Chapter Text
2009
Yuna Hollander began mapping out her son’s future the moment he pulled the car door off its hinges at age twelve. She had always known he was destined to be special. She’d known it as soon as she and David first laid eyes on him, with no thought of superpowers or special abilities. Shane was an easy baby who grew into a gentle, shy boy. He followed rules and told his parents he loved them every day. He rarely complained, even when he ran a fever or scraped his knee playing street hockey with the older kids. Shane was already perfect in Yuna’s eyes when puberty hit and the powers started to appear.
The super-strength came first, when Shane went to enter the backseat of David’s Honda Civic and yelled in shock when the door detached itself from the vehicle entirely. Shane realized he could fly six months later, when he jumped from the dock at the cottage and found himself hovering over the lake. The healing thing came the next fall, when he gave himself a papercut during a math test and, not wanting to disturb the teacher or draw attention to himself, Shane put his thumb in his mouth to stop the bleeding. The little cut tingled against his lips and, when he pulled it away, the cut had disappeared entirely. In a rare moment of recklessness, he tested it out with a kitchen knife on the back of his hand as soon as he arrived home from school. Blood poured down his forearm until he spat on the wound and watched in awe as it sealed itself up.
Flight and super-strength alone would have been enough for Yuna. The magic, healing saliva was the cherry on top of her perfect impossibly special boy. He was going to be everything the metropolis of Ottawa could ever want in a hero. She registered Shane– confidentially, of course– with the League of Canadian Superheroes at thirteen and spent the next five years preparing him for his big debut. It was illegal for minors to impose their powers upon the public, and there was a roadmap to be followed. Most superheroes operated anonymously so that they could have some semblance of normalcy, and most superheroes weren’t quite as gifted as Shane Hollander. Ottawa had never been blessed with a hero who could do more than freeze things with his mind, which wasn’t often needed in the region.
The League of Canadian Superheroes provided resources: contacts, tech, materials for suits that could accommodate even the most complex of superpowers. The Hollanders moved to a bigger house, so that the basement could be converted into Shane’s HQ.
By the time Shane celebrated his eighteenth birthday, Yuna knew there was no one in Ottawa more prepared to rescue a cat from a tree or a child from the bottom of a well.
His suit was dark blue with red and white trim. “You’ll look classic,” his mother told him fondly the day she showed him the finished product. David caught Shane’s eye, but neither questioned Yuna’s choices. Even Shane could admit, when he tried it on and stepped in front of the mirror, that he looked like the real deal. He worked out too diligently to feign modesty about his physique, but the suit made him look like he could do some serious damage, like he was a real grown up ready to take on the world. The mask only helped the effect, because it fell just far enough down his cheeks to cover up his boyish freckles. He pulled his shoulders back and hardly recognized himself. That was not Shane Hollander in the mirror.
“Is the cape a bit much?” he asked, but his mother was shaking her head, wiping a tear away. His father was beaming at him.
“You’re just perfect,” Yuna said. “They are going to love you.”
Ilya sucked on the drawstring of his hooded sweatshirt and did his best to focus on the English lesson that droned into his headphones. I would like to purchase a parakeet. What kind of useless program had he signed up for? He had no use for birds. All he wanted was to learn how to blend in, and maybe how to ask someone if he could buy them a drink. He wanted a simple life. Ideally, he could build one here in Ottawa, away from his family, without ever having to make use of his– fuck!
The dog was small, a little fluffy orange thing. Ilya acted without thinking, racing into traffic and holding his arm out to stop the incoming car from making contact. He forgot to be gentle with the car, so the driver was jolted violently forward into their seatbelt. She stared in wonder at the tall, hooded figure who was holding her sedan in place with one hand and scooping up a Pomeranian with the other.
“Sorry about dent!” Ilya slapped the hood of the car. “Insurance, yes?”
He stepped off the road and onto the sidewalk, leaving behind a street of stunned drivers. The passenger with the damaged bumper stepped out of her car in awe.
Do you know where I could find a pet store nearby?
He ripped his headphones out and tugged his hood down lower. There were sirens, he realized, and the smell of smoke. An apartment building was on fire down the block, and most eyes were turned toward the blaze and the fire engines spraying it down. He moved through the crowd to get a closer look. Residents huddled outside with tear-streaked cheeks. The dog’s heart was racing, so he scratched at its chest.
“Is your family?” He asked the dog, nodding toward a mother and father who were attempting to comfort their young daughter.
A blur of blue and red cut off Ilya’s view of the family. The man now standing in front of him briefly sent all thoughts of burning buildings and panicked Pomeranians from Ilya’s mind. He was tall, though perhaps not quite as tall as Ilya, and every muscle in his body was highlighted by the fit of his frankly indecent suit. His jet black hair was pushed away from his face, which was masked but not obscured enough to hide his straight nose and angular jawline. Ilya blinked. The masked hero was holding a stuffed tiger out to the crying girl. He leaned down and spoke gently: “Is that the one?” The little girl nodded, blushing.
“Marzipan!” Ilya tore his eyes away from the tightly dressed superhero and turned to see an elderly lady clad head to toe in black race toward him. “My Marzipan!” The dog reacted immediately, ears falling back and pom-pom tail wagging.
“This is your dog?” Ilya asked.
The woman pulled Marzipan into her arms and started sobbing. “I lost him in all of the chaos! I had no idea if he’d run or if he was still– if he… Oh! Where did you find him? How can I ever thank you enough?”
“Is nothing,” Ilya said quietly, keeping his eyes down.
