closer to his personal style than a cover.

Sveta was holding on to all his truly sentimental things, aside from his necklace. They fit in a shoebox and didn't fill it, not a hardship for her to keep tucked away.

Clothes, tech, cash, and the products in his bathroom filled Ilya's black sturdy tiny suitcase. Into his backpack, he stored the few valuable items he hadn't fenced yet or found a better cache for. None of it was from big jobs. Sometimes his fingers got the itch and he went for a long walks, lifting a wallet and sliding off a watch. Nothing he really needed in the face of Hollander's promised money, but it was better not to leave evidence behind.

"Nothing else?" Hollander asked. He was still standing near the door, tense and wary.

"You would like me to bring the sofa?" Ilya asked dryly. "This is all."

By now, Ilya was an expert in leaving things behind. It didn't pang him at all to lock up the apartment for a last time. He kept the keys for now, but the place was dead in his mind.

"My car," Ilya said.

"Already delivered to the house."

"Lunch."

That brought Hollander up short. "We can eat back at the house."

"Ah, but I am hungry now," Ilya said. "For decent food too."

Hollander frowned. "My food is good."

"Your food is joyless. I want to make things that taste like someone who enjoys life."

That smacked any trace of an expression off Hollander's face. "Fine. We'll eat at home, but you can get some things."

"Oh, can I?" Ilya asked wryly.

Shopping with Hollander was fascinating. As he did apparently everywhere, he was constantly scanning. His hyper-awareness had the odd knockdown effect of soothing Ilya. Usually, it was Ilya who was constantly taking the temperature of a room, measuring how to proceed. With someone else doing the work that he trusted to do it well, he could concentrate fully on the task at hand.

Ilya piled the cart full of good things. There was no need to bother with vegetables which Hollander clearly had covered. Instead, Ilya concentrated on grains and indulgences. He bought strawberries, mangoes, butter, eggs, chicken sausage, and cheese. Then there were snacks: tortilla chips and fresh salsa, pretzels and hummus. There was deliberation in every move. As fun as it was to make Hollander twitch as Ilya dropped a few candy bars into the cart, his intent wasn't to make the man uncomfortable. He wanted to tempt him. That was far more fun.

Smoking was a habit he had had to give up. There was nothing discreet about smoke. The butts were too easy an offering for DNA sniffers. Gum was worse. So Ilya sucked on mints instead, cracking them between his teeth when he chewed over problems. He added a few rolls at the register. He helped bag everything, making light conversation with the cashier while Hollander hovered. Before Ilya could take out his wallet, Hollander flashed cash across the belt.

"You did not have to pay," Ilya said as they loaded the trunk.

"You're my guest," Hollander said.

"You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

"Inconceivable," Hollander returned and Ilya laughed in surprise. "I watch movies."

"I like movies," Ilya said. "I will make lunch and we will watch a movie."

"I have things to do," Hollander protested weakly. "We need to plan for the job."

"Then we will plan, you do your things, and I will also make dinner, then we will watch a movie."

There were no more protests. When they got back to the house, Ilya's car was in the driveway. He was not, he noticed, offered the keys. It was a shitty car and Ilya had no particular attachment to it. It was simply another loose end of his life tied off. Whatever terrible magic Hollander had at his disposal, it burned quick and efficient.

They unloaded the groceries and Ilya was pleased that Hollander let him put things away wherever he wanted. The order in the fridge was apparently habit and not a strong preference.

"I will make you a tuna melt," Ilya decreed. "Pickles on the side."

"I don't usually eat cheese."

"Because it does not agree with you, because you do not like it or because you are afraid it will taste good?"

"Shut up," Hollander grumbled.

"You want?" Ilya asked, a little more gently. "I will make something with your vegetables for dinner."

"I- yeah. Please."

Hollander sat at the island of his own kitchen, watching Ilya move around it like a cat might watch a bird through a plate glass window: longing, hopeful, attentive, and deadly. When Ilya took a knife out of the block to slice pickles, Hollander shifted minutely. A ready stance.

"I would not stab you," Ilya said. "What would this get me? A bloody, angry man who can shoot me? And no lunch."

"I know that," Hollander said. "It's not you. I can't turn it off."

"Yes, it is hard," Ilya conceded. The knife slid through the pickles easily. Well-sharpened, unsurprisingly. Hollander took very good care of his things.

Maybe Ilya could be one of Hollander's things, set in his own knife block of a guest bedroom. The thought was invasive. It spread roots through Ilya's mind faster than he could whack them away. He had his place in Hollander's ecosystem already. Thursday nights were for the tease of intimacy before. Now, they could be for the real thing. Ilya could be like the thick slices of cheese that he layered over the tuna salad, a decadent occasional snack in a lifetime of quinoa and green smoothies.

"There," Ilya said as he set a plate down in front of Hollander. He'd sliced some of the strawberries too, fanning them out beside the pickles. The plate was bright, enticing.

"Thank you," Hollander said.

Ilya turned his back on him to make his own plate and by the time he joined him at the island, half of Hollander's sandwich was gone. Hiding his smile, Ilya tucked in to his food too. There wasn't a crumb left on Hollander's plate when was done and he seemed surprised to find it cleared.

"More?"Ilya offered.

"No," Hollander said. "That was more than enough."

"I do not think so," Ilya said lightly. "But I only offer once. You say no, then it is a 'no'."

The rules could extend outside the bedroom, Ilya offered silently, This game we're playing does not have to begin and end in your bed. He had no idea if Hollander heard that undercurrent. It was fine if he didn't. Ilya wasn't entirely sure what he was even offering.

