Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had been Ilya Rozanov’s publicist for exactly twenty-six days.
In that time, Ilya had gone off-script in every interview, insulted two journalists, and told a late-night host that if the FBI ever needed help infiltrating the Russian government, he would be happy to volunteer, purely for “method acting purposes.”
Shane hated him.
He stood just off camera in the small studio, arms crossed tightly over his chest as the interviewer smiled across the table at Ilya like she had just been handed the most charming man in Hollywood.
Which, unfortunately, most people seemed to believe.
“And what’s it like,” she asked brightly, “playing an American FBI agent while actually being from Russia?”
Shane felt the familiar spike of dread crawl up his spine.
Ilya leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out under the table like he had absolutely nowhere else to be.
“Oh, it is very educational,” he said in his thick accent. “I learn many things about American intelligence operations.”
Shane closed his eyes.
Across the table, the interviewer laughed uncertainly. “Right, but—”
“For example,” Ilya continued conversationally, “I have learned that apparently you do not need to speak any other languages.”
The interviewer blinked.
Shane opened his eyes again and stared at the back of Ilya’s head like sheer willpower might set it on fire.
“Ilya,” Shane said sharply from behind the camera.
Ilya didn’t even turn around.
Instead, a slow smile spread across his face.
“Ah,” he said lightly. “My publicist is here.”
“Yes,” Shane replied, stepping into view. “And your interview time is up.”
The interviewer looked confused. “But we still had—”
“Unfortunately, we’re on a tight schedule today,” Shane said smoothly, already reaching for the mic clipped to Ilya’s jacket. “Thank you so much for your time.”
The cameras shut off.
The moment they did, Shane turned to Ilya.
“You cannot say things like that.”
Ilya looked up at him lazily from his chair. “Like what?”
“Like implying the FBI is incompetent.”
“I did not imply,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “I merely observed.”
Shane stared at him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him with open curiosity.
“You get very tense when you’re angry,” he said.
“I’m not tense.”
“You are,” Ilya replied calmly. “Your shoulders do this.” He mimicked it with an exaggerated stiff posture.
Shane took a slow breath.
“I need you,” he said carefully, “to stop treating interviews like stand-up comedy.”
“But people laugh,” Ilya said.
“That’s not the point.”
“Ah,” Ilya said softly, like he had just realized something interesting.
Shane waited.
Ilya leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You hate me,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Shane’s eye twitched.
“I don’t hate you,” he said flatly. “I represent you.”
Ilya hummed like he didn’t believe him for a second.
Then he stood up, towering a few inches over Shane, his expression suddenly bright with amusement.
“That’s alright,” he said. “I like when people hate me.”
Shane blinked. “Why?”
Ilya smiled slowly.
“Because it makes them honest.”
For a moment, Shane just stared at him.
Then he turned on his heel and walked straight out of the studio before he said something that would absolutely cost him his job.
Behind him, Ilya watched the door close.
And then, very quietly, he laughed.
By the time Shane got back to his office, the clip was already online.
Of course it was.
He dropped his bag on his desk, opened his laptop, and watched the interview segment for the third time. Each replay made it worse.
On screen, Ilya sat loose and relaxed in the chair, dirty blonde hair falling perfectly into place like he hadn’t just implied American intelligence agencies were incompetent on a daytime entertainment segment.
Shane paused the video right as Ilya’s slow smile appeared when Shane spoke from off camera.
“Ah. My publicist is here.”
Shane rubbed his forehead.
The comment section was already filling up.
He’s hilarious.
Why is his publicist so mad lol.
Russian sarcasm is elite.
This man is chaos.
Chaos.
Yes, that was the problem.
A soft knock sounded at his door before it opened without waiting for an answer.
“Please tell me you saw it,” his coworker Rose said, stepping inside.
“I’ve watched it three times,” Shane replied flatly.
Rose leaned against the doorframe, already grinning. “He’s trending.”
“That’s not the comforting statement you think it is.”
“Relax,” she said, crossing the room and glancing at his laptop. “People love him.”
Shane gestured helplessly at the paused frame of Ilya’s face.
“That man is going to destroy my career.”
“He’s charming,” Rose corrected.
“He’s reckless.”
“He’s charismatic.”
“He’s a PR nightmare.”
Rose studied the screen for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah. Probably that too.”
Shane closed the laptop before he could spiral further.
“Where is he now?”
Rose didn’t even hesitate.
“Craft table.”
Of course he was.
The set was louder than usual.