“He ran into traffic!” An onlooker cried, pointing at Ilya. “I saw it! He stopped a car with his bare hands!”
“He didn’t even hesitate!” Another announced. “Moved faster than I’ve ever seen a person move.” It was time to go.
“Wait, what?” The superhero, who Ilya now saw had a large letter V on his chest, was staring at him. “Who the–”
“He saved that little dog!” The little girl with the stuffed tiger yelled.
Ilya tugged his hood lower and turned to leave, but the crowd forming was starting to take their phones out. Fuck. That was one English word he had a handle on.
“Who are you?”
“Can I get a comment for the Ottawa Senator?”
“I’m with the Courier, can I ask–”
Ilya didn’t know what else to do, so he pushed off, flying upwards and out of sight.
“Who the hell is this?” Yuna slapped the newspaper down in front of Shane. “You saved, what, forty people? Flew them out of their windows to safety and held up a collapsing ceiling so that the firefighters could get out safe, and the papers have this hooded nobody on the front page?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said into his plate of eggs. He was tired. He’d been happy with how yesterday had gone. Obviously, he hadn’t liked seeing people lose their homes, but he’d got everyone out unharmed and made it through his first ever rescue without embarrassing himself. “People like dogs.” Apparently, saving one little fluffball was more impressive than rescuing multiple lives and temporarily burning your fingerprints off. They had healed in seconds, sure, but it had still hurt!
“Barely a mention of the Voyageur–,”
“It’s a great name,” David cut in.
“I know it’s a great name,” Yuna snapped. “But you get mentioned as an afterthought, Shane! It’s paragraph after paragraph of nonsense about this guy who saved some widow’s dog.”
“I should have spotted it,” Shane shrugged. “If I’d been paying attention, it wouldn’t have run away.”
“Bullshit, Shane. You were saving lives! You were literally rescuing people from a burning building.” She threw her hands in the air and stormed away.
“You did great,” David said.
“He did perfect!” Yuna called from the other room. “Perfect!”
Shane frowned at the front page of the Ottawa Senator. His mom had been exaggerating. There were multiple mentions of the Voyageur, and even a photograph of him. Shane thought he looked pretty impressive, hair swept back and cape rippling in the breeze mid-flight. It was a small photo, though, compared to the blown up portrait of the orange Pomeranian, Marzipan, that dominated the front page. The man holding her was anonymous, his face almost entirely hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt, pulled low over his eyes. He had a strong jaw and his top lip featured a perfect cupid’s bow. Marzipan’s owner went into detail about her desire to reward the young man in cash, and spoke at length to the Senator about how Marzipan was her best friend and the only tether she still had to her late husband. The woman whose car had been damaged in the dog rescue was quoted: “I barely caught a glimpse of his face, but I could tell he was gorgeous.” Shane couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
“I can’t believe he can fucking fly,” Yuna said, returning to the room. “What are the odds that your big day is spoiled by another flyer? Two flyers in one city!”
“Mom, relax,” Shane said. “There are lots of people in this world with powers.”
“Yeah, not many in Ottawa, though! And, I mean, flight! What are the chances?”
“He didn’t even have a costume. Who says he’s even interested in being a hero?”
“I agree with Shane,” David nodded. “We’ll probably never hear from him again.”
Yuna’s face lit up. “You’re right! He didn’t have a costume!” She smiled as she poured herself another coffee. “He’s not registered with the League, then. He won’t be pulling tricks like this for long without League approval. Maybe I should reach out to them. ”
Shane tuned her out, looking at the paper again, unconsciously examining the breadth of the hooded guy’s shoulders.
Ilya had no intention of using his powers, really. He had no interest in flying around in a tight suit kissing babies and shaking hands with the chief of police. When he did– accidentally!– help a civilian out, he did he best to be subtle. It meant taking the odd punch or two when intervening in a mugging. It meant moving so fast across the train platform that the poor soul perched at the precipice had no idea who or what had tugged them out of the way as they made to step onto the tracks.
Those were the ones that he felt the worst about. He’d go home and sit in his big, dark house on the hill, alone and empty. He’d drink and think of his mother, who he knows he could not have saved. Even if his superpowers had manifested early, what use were strength and flight and speed against a bottle of pills in her stomach?
Ilya found distraction in the news coverage of the Voyageur, Ottawa’s shiny new golden boy. The guy was so perfect it was sickening. He didn’t speak to the press often, but when he did, it was all humility, an insistence that he was only doing his duty to the city. He’d flash a shy smile and thank the brave first responders. “They’re the real heroes.”
Ilya rolled his eyes and sipped his drink.
The Voyageur's costume, though flattering, was gaudy. If Ilya was ever going to wear one of those stupid suits, his would be subtle. Dark, simple. He’d have to cover his hair, because his curls were too remarkable to keep him anonymous. The accent would be a problem, too. A solvable problem, though, if he could work out some sort of voice-masking device. Svetlana could figure something out, he was certain. But he wasn’t interested in being a hero, really. If he was reaching out to Svetlana, he’d prefer to meet her at a nightclub and spend some of his father’s money on the most expensive vodka available.
2010
In the months after Shane first donned his suit and cape in public and introduced himself as the Voyageur to Ottawa, the hooded stranger who’d disrupted his mother’s vision of her son’s first front page spread had been all but forgotten. The city had fallen head over heels for the Voyageur. The Voyageur was handsome, confident, and clinical. Children wore replicas of his navy-and-maroon costume around town. Women batted their eyelashes at him when he flew them out of trouble. Someone had painted a giant mural of him on the side of a parking garage downtown.
