The first time they meet, Ian's stopping the assassination of the US ambassador. It's the middle of the night and he's casing the embassy, and the climate controlled inside of the car is cold, making him shiver slightly. He ignores it.
There's a knock on his window; and he looks up to find a short, dark-haired man with a scar spanning from his temple to his cheekbone. He's young, maybe a year or two younger than Ian, and incredibly handsome, with deep-set, dark eyes.
The man knocks again; knocking Ian out of his thoughts; and Ian clears his throat; adjusts his position in the seat, and rolls the window down. "May I help you?"
"Yes, please." He speaks with a heavy Russian accent; and Ian instantly finds it charming. "May I use your phone? I need to make a call."
He should say no. He should be instantly on guard—it's the middle of the night, it's downright odd for a man to turn up right as he's surveilling the embassy and ask to use his phone when he ought to have his own, and he's not even offered up an excuse as to why he can't use his own.
But Ian's not thinking of any of that; he's, foolishly, just thinking about how he can get the man to keep talking. So he says, "Uh, sure," and roots around his pocket for his phone, fingers hitting his keys and a mini flashlight before he grasps his phone; pulls it out and passes it through the window. "Just don't make an international call, or something," he jokes.
A fleeting smile passes across the man's face. "Do not worry," he assures. "I will only be one moment."
True to his word, it only takes a quick second; the man dials and waits, and then grimaces. "I am sorry to waste your time," he says; contrite; "it went straight to voice mail."
"Ah, well," Ian says, consolingly, "better luck next time."
"Thank you, any way," the man says, passing the phone back. "I will not forget it."
It's an odd thing to say; but Ian brushes it off; smiles at the man. "Have a good evening!" he calls after the other; and the man turns around for a brief second; something like a smile crossing his expression, before he's gone, leaving Ian with only the memory of it.
The next morning, Ian makes his way into the embassy. "May I speak with Jack Gillham?" he asks the secretary. "I have a two o'clock appointment with him."
The secretary frowns at him. "I'm afraid Mr. Gillham hasn't been in today," he says; apologetic. "You can leave a message for him if you'd like, though."
Instantly, alarm bells go off in Ian's head. "No, that's fine," he says, trying to keep the sirens in his head from drowning out all rational thought. "Sorry, I have to be going."
He takes the car by Gillham's house. The man lives alone—no family, only a few friends, most of whom work at the embassy with him. He's punctual to a fault, so not turning up at work is a huge red flag.
The lights are all off; the curtains, drawn; and the door, when he tests it, is unlocked. It's as if someone's indulging him; making it easy for him. Someone wants him to know that he's been outwitted.
He finds the ambassador at his desk; eyes glazed. His skin has a sickly pallor to it, and when Ian reaches out to take his temperature, it's cold; his lips starting to turn blue.
There's a cup on his desk; and when Ian observes it, he sees a fine sheen of white powder covering the glass. Poison, he realises grimly; and then, with a start, catches sight of a single, wavy black hair caught beneath one of the books on the desk.
His mind instantly goes to the man from the night before; and Ian curses himself for not being more cautious. Of course—he must have bugged the phone somehow; probably figured out what Ian was doing, and got to the target first. Damnit!
He pulls his phone out of his pocket; tries to unlock it; fails. There's a single message on the screen; green letters on a back background. See you soon, Ian.
Ian lets out a soft growl, and throws the phone to the ground; crushing it beneath the heel of his shoe.
The second time Ian sees the man who he now knows to be Yassen Gregorovich, it's in Moscow. He's in a seedy bar; the lights low; and he's drinking something that's supposed to be vodka but smells and tastes like window cleaner, but coloured red, with a little slice of lime on the rim and a pink umbrella in it.
The stool beside him skitters against the floor, and then there's a body, lithe and dark-haired, filling the empty space beside him. "Ian," the man greets; voice deep and measured; self-assured. Ian doesn't even have to turn to see who it is; he's memorised that voice; replayed it in his mind a thousand times.
When he does turn, he finds Yassen dressed unassumingly. He's wearing a black turtleneck and a pair of dark jeans; and he looks young and harmless—an image Ian's sure is intentionally cultivated. Despite it, he exudes a dangerous, weighted aura.
In his hand, he holds a martini glass, with a single red-centred olive speared on a toothpick floating in it. He offers Ian a smile; and it's dangerous and sharp and Ian, to his surprise, finds he wants to wipe it from the other's face—preferably by covering it with his own lips.
Trying to hide his shock, he takes a long pull from his glass; his throat burning; and has to very carefully make sure he doesn't choke and start hacking. Yassen's expression shifts; his lips quirking in what might be actual, genuine amusement; and something in Ian's chest burns.