Crew members moved between lighting rigs and cameras while the director argued with someone from wardrobe near the monitors.
Shane stepped onto the soundstage just in time to hear someone laugh loudly near the snack table.
He didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Ilya stood with his back partially turned, leaning against the table like he owned the place. One of the production assistants was mid-story while Ilya listened with exaggerated seriousness, a half-eaten pastry in his hand.
Shane approached.
Ilya noticed him almost immediately.
His mouth curved into that same slow smile Shane had already learned to distrust.
“Ah,” Ilya said to the room. “My favorite person.”
Shane stopped two feet away.
“I need to speak with you.”
The production assistant immediately vanished.
Ilya watched her leave with mild disappointment before turning back to Shane.
“You always appear when conversation is becoming interesting.”
“You’re trending on social media,” Shane said.
Ilya considered that. “And this is bad?”
“Yes.”
“But people like it.”
“That’s not the point.”
Ilya took another bite of the pastry, completely unconcerned.
“You worry too much.”
Shane inhaled slowly through his nose.
“I worry exactly the amount required to keep you employed.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him.
“You walked out earlier.”
“Yes.”
“You were angry.”
“Yes.”
Ilya seemed pleased by this confirmation.
Shane stared at him.
“You cannot keep saying whatever you want in interviews.”
“Why?”
“Because eventually someone important will stop finding it funny.”
Ilya swallowed the last bite of his pastry.
Then he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
“But you find it funny.”
“I absolutely do not.”
Ilya’s eyes flickered with amusement.
“You almost smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Ilya—”
“You do this thing,” Ilya continued thoughtfully, ignoring him, “where you try very hard not to react. But sometimes—”
He lifted his hand slightly, gesturing.
“—it happens anyway.”
Shane stared at him like he had just suggested the moon was made of cheese.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Maybe,” Ilya said easily.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the director called from across the stage.
“Ilya! We’re ready for rehearsal!”
Ilya straightened and pushed away from the table.
As he walked past Shane, he paused just long enough to murmur quietly beside him.
“You should smile more.”
Then he headed toward the set.
Shane stood there for several seconds.
Then he turned and walked straight out of the building before he committed a felony.
Shane told himself he was not babysitting.
Publicists did not babysit.
Publicists managed messaging, scheduled appearances, coordinated press cycles, and occasionally prevented their clients from detonating their own careers on live television.
What they did not do was stand on a soundstage at eight in the morning with a coffee going cold in their hand while making sure a grown man didn’t wander off between takes.
Unfortunately, that was exactly what Shane was doing.
Across the set, filming had started.
Ilya stood in the middle of the scene in a dark suit, posture straight, expression sharp and focused in a way that almost made him look like an entirely different person.
The cameras rolled.
“Agent Carter,” the actress across from him said, voice tense, “you’re telling me the Russian government has had someone inside the bureau for years?”
Ilya didn’t move for a moment.
Then he stepped forward slowly, his expression tightening with controlled intensity.
“I’m telling you,” he said quietly, his accent nearly gone, “that if we don’t move now, they’ll be three steps ahead of us by morning.”
Shane blinked.
He had watched Ilya work before, but it was still… unsettling.
The man who spent interviews making sarcastic comments and irritating his publicist for sport somehow turned into a completely different person the moment the cameras turned on.
Focused. Precise. Calm.
Even the crew had gone quiet.
“Cut!” the director called.
The tension on set instantly dissolved.
Ilya relaxed, running a hand through his hair as he stepped away from the mark on the floor.
And just like that, the serious FBI agent disappeared.
He spotted Shane immediately.
Of course he did.
The slow smile returned.
Shane took a sip of his coffee and pretended not to notice.
Ilya walked over.
“You watched,” he said.
“I’m working.”
“You were watching,” Ilya corrected.
“I was making sure you didn’t say anything that requires a public apology.”
“That was acting,” Ilya said patiently.
“You’ve blurred the line before.”
Ilya laughed softly.
“You are very suspicious person.”
“I’m a cautious person.”
“Suspicious,” Ilya repeated.
Shane didn’t bother responding.
For a moment they stood there while crew members reset the scene around them.
Then Ilya glanced at the coffee in Shane’s hand.
“You did not bring me one.”
Shane looked down at it.
Then back at him.
“No.”
Ilya placed a hand dramatically over his chest.
“Cruel.”
“You’re perfectly capable of getting your own coffee.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “But it is less fun.”
Shane took another slow sip, refusing to engage.
Ilya watched him for a moment.