Shane passed a newspaper stand plastered with the repeated image of him saving a drowning child from the canal and wondered how it was possible that he was the man in those photographs. He didn’t look or feel super in his regular clothes. The button down shirt tucked into grey slacks was dorky enough, but the glasses his mother insisted upon made him feel like a grade-A nerd. Yuna was right, of course, that the glasses were a good disguise. No one would look at Shane Hollander, quiet and organized junior reporter at the Ottawa Senator, and see the Voyageur.
The reporter thing had been David’s idea. He covered finance at the Senator, but he had friends who worked the local crime beat and got Shane a cubicle and a part-time gig. It made sense, the Hollanders all agreed, for Shane to have direct access to police scanners and old case files.
The newsroom loved the Voyageur. Hayden Pike, who sat in the cubicle next to Shane, covered the city’s superheroes and had a large photo of the Voyageur pinned next to his computer, right beside his wedding photo from the summer before.
“Guy’s a legend,” he said to Shane when he arrived at his desk in the morning. Shane scratched at his collar, finger brushing the hem of his Voyageur suit, which he wore under his work attire every day. “You see him foil that bank heist this morning?” Hayden launched into a description of the event that had prevented Shane from eating a proper breakfast on his way to work. He’d resorted to shovelling down a protein bar after tugging on his work clothes in the back alley behind the bank.
“He’s pretty good, yeah,” Shane said.
He did his best to refocus on the details of a reported case of workplace harassment at Rozanov International. It wasn’t a big news story because this was par for the course. The Rozanovs traded in “shipping and logistics” officially, but it was obvious to Shane that there was a shadier side to their business. The paper didn’t cover much about it because their CEO, who ran the main operation back in Russia, was notoriously litigious and even, if rumours were to be believed, violent. The Ottawa operations were managed by the younger Rozanov son, who Shane understood to be a spoiled, indulgent playboy. Shane didn’t pay much attention to whatever the young Rozanov was doing– superhero duties left him too busy to worry about tabloids– but he’d seen the occasional photo of him stumbling out of clubs with a woman on each arm, his golden-brown curls somehow at once sweaty and perfectly tousled.
“Come on, Shane,” Hayden protested. “You gotta admit it’s pretty cool to witness this guy. We’ve had well-meaning heroes in Ottawa before, but the Voyageur is, like, super super.”
“He’s cool!” Shane aimed for enthusiasm. “I don’t know about the name, though. The ‘the’ is a little clunky.” He’d argued about this with his mother for months before giving in. Yuna, of course, had been right in her insistence that no one in the city would care about the ‘the’.
Hayden scoffed and then jumped at a notification on his phone. Shane’s watch had buzzed at the same time. “Well, clunky name or not, he’s about to save a bunch of lives, I’d bet. Container ship on the river has lost power and is drifting right toward the bridge.” Hayden started out of the office. “Catch you later, man.” Shane was already taking the other exit, toward the stairwell. He rushed to the rooftop, abandoned his shirt and slacks, and sprung into action, affixing his mask as he sped towards the river.
Shane was strong, but even for him, a full container ship was a heavy load to corral. He’d slowed the ship down and spoken to the captain, but the endeavor felt fruitless. He was delaying disaster, not preventing it.
Every muscle in his body ached and his hair was wet with sweat. He hovered fifty yards above the water, pushing back against the ship with all of his might.
“You need hand?”
The sudden voice to his left caused Shane to let go of the boat for a millisecond. The hull slammed against him and nearly winded him.
“What?”
The newcomer cleared his throat. “Do you need a hand?” The voice was robotic, oddly clean and smooth. It sounded like a computer was speaking. Shane squinted at the figure in flight beside him. He was clad head to toe in a tight-fitting charcoal suit. His head was covered by a dark helmet with a tinted black visor. Only the bottom half of his face was visible, and a small rod that looked like a microphone stuck out across his cheek.
“Does that suit have a voice alteration feature?” Shane squinted, impressed. “How did you do that?”
“Uh.” The noise was smooth and devoid of feeling. “We should focus on this boat now, yes?”
Shane blinked and then remembered why he was there. He followed the other guy’s lead and together they pushed back against the hull of the ship. “Superstrength, too?” Shane called over.
“Yes. And flying. We are matching.”
Shane bit his tongue. He highly doubted this guy’s spit could heal any wound in a matter of seconds. He glanced over and took in the other man’s form. He was bigger than Shane– taller, and thicker in the biceps and thighs. The thighs, especially, were impressive. And the glutes.
“Suit is new,” the man said, and Shane snapped his gaze away. “Not sure about it.”
“Okay,” Shane said. He mentally reminded himself to focus on the task at hand, with lives and infrastructure at stake, instead of on this stranger’s ass in a tight-fitting suit. “We’re making progress.” Looking down at the river, he saw the water churning as the boat started to shift back the way it came. “We can guide it back into the docks.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
Shane rolled his eyes. They flew in silence, aside from the occasional grunt of effort, until the ship neared port.
“You are good,” the mechanical voice said as they docked. “I saw you save people from that fire. Very impressive. Very strong.”
“You saved the dog,” Shane said, his suspicions confirmed. “Thanks for that.”
“Easy. Nice dog.”
“Yep,” Shane sighed. “Everyone loved the nice dog.” The other man smirked and followed Shane to the awaiting press.