"What are you doing here," he hisses, setting the glass down, hard, and the vodka sloshes over the side slightly, coating his fingers.
"So quick to judge," Yassen tuts. "Perhaps I am merely at a bar to drink, Mister Rider."
"Don't take me for a fool."
Yassen shrugs. "I had to give it a chance." He seems pleased, though. "You are correct," he concedes, finally. "I have just got back from assassinating a Russian official. Dmitri Litvinenko, you might know of him." The honesty is surprising; Ian would have expected the other to hold his cards closer to his chest.
He does know of Dmitri Litvinenko. He's not sure that Blunt will be happy to hear that one of the top Russian government-employed scientists who they've spent years ripening for the turn is dead. He picks up his glass and takes another sip; smaller this time, deep in thought.
"We can go out to the back to talk if you'd like," Yassen offers.
Ian blinks. "Sorry, what?"
Yassen sighs. "Perhaps you do not understand," he says; half to himself, contemplative; hands folded in his lap; and then, suddenly, like a snake striking, he's out of his seat and before Ian, his lips, thin and surprisingly warm, against Ian's own.
Ian reels back. "What?" he chokes out.
Yassen looks—disappointed, almost. "Hmm," is all he says; and then he disappears into the crowd.
For a moment, Ian is wrong-footed, and then, finally, his mind catches up to his body; and he downs the rest of the vodka, dropping the glass to the counter with a clatter, and makes after Yassen.
He's out back; pressed up against the red-brick wall; cigarette smoke curling around him, the tip of it burning a rusty red in the night; and Ian makes his way over to the other, telegraphing his movements clearly, so the other's aware of him long before he sidles up to his side.
"Hello again," Yassen greets; clearly amused this time; like the cat that got the canary. Ian wonders if that makes him the canary. "I thought you might follow me."
Ian doesn't say anything. Yassen offers the cigarette. "It is good for the mind," he says.
"And bad for the lungs," Ian scoffs; but he accepts; taking a long drag; the acrid breath filling his lungs. He offers it back; blows out a breath; the smoke hanging between the two of them. Yassen watches him with dark eyes.
"Perhaps," he allows, taking the cigarette back, "but then, sometimes, we like things that are not good for us, yes?" He takes a long drag before dropping it to the ground, and crushing it with his heel.
"Yes," Ian agrees; and steps away from the wall; taking the other in in full. Yassen watches him, still, like he's waiting for something. Finally, Ian moves; takes a few steps forward until they're pressed chest to chest. "Sometimes we do."
Yassen turns his head; blowing a breath of smoke out, avoiding Ian's face; exposing his neck and cheek in the process. Ian's gaze traces the scar.
"You are wondering about the scar." It's a statement. "A sniper," Yassen says. "They were not quite accurate." He smiles.
"Mm." Ian raises a hand; dragging the back of his index finger across it. "I wouldn't miss."
Yassen's smile widens; and he turns his head back to meet Ian's gaze. "Is that so?"
Ian spares him the answer; captures his lips in a searing kiss; hot and sharp and with far too much hostility packed into it by both sides. It's perfect.
Yassen's hand is beneath his coat; and when they pull apart, his hand comes away; a photo in his hand. "Cute kid," he says; voice slightly breathless.
Ian stiffens. "Do not worry, Ian," Yassen says. "I am not interested in him." He reaches out; tucks the photograph back into Ian's coat pocket and pats his chest, before pulling him back in.
It becomes something. When they're off missions, they run into each other, sometimes. Ian's never sure if it's planned or just luck; maybe it's a mixture of both.
He and Alex have just gotten back from a skiing trip in France; the memory of cold air whipping through their hair still fresh in his mind. He'd been granted a two week leave after his last mission and he'd decided that it was high time Alex learn to ski and snowboard.
He'd given Jack two weeks off; booked two tickets for a week in France, and told Alex to pack.
Now, they're back, and Ian's staring at an empty fridge and cursing himself for forgetting to stop by the grocery store on their way back from the airport.
The doorbell rings. "Alex, can you get that?" Ian calls; praying that the freezer, at least, has something in it. No luck.
There's a murmur of voices from the hallway; and then: "Hey, Ian, your friend's here."
Ian's instantly on guard. Someone from Six? They'd told him they wouldn't contact him until the end of his leave, but how truthful were they being? Perhaps something's come up, and they've sent Crawley to—
His mind screeches to a halt as he rounds the corner into the hall and finds Yassen standing there in black slacks and sweater, two plastic grocery bags in one hand, the other empty. Instantly, Ian sweeps his gaze around the room—two wall sconces, a lamp; some books on the bookshelf. He can't see the outline of a gun beneath the other's sweater but he wouldn't put it past him, and if not that, then he's certain there's at least a knife or two on Yassen.