Then, casually:
“You watched the interview clip again.”
Shane froze.
“How do you know that?”
“You have this expression when you are annoyed with me,” Ilya said.
“I’m always annoyed with you.”
“Yes,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “But sometimes it is… sharper.”
Shane stared at him.
“You’re making that up.”
“Maybe.”
Across the set, someone called for places again.
Ilya straightened slightly.
Before walking away, he paused.
Then he leaned closer, voice low enough that only Shane could hear.
“You looked impressed during the scene.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Ilya—”
“You almost smiled.”
Shane felt something dangerously close to a headache forming.
“Go do your job.”
Ilya’s smile widened.
“I am.”
Then he walked back toward the cameras.
Shane watched him go.
He told himself it was because he needed to make sure the next take went smoothly.
He told himself it was purely professional.
Across the set, Ilya stepped back into position, completely focused again as the director prepared the next shot.
Shane exhaled slowly.
This was going to be a long week.
By the end of the day, Shane had answered twelve emails, rescheduled two interviews, approved a magazine profile, and stopped one junior journalist from publishing a headline that included the phrase “Russian Chaos King.”
He was exhausted.
Filming wrapped just after six, and most of the crew had already started packing equipment away. The loud energy of the set had faded into the quieter rhythm of people finishing their work and heading home.
Shane sat at a small folding table near the monitors with his laptop open, typing out a follow-up message to the show’s network PR team.
Across the room, Ilya was still in wardrobe.
He stood near the edge of the set speaking with the director, his hands moving as he talked. Without the intensity of filming, his posture had relaxed again, shoulders loose, expression open in that annoyingly effortless way.
Shane tried very hard not to watch.
He failed.
There was something strange about seeing the contrast.
On camera, Ilya was controlled and sharp, every movement deliberate.
Off camera, he seemed almost… restless. Like standing still too long made him bored.
Eventually the conversation with the director ended, and Ilya turned.
His eyes landed on Shane immediately.
Of course they did.
Shane looked back down at his laptop.
Footsteps approached a few moments later.
“Are you always working?” Ilya asked.
Shane didn’t look up.
“Yes.”
“That seems unpleasant.”
“It’s called having responsibilities.”
Ilya pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
Shane slowly lifted his eyes.
“Why are you here?”
“I am curious.”
“About what?”
“You.”
Shane blinked.
“That’s unfortunate.”
Ilya rested his elbows on the table, studying him like he had all the time in the world.
“You spend entire day making sure I do not say stupid things,” he said.
“That’s correct.”
“But you never say much yourself.”
“I’m not the one being interviewed.”
“Yes,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “But still.”
Shane closed his laptop with a quiet click.
“What exactly are you trying to accomplish right now?”
Ilya smiled slightly.
“Conversation.”
“You have plenty of people on set to talk to.”
“They are too easy.”
Shane frowned.
“Easy?”
“They laugh at everything I say,” Ilya explained. “Even when it is not funny.”
“Maybe they’re being polite.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Exactly.”
He leaned back in the chair.
“You are not polite.”
“I’m professional.”
“Mm,” Ilya said. “No.”
Shane crossed his arms.
“No?”
“You are honest.”
Shane stared at him for a moment.
“That might be the first correct observation you’ve made all week.”
Ilya laughed quietly.
“You see? This is why I talk to you.”
“I’m thrilled.”
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Ilya tilted his head slightly.
“Why did you become a publicist?”
Shane wasn’t expecting that question.
He hesitated.
“Because I’m good at it.”
“That is not reason.”
“It’s a perfectly good reason.”
“It is practical reason,” Ilya said. “Not real one.”
Shane studied him carefully.
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who supposedly enjoys being hated.”
Ilya’s smile flickered.
“I do.”
“Then why do you keep talking to me?”
For the first time since the conversation started, Ilya paused.
It wasn’t long.
But Shane noticed.
Then Ilya shrugged lightly.
“You are interesting.”
“I’m really not.”
“You are,” Ilya said calmly.
Shane opened his laptop again.
“Well, unfortunately for you, I’m also busy.”
Ilya stood up.
“Very sad.”
Shane didn’t respond.
But as Ilya walked away, he heard him mutter something under his breath. “You smiled earlier today.”
Shane looked up sharply.
But Ilya was already halfway across the set, heading toward his trailer with that same relaxed, amused stride.
Shane sat there for a moment.
Then he sighed and rubbed his face.
This man was going to ruin his sanity long before he ruined his career.