The debrief with the ship’s captain and crew was quick. Shane shook hands with the head of the port authority and the transport minister and posed for a photo with them, the ship’s captain, and the mysterious hero in black. The press snapped their cameras eagerly. Hayden, front and centre, held up his audio recording device and Shane prepared his usual, boring answer about showing up for his city and just doing his best.
“You in the black. Who are you?” Hayden called, nodding to the new guy. “What’s your name?” Shane frowned and looked across at the unreadable expression on his fellow superhero’s lips.
“No name,” he said. The voice was slightly unnerving. Too clean to be human. Shane wondered what the man actually sounded like.
“You need a name,” Hayden laughed. “Every superhero has a name.”
“Not a hero. Just nice guy.” His mouth broke into a wide, crooked smile and a dozen more camera shutters clicked.
Ilya followed the Voyageur back into the city centre, despite the Voyageur’s best efforts to ditch him. Ilya was a fast flyer, but the other man was more fluid and precise in his movements. He moved like he was in total control of the air. It was almost mesmerizing to watch.
They were downtown when the Voyageur apparently grew tired of glancing back to see Ilya tailing him. He skidded to a landing on the roof of an insurance building and Ilya followed, touching down a few feet from Ottawa’s favourite hero. The Voyageur looked especially impressive in the fading daylight, the sunset lighting his pretty face up golden. His hair, windswept, fell out of place and into his eyes. Ilya’s bottom lip fell a millimetre as the Voyageur tugged a gloved hand through his hair to push it out of his face.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“I wanted to talk,” Ilya said simply. His voice sounded bizarre, he knew. It was mechanical and inhuman, but it wasn’t heavily accented, and that was enough. Keeping the Russian accent would have been a surefire way to prevent his secret identity from staying secret long.
“About what?” The Voyageur scowled at him. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m an official registered hero with the League of Canadian Superheroes. I’ve got my license and my documents and I’m the one they call when the city needs saving.”
“Okay,” Ilya said. God, this guy took himself seriously. “Not trying to… intrude on your duties.” He wondered if that was the right word. “Just thought it would be nice to help.”
“Yeah, well,” The Voyageur sized him up. “Thank you, I guess.”
“You are welcome.”
They stared at each other. “Are you registered with the–”
“Oh my god, you are so boring,” Ilya groaned. It came out funny, devoid of feeling with the voice-tech that Svetlana had set up for him. “Who cares? I am helping!”
“Yeah, but if you’re not registered, you’ll be labeled a vigilante,” the Voyageur said.
“So?”
“They could arrest you…”
“If they catch me.”
The Voyageur scoffed. “Okay, whatever. Do what you want. Just don’t involve me in the future.”
“Unless you need my help again, yes?”
“Fuck off.”
Ilya grinned as he watched the Voyageur take flight and disappear between skyscrapers.
Shane ran on his treadmill, collection tubes hooked up to his forehead and his chest. The sweat collection process was admittedly gross. Spit was grosser, though, and blood felt like a last resort. The Hollanders had decided that sweat was the most palatable of Shane’s various bodily fluids to be covertly dabbing on strangers’ wounds. It had felt like a violation, the first time Shane had uncorked a bottle of his own sweat and poured it into a gaping knifewound of an elderly man. But the man had lived, and he may not have without the healing powers of Shane’s perspiration. Icky, yes, but icky was better than letting innocent people die. He had to remind himself of that frequently.
Yuna had been on the warpath all through dinner, ranting about the “nice guy” who had “helped” Shane out. “You could have handled it,” she scoffed.
“I couldn’t,” Shane admitted. “I needed the extra set of hands.”
“Well,” Yuna said. “I don’t like him. He came out of nowhere, he’s clearly got an agenda–”
“What agenda?” Shane laughed. “He just seems like a bit of a dick who’s too lazy to be a real hero. If he wants to show up any time I need to, like, hold a bridge up, I won’t complain.”
“Maybe he could be your sidekick,” David volunteered.
“Shane does not need a sidekick!” Yuna snapped, and they all returned to their salmon.
Now, Shane turned up the resistance on the treadmill and sprinted. His mother was right, he had no need for a sidekick. And if he was going to hire a sidekick, he’d get someone actually nice. Not someone cocky, intrusive, unregistered, and unpredictable. He wouldn’t want his sidekick to be so big, either. Shane wasn’t a small man, but the man he’d stood beside on the rooftop that afternoon had been both taller and broader than him. Shane knew he had more than his own fair share of admirers– the magic and mystery of the Voyageur suit made him seem far more attractive and charming than he truly was– but the last thing he needed, even in his perfectly-tailored red-and-blue suit, was to be stood beside that broad-shouldered, thick-thighed hunk.
“Nice Guy?” Svetlana cackled. “That is what you went with?”
“I did not choose this name!” Ilya cried. “I just said that I am nice guy!”
“Well, they are calling you Nice Guy, and half of the city is in love with you.” Svetlana spread the paper across Ilya’s large countertop. “The other half thinks you’re a danger to society since you’re not registered with the national department of superheroes or whatever it’s called.”
“It’s a league, Sveta” Ilya corrected playfully. “Captain Perfect reminded me all about it.”
“Captain Perfect would be a better name than Nice Guy,” Svetlana said. She leant across the counter. “Is he as gorgeous up close?”
Ilya shrugged. Yes. More gorgeous, actually. “Your microphone thing worked,” he said, changing the subject.
“Of course it did,” Svetlana replied, mock offended. “I still want to upgrade that helmet. Get that night vision installed.”