"Alex," he says, tightly, "go upstairs."
"But—"
"Now."
Yassen catches his gaze; amused. "Relax," he drawls, "I have only brought you vegetables."
The assurance doesn't comfort him; and Ian keeps his gaze locked on the other as Alex ascends the staircase to his room; door clicking shut behind him.
Ian takes two steps forward; then practically slams the other up against the wall, arm across his throat. Yassen's still smiling at him; eyes glinting. He doesn't seem worried about the arm pressed to his trachea in the slightest.
"What are you doing here?" Ian demands.
"I told you," Yassen says; level; "I saw your refrigerator was empty. I decided I would do you a favour and buy you groceries."
Ian snatches the bags from his hands; steps away; spills the contents out onto the counter. Lettuce, carrots, a few packages of lunch meat; a block of swiss; some bags of bread, and some butter in one; milk and oranges and sauerkraut in another. Ian purses his lips.
"See?" Yassen raises his hands. "I mean you no harm. But I thought, it would be a shame if your nephew was to go hungry."
Ian doesn't ask how he knows Alex is his nephew. "Fine," he says, grudgingly. "I'll go call Alex and we can eat."
Yassen's brows raise. "You are…not asking me to leave?" He sounds—surprised. Ian relishes having caught him off centre, for once.
"Put the kettle on, please," is all he says, before ascending up the stairs to Alex's room. Through the door, he can hear the boy having an animated discussion with someone whose voice Ian recognises as Tom Harris, Alex's best friend. He smiles slightly, before knocking on the door. "Alex," he calls, "come on down, I'm going to make us lunch."
The door opens. "Alright," Alex says. "Is your friend staying?"
He's not my friend, Ian almost says; but then realises he can't explain to the boy what exactly they are—not that he's sure quite what that is, either. Instead, he just says, "Yes."
When they get downstairs, the kettle's boiling; and Yassen's sitting at one of the chairs around the counter. He looks up as they come into the kitchen; smiles.
"Tea or coffee?" Ian asks; stiffly; and Yassen shrugs a single shoulder.
"Whatever you are having," he says. "I do not wish to inconvenience you."
Then you shouldn't be here, Ian almost snaps; reigns it in at the last moment. "Tea, then," he says. "Alex, can you get out the cups?"
Alex does as told; and Ian begins to prep them sandwiches; reubens, since that's what there seems to be ingredients for. He's not sure how Yassen knows they're his favourite, but given that he knew the fridge was empty he can hazard a guess. He'll have to do a sweep for bugs later, when Alex's at school.
Ian serves the sandwiches on the white porcelain plates he inherited from his mother; almost sets the one with the chip in it in front of Yassen, and then at the last moment, puts it in front of himself instead.
Alex seems impervious to the quiet tension that's built up in the room. "So, how'd you two meet?" he asks, taking a bite of his sandwich.
"Work," Ian says. "He bumped into me."
Yassen raises a brow at him; lips ticking up at the corner into a crooked smile. "That is not how I remember it," he says; amusement seeping into his tone.
Alex leans forward; clearly interested. "Oh?"
"I borrowed his phone," Yassen says. "I needed to make a call to a friend, you understand. Your uncle, he was kind enough to allow me to use his." He reaches out, patting Ian's hand. "Ian, he is a good man."
Ian glowers at him. "Don't you have a meeting to get to?"
"First you invite me to lunch, and then you try and get rid of me," Yasssen says. "A good man, yes, but perhaps a fickle man, too."
"Yes, I remember seeing it in your calendar," Ian says. "It's quite important, I wouldn't want you to miss it."
"Hm." Yassen polishes off his sandwich. "Perhaps you're right," he says, rising.
"I'll see you out." He rises; sets a hand on Yassen's arm, guiding him to the hallway.
"You need not be so hostile," Yassen says. "I have no interest in him, Ian. He is safe, do not worry. I have made sure of it."
What he means by that, Ian has no idea; but it's only barely comforting. He opens the door, pushing Yassen out. "Goodbye," he says, closing the door.
Yassen sticks his foot in the doorway, stopping it from closing. "Wait," he says; reaches into his jacket, fishing out a card. "My number," he says, pushing the door open, and tucks the card into Ian's jacket pocket; and then he's gone, disappearing down the street, leaving Ian alone in the doorway, his chest burning from the other's touch.