"You finish, I'll go get the blueprints."

"Fine."

When Ilya cleared his plate, Hollander returned with a roll of paper. He grabbed a paper towel, sweeping crumbs off the island into the sink. Only once the surface was clear did he spread out the plans. Bright white lines jumped of vibrant blue, capturing Ilya's attention.

"They make changes after plans sometimes," Ilya said.

"Some people do, but that takes a lot of work and bribes," Hollander said. "Not impossible, but not exactly easy. Crowell prefers easy."

"What are we looking for then?" Ilya asked.

"I like to have a few exit plans. I figure getting in is more your jurisdiction."

"Is it?" Ilya asked. "You managed the house the other day."

"I did. I could do this one too with a little more planning," Hollander said with a hint of challenge. I don't need you. "But I'm curious to see how you would approach things.

"Have you already scoped the security detail?"

"Yes."

"Start with that," Ilya said and leaned in. "Tell me."

"I have it written up."

"I don't care. I want to hear," Ilya said. He was absolutely not explaining to Hollander that while his spoken English was excellent, he still struggled to read it, especially handwritten. "Tell it."

Slowly, Hollander started going over the things he had been told by an informant, then the things he had observed himself through careful drive bys and stakeouts. Each detail added to the blueprints Ilya was transferring to his memory piece by piece. Every so often, Hollander would check Ilya's face and every time he found him still locked onto him, he got a little more animated. Once Ilya started asking questions, prodding at him where he sensed a lack of information, Hollander even started gesticulating.

Their pens warred over the blueprints, making notes, annotations and drawing up plans.

"This one," Ilya insisted, circling a window on the left side of the building.

"They patrol there the most often, I keep telling you. The bedrooms are on that side. Even if you get in with enough time, you'll wake someone up."

"I will not," Ilya said. "I am very quiet."

"I hear you," Hollander spat.

"You would hear a spider in the living room from your bedroom, this does not count," Ilya said. "I know what I can do."

"You can't get into a second story window without waking someone in less than five minutes."

"Fine. Time me," Ilya spat. He went to go get his sneakers.

"You're not breaking into my house!" Hollander trailed after him.

"I will not break your windows. You have easy latches and your security system will not shoot at me. Will it?" He asked, ice in his eyes as he whipped back around. "You say you want me for the job. I will interview. Time. Me."

Hollander wavered. "Starting from when?"

"I will get what I need and I will walk out the front door. You time me until I am in your bedroom."

"That's really more the third floor," Hollander said. "The steps are graduated through the-"

"I. Know," Ilya bit off. He went into the guest room where he had dumped his bags. Removing the thin case with his tools, he tucked into his pocket.

He went back to the front door where Hollander was still lingering.

"I want to watch from the outside," Hollander said.

"Then you will miss the sexy thief breaking into your room."

"Saw that show already," Hollander said with a burst of swagger that did things to Ilya he could not afford to have happen in this moment.

"Fine," Ilya said.

He didn't wait. Hand on the door, he did toss a wink over his shoulder and then he took off. While he hadn't walked the outside of the house, he'd seen a lot of it from the windows as he did his internal mapping. It wasn't hard to sprint around the house, determine the right window (they were enormous enough that Ilya could see Hollander's bed, not exactly hard), and find the best point of entry.

Newbies might use the drainage pipe, but those had rarely been bolted on well enough to hold a full grown person's weight. Ilya had always preferred the old fashioned way. He backed up, took a running leap and jumped. He caught the second story window ledge and heaved himself up.

In every identity, in every location, Ilya had a membership to a gym with a rock wall. It was the best investment he could make into himself. Weight lifting, cardio, and climbing, five times a week for hours. His body was honed for this purpose. Standing on the tiny lip of a window frame was always a risk, but Hollander had good ones for it, thick and new enough to hold him.

The latch required Ilya to dangle one-handed for a moment, but that was pure adrenaline-fueled fun. He slid the tool he'd made himself into the tiny crack and then bent it to it's purpose. Up went the latch and then with the force of his palm, the window opened. There was a screen, but that he could kick out thanks to fire regulations. It didn't even break and he caught it as he pulled himself in, so it didn't crash to the floor as an extra bit of finesse.

Standing in Hollander's bedroom, he turned and gazed down.

Twenty feet below him, Hollander stood in the neatly trimmed grass of his own lawn, staring up at him with a hunger that Ilya was well acquainted with.

"How long?" Ilya called down.

"2 minutes, 28 seconds," Hollander said. He didn't look at his phone or his watch. The man simply knew. Was there a clock in his head?

"Then that is how long you have to get to me. A second over and I will leave this room and your bed. Starting right now."

For a full three seconds, Hollander stayed right where he was, looking up at Ilya like he might try the same route to save time. Then he was gone, a blur of gray and black clothing. Ilya didn't bother counting down. Instead, he took off his shoes and placed them under the window and put the screen back in place. Insects were not welcome to feast on him while other, more exciting, sucking was taking place.

When Hollander arrived in the room, chest heaving and eyes bright with the challenge, Ilya refrained from licking his lips like a dog. Instead, he said,

"Strip."

"Kneel."

"Crawl."

"Suck."

"Bed."

"More?"

"Good."

"More?"

"Good."

"Okay?"

"Fuck!"

Thoroughly worked over, Hollander collapsed under Ilya onto the duvet. Ilya tumbled down beside him, grinning at the ceiling.

"So," Ilya said, "I will use the second story window on the east side of the house."

"You will," Hollander said into the sheets. "You fucking asshole."

What could Ilya do? He laughed. What an obscene and strange day!