Before bed, Ilya ignored a call from his father, and another from his brother. He had done his best to pass off his duties to his father’s hand-selected board. Ilya preferred to show up once a quarter to sign off on some paycheques. Lazy, his father called him, but Ilya had no interest in getting involved in the family business. He had been shipped off to run the Canadian division of Rozanov International because of this work ethic. The job was not nothing, but Ilya knew it was intended to be a punishment for not being as enthusiastic and amenable as Alexei.
Ilya was more than content spending his father’s money on booze and parties, and now, he supposed, on upgrading his super-suit with Svetlana.
A text from Alexei came through in Russian: Reporter from Ottawa paper is coming to speak to you this week. Couldn’t avoid. Give him tour of offices and then $$$. Kill the story. Dad will escalate if he pushes – don’t let it get there.
Ilya scowled. He was sick of this.
Shane was surprised when he was tapped to check out the Rozanov International offices. He liked to cover minor scrapes around the city– it meant that he could disappear for his Voyageur duties without his bosses noticing his absences. He hoped that the city would keep itself in one piece while he spent the afternoon asking Ilya Rozanov if he had any comments about the wrongful dismissal case being levied against his father’s company.
The Rozanov lobby was comically menacing, with black marble walls and onyx pillars. The front desk was operated by an attractive and neatly-dressed clerk, who guided Shane towards the elevators. “You’ll find Mr. Rozanov on floor eighty-one,” she said, her voice cold and crisp. Shane fidgeted on the way up, adjusting his glasses and double checking that his shirt was buttoned up all the way so that no part of his Voyageur attire was visible.
With a ding, the doors opened to a sprawling office with a full wall of windows overlooking downtown Ottawa. The chair behind the desk spun when Shane entered, and Ilya Rozanov made a face that was somewhere between a grimace and a smile.
He was as handsome as he was in the tabloid photos, though not quite so sweaty. His golden-brown hair curled just below his ears and his suit fit him perfectly. Shane tugged at the sleeve of the sweater he wore atop his dress shirt. “Hi,” he said. “I’m–”
“Shane Hollander.” His voice was rough and low, heavily accented. Shane swallowed and held a hand across the desk. Rozanov blinked.
“Mr. Rozanov,” Shane said, and Rozanov’s eye twitched as he accepted the handshake.
“Ilya is fine,” he said. He motioned for Shane to sit in the seat across from him.
“Ilya, then. I’m here from the Ottawa Senator to ask you about–”
“To ask me about my father’s business dealings and unlawful firing of man who raised concern about suspect shipment last spring,” Ilya finished.
“Well,” Shane said. “Yeah.” Ilya scanned his face.
“Okay,” he said simply. “We have two options, Shane Hollander.”
“You can just call me Shane.”
“Okay, Shane. Here is what we can do. I can pay you three thousand dollars and you go back to your boss and tell him–”
“Her.”
“Sorry. Her. You tell her you found nothing.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?” Shane straightened his shoulders.
“You have not let me finish, Shane Hollander. I could bribe you, like father wants me to. Or you can wait.”
“Wait?”
“I am… what is word?” Ilya bit his lower lip and looked to Shane, as if Shane might know what the fuck he was trying to say.
“Corrupt?” Shane volunteered. “Covering something up?”
“No, no.” Ilya laughed. It was a cuter sound than Shane would have thought possible from such a man. “I am not interested in causing my father little problem.”
“I can understand that,” Shane said. He pulled out his phone. “Listen, could I record–”
“No!” Ilya’s eyes went wide. “No recording.”
“Mr. Rozanov, if your father is pressuring you or threatening you…”
“Hollander, please let me finish, yes?”
“Okay.” Shane sat back, waiting.
“I want to cause my father big problem. He is… your word is corrupt. Yes. If you have patience with me, we can… take him below?”
“Take him down?” Shane clarified. Ilya grinned. It was a lopsided, wide smile. Shane willed himself not to blush and failed.
“Yes. It is a good plan?”
“Um,” Shane frowned, “I don’t know that there is much of a plan here. You’re saying you can provide information about larger criminal activity at Rozanov International?”
“Yes. But will maybe take time.”
“How much time?”
Ilya shrugged. “Years?”
“Years?” Shane cried. “Come on, Rozanov. You’re fucking with me.”
“I am not fucking. I am trying to protect you. They are not nice, my family.”
Shane scowled. “So, I’m just supposed to go back to the newsroom with no story?”
“Today, yes. But you will be alive and not on father’s list of enemies, so you can continue to follow case quietly. I can help you.” Shane stared at the man across from him.
“Why me?” Shane asked. “Why do you trust me with this?”
“Not personal.” Ilya said. “You are who they sent. I trust Canadian newspaper. Good, honest reporting. Is there a better person for job?”
“No,” Shane snapped. It wasn’t totally true. He was junior, and this was way above his paygrade. He had multiple colleagues more equipped for a years-long inside-job takedown of an international corporation. And none of those people had superhero duties to worry about. “No, I’m in.”
This time, it was Ilya who reached across for a handshake. “I will be in touch, Shane Hollander.”
2011
They didn’t cross paths often. Nice Guy (“I just think it’s a ridiculous name.” –Yuna Hollander) stopped crime at his leisure, swooping in to toss a flasher into a dumpster or to slam a creep headfirst against a lamppost when a girl was just trying to walk home from a bar. He was mysterious and dangerous and, yes, in a way, nice. Women swooned over his shadowy, hulking figure. Shane found it all very tiresome. The Voyageur was the one plucking the injured flashers out of the dumpsters and escorting them to the police station. He didn’t waste his healing sweat on the cut foreheads of the leering men, but he did bring them in to make sure they faced legal consequences. Nice Guy couldn’t be bothered to do any actual work. He just showed up, showed off, and flew away.
Shane heard from Ilya Rozanov once every couple of months. There was rarely anything juicy in his messages. Mostly, he’d share documents that exposed some questionable transactions with arms dealers, but on occasion, Ilya would ask Shane about his day, or for advice on what was best to order at Tim Hortons to fit in with other Canadians.
Today, Shane was going to see Rozanov in person for the first time in almost a year, though in an entirely different context. A colleague who wrote on local interest stories had called in sick, so Shane had been sent off to cover the press conference at Ottawa General Hospital, where Ilya Rozanov was committing to a multi-million dollar renovation of the children’s wing.
Rozanov looked good. He always did, but with his hair combed back, his cheekbones reminded Shane of a piece of ancient fine art. A gold chain glinted beneath the collar of his shirt, the top two buttons of which were undone. Shane pushed his glasses up his nose and settled into the second row of the press seats, hitting record on his phone. There was little chance of this press conference being interesting, but Shane admired Rozanov’s initiative all the same. To his surprise, Ilya nodded to him as soon as he sat down. He then raised a hand in a little wave toward Shane, who looked behind him before waving back. Ilya winked and Shane felt his cheeks grow warm.
After the press conference, they toured the current children’s wing. The hospital chairman described the planned changes as they walked, some reporters snapping photos, others taking notes. Ilya waved into the rooms at the children, grinning and making faces.
Shane felt a pang of guilt as he looked at the children in their little beds. He’d tried it out with his father’s diabetes. No infusion of spit, nor sweat, nor blood from Shane could cure diseases. It was only wounds– cuts, breaks, burns, bruises– that he could help with. It bummed him out, being here, seeing all of the kids he couldn’t save.
“You are okay, Shane Hollander?” He hadn’t noticed Ilya drop back from the chairman to join him.
“You can just call me Shane,” he reminded Ilya quietly. “And yeah, I’m fine. Just, like, sad, you know?”
“Is sad, yes. But best place for sick kids. They are getting the best help available.” Shane watched Ilya wave to a newborn baby who was looking at them over a nurse’s shoulders. “And with more money, they have better help!”
“That’s a good way to think of it,” Shane nodded. They turned a corner into the maternity ward waiting area.
“I like your vest,” Ilya said. “Very smart.”
Shane flushed and shook his head. Ilya looked like a million bucks in his perfectly tailored suit. Shane’s sweater vest was hand-knit by Hayden’s pregnant (and very bored) wife, Jackie. It was soft and well-made, but paired with his arch-supporting running shoes, he was basically dressed like a grandfather.
“My friend made it,” Shane said. “She’s making me some mittens next.”
“Is cute,” Ilya said. “Your, ah, friend cares very much for you?” He watched Shane closely.
“Yeah,” Shane said, smiling. “Yeah, she’s great.” Jackie and Hayden were great friends to Shane, it was true. They never got upset when he cancelled at the last minute or if he arrived late and slightly out of breath. It was hard to maintain a proper friendship without sharing his secret, so he appreciated the Pikes’ relaxed natures and lack of invasive questions.
“I am happy for you.” Ilya looked at the linoleum when he said it.
“Thanks!”
Shane’s watch buzzed as a yell came from an office. Panic spread immediately. A subway car had come off the tracks and was dangling precariously over a downtown intersection. Shane peeled away without a second thought.
The Voyageur was already in action when Ilya arrived on the scene. He adjusted his helmet and flew to grab the nose of the train car that the Voyageur was already tending to. He shed all thoughts of Shane Hollander’s sweet, mitten-knitting, caring girlfriend and did his best to focus on the task at hand. “Nice of you to show up,” the Voyageur said. “Did you hear there were hot women on the train or something? Hoping to get another front page photo of you with a girl swooning in your arms?”
“Hah! You are funny now!” Ilya grinned. The humour in his voice was lost slightly in the mechanics of Svetlana’s microphone. “You read my press?”
“No.”
“You are very bad liar!” Ilya laughed. “Jealous?”
“Of you? No.”
“Of swooning girls.” Ilya shifted his hands to get a better grip on the train car.
“Fuck off,” the Voyageur snapped.
“Ah, ah, there are children watching.” Ilya nodded to the crowd that was forming on the street, held back by police officers and yellow tape. “Are there injured on board?”
“There were a few,” the Voyageur said, unconcerned. “They’re fine now.”
“What do you mean? They have to get to the hospital, no?”
“Yeah, for a check-in afterwards. Everyone’s in shock.” The Voyageur tucked his hand under the bottom rim of the car. “No major injuries, though. Here, grab it there.” Together, they hauled the train upwards, delicately adjusting it until it hovered over the tracks.
“Ready?” Ilya called.
“Drop it,” the Voyageur nodded.
Ilya swore loudly in Russian as the tip of his finger was pinned briefly by the full weight of the train car.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Nothing, I am fine.” He wasn’t fine. The glove of his suit had been torn and the tip of his finger was a mess of blood.
“Everyone okay?” the Voyageur called into the train. A woman with blood on her forehead gave him a thumbs up through the window. There was no sign of a cut. “Okay, let’s get the firefighters up here to get you all home safe!” He turned back to Ilya and his smile disappeared. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Train car,” Ilya said, frowning at his hand. “What else? It is fine.”
“Is that bone?”
“No. Hm. Maybe yes.”
“Jesus Christ, Nice Guy.”
“Do not call me this. I hate that name.”
“You came up with it!”
“No, that Hayden Pike ran with it in the papers. Stupid. He added capital letters when there were not supposed to be capital letters. He is a bad journalist.”
“Don’t talk about– just… Ugh!” The Voyageur was still staring at the blood leaking from Ilya's hand. If Ilya hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have found the Voyageur’s confused, concerned anger quite cute. “Come on.”
Without warning, the Voyageur grabbed Ilya’s uninjured hand and tugged him upwards, away from the subway and the firefighters who had arrived on scene. They flew to a rooftop a few blocks over and the Voyageur pulled Ilya behind the water tower. Perhaps it was because Ilya was weakened by the blood loss, or perhaps the Voyageur was particularly worked up and not paying attention to how much strength he was exerting, but when he brought Ilya beneath the shadow of the structure, Ilya fell hard against the smaller man’s chest. They both froze, chins inches apart.
“Sorry,” the Voyageur breathed. “Sorry.” The second time, he said it firmly and stepped away. Ilya’s entire body felt electric. He forgot, for a split second, about the dizzying pain he was experiencing.
“I can go home,” Ilya said. “My assistant, she had first aid training.”
“No,” the Voyageur stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. “No, that needs– it needs more than just a stitch.”
“Yes, but she can take me to hospital if I need–”
“Shut up.” Ilya watched as red-gloved hands scrambled at a utility belt. “Fuck.”
“What is wrong?”
“Okay,” the Voyageur said. “Okay, I need you to listen to me and not be weird about what I’m about to do.”
“What are you about to do?”
“I’m out of sweat.” He said. Ilya had no idea what that could possibly mean. English was such a confusing language. “I used it all up on the train passengers. Okay. Just– oh, God, it looks really bad.”
“Yes, it hurts very much,” Ilya said, holding his hand up. “Which is why I’d like to go–”
Before Ilya could finish his thought, the Voyageur took Ilya’s hand in his own and then, without warning, placed the tip of Ilya’s finger in his mouth. Ilya was frozen, entirely unsure of what the fuck was happening. His whole body tingled with the surprise of it. The Voyageur removed his lips from Ilya’s finger and stepped back, face in hands.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s… I panicked. Maybe I should have just spat on it or licked it? No, that would have been even weirder. Fuck, look, I know that was gross, but at least it’s healed now, right?”
Ilya was staring at his finger. The pain was gone. The bit of exposed bone was safely enclosed in his perfect, unmarred fingertip. “What the fuck?”
“I know.”
“You– how did I not know you could do this?”
“Why would I tell you?” The Voyageur snapped. “I try to keep it private, you know? It’s kind of weird.”
“Is very weird.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” The Voyageur crossed his arms.
“Hey, not bad weird. Very good weird. Incredible weird.” Ilya marvelled at his hand again. “Your spit is magic? Fuck, you must be popular with the ladies, hey? Or the boys. Both, maybe?”
“Fuck off.” The Voyageur leaned back against the water tower supports. Ilya joined him.
“I am serious.”
“I usually use sweat,” the Voyageur admitted. “It feels less gross. But I used up my supply today for the people on the train, so…” He motioned to his mouth as he sunk down the pillar into a seated position. Ilya licked his own lips and joined him on the ground.
“Does this happen with, ah, all of your... what is a good word... liquids?”
“Gross. I think so, yeah. Blood can work, but I prefer using sweat or spit. I haven’t had to test piss yet, and I don’t want to. Tears are the hardest to collect, but they’d probably be the least repulsive option, right?”
“Hmm,” Ilya hummed. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “So, say, if someone with toothache was giving you a blow job…”
“Oh, God. You’re disgusting. I don’t know. Don’t–”
“I think you would cure their toothache. Lucky them, they have no need for dentist if you are their boyfriend.”
“Shut up.” The Voyageur huffed as he spoke, but Ilya saw that he was smiling.
“And if you were giving someone else–”
“Fuck off!” The Voyageur was laughing properly now. He tilted his head back against the pillar and Ilya drank in his side profile. The mask did utterly nothing to hide how beautiful this man was.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Ilya said.
“You’re staring at me.”
“Yes.” Ilya was curious.
The Voyageur turned to face him. He looked at Ilya’s mouth. It may have meant nothing, but Ilya instinctively moved his head a half-inch forward. The Voyageur swallowed.
“I have small cut on my lip,” Ilya said.
“Really?”
Ilya didn’t bother reaffirming the lie. He brought their lips together tentatively. The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic. Ilya’s hand cupped the Voyageur’s face as he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue in and smiling at the little noise he received in response. It was hard to know if the magic saliva was a factor or not, but it certainly felt like a kiss that was adding years to Ilya’s life.
“Fuck,” the Voyageur said. He pulled away and stumbled to his feet. “We should not– I don’t even know who you are. We don’t know anything about each– this is a terrible idea.”
“Okay,” Ilya said. He stood up, doing his best not to wear his disappointment in his posture. “Was nice for me.”
“No, same. It was great. Really, really great. I just… I’m not even– I don’t know.”
“Hey, do not panic,” Ilya said. He reached a tentative hand out to the Voyageur’s shoulder and patted it. “I will see you around, yes?”
“Yes,” the Voyageur nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Why sorry? All good, Voyageur. You are good kisser.”
“Thanks. Wait, really?”
“Magic spit helps, I am sure.”
“Fuck off.”
“What is this guy’s problem?” Hayden groaned at his phone screen. He set down the sandwich he’d packed for lunch and shook his head. “That other superhero, you know– the one in black? Everyone calls him Nice Guy because of my soundbite.”
“Yep,” Shane said, hoping that the warmth that was spreading up his neck wasn’t visible. “Yeah, I’ve heard about him.”
“He just emailed me a list of names he’d like me to use instead. He’s blaming me for his stupid name!”
Shane frowned. “How can you be sure it’s even from– oh.” Hayden had flipped his phone around to reveal a photograph of Nice Guy, decked out in his full helmet and suit, frowning at the camera and holding a piece of paper that read:
Hello, Mr. Pike.
You have been using a stupid name for me. Please consider one of the following better names. You write for a good paper, so I will trust you to choose the best one.
- Night Raider
- The Bear
- Bytown Boy
- Captain Perfect
- Mr. Ottawa
- Rideau Man
Thank you.
The writing was elegant and feminine. The photo was taken in front of a plain white wall. Shane wondered who had taken the picture. He wondered who had written the note.
“Can you believe him?” Hayden shook his head. “If he wanted a proper name, he should have thought of that before he started helping the city out.”
“He should be registered with the LCS,” Shane said. He froze, unsure for a moment if Shane Hollander should care so vocally about that sort of thing.
“Exactly!” Hayden said with enthusiasm. “He’s a vigilante, he should be happy we’re not putting more of our efforts into figuring out his government name and having him shut down entirely.”
Shane did his best to push thoughts about the kiss from his mind. He was relieved when Nice Guy– or whatever he wanted to be called– didn’t appear at his side for weeks, allowing him to focus on keeping the city safe.
He had never kissed a man before. It was something he had thought about, of course, but dating was hard when you lived two lives. His life was lonely in and out of his mask and suit. He’d taken to flying to the rooftop of one of Ottawa’s many skyscrapers and watching the sunset alone, just to get away from his mother’s plans for photoshoots at animal shelters and his father’s well-meaning-but-never-ending questions about how he was doing.
“Hello.” The mechanical voice startled him. It was so unnatural, but now sounded so familiar.
“Why do you use that thing?” Shane asked, not bothering to return the greeting. He adjusted his mask to make sure it was on securely.
“Same as why you wear that mask,” Nice Guy said simply. “Like to keep life separate from this.” Shane said nothing to that, but the other man came and sat beside him, legs dangling from the lip of the roof.
“Are you married?” Shane asked, not looking anywhere but the horizon. “Or, like, with someone? Is that why you want to keep things separate?” He felt a little dirty, even though they had only kissed, briefly, and it had been weeks ago now. There was a beat and then a loud, sharp laugh.
“Married? No. No, no. Not married. Not with anyone.” He was still laughing. “I keep life separate because, you know, annoying press asking annoying questions. That Hayden Pike would be at my front door every day to give me a new stupid nickname. When he wasn’t at your front door asking for autographs. He loves you.”
“You don’t like ‘Nice Guy’?” Shane asked, feigning ignorance and ignoring the second comment. A snort. Their shoulders were nearly touching, they were sitting so close together.
“Terrible name. I didn’t mean for Pike to run with it. Maybe too late now, though?”
“I think so,” Shane laughed. “Ironic, though.”
“Ironic?”
“Nice Guy. And you’re, you know… sort of an asshole.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah!” Shane insisted. “You show up whenever you feel like it, you’re not officially registered as a hero, you never help the police out–,”
“You are just making me sound cool, Voyageur.”
“Your immediate reaction to me healing your finger was to ask me about what it’s like when I give or receive a blow job,” Shane hissed. Nice Guy only laughed.
“Again, I do not see your point. I am nice guy. Blow jobs are nice. Saying that you must be good at them makes me an asshole? It was a compliment!” Shane dared a glance over at this.
“Why are you here?”
Nice Guy shrugged. “Was bored. Looking for people to help. Found you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You are, what is the word… wound tightly?”
“I’m fine, actually.”
The sun had almost disappeared. They sat in silence, listening for sirens and watching the sky turn from orange to deep, dark blue.
“Are you married?” The man’s unnerving, robotic tone was suddenly serious, as if he hadn’t considered this possibility. Shane snorted.
“No. If I was married, I wouldn’t be wasting my evening up here with you. I’d be at home with– no. Not married.”
“Not a waste,” Nice Guy said. “But we could use time better.”
Shane’s pulse quickened. “How?”
“My ideas are probably bad for this rooftop.”
“I bought an apartment,” Shane said hurriedly. “It’s right downtown for when I need a quick change or a nap after a really intense emergency and it’s sort of empty but…”
“Where?”
They hastily agreed on a set of rules as they stumbled into the clean, sparsely-decorated apartment. Ilya’s helmet would stay on and the Voyageur’s mask would, too. They’d share no details about their personal lives. No one would know about this.
“Bad for your reputation,” Ilya joked. “Associating with– what is the newspaper’s word? Vigilant?”
“Vigilante,” the Voyageur corrected. Through his visor, Ilya scanned the other man’s face. He was worried, always, that his imperfect English would give him away somehow. The Voyageur didn’t seem interested in Ilya’s clumsy wording, though. His big brown eyes were looking at Ilya’s lips. They both leaned in to close the distance.
It was fun, Ilya decided, kissing someone as strong as himself. There was no need to hold back the way he had to with other hookups. When the Voyageur reached back against the kitchen counter to steady himself as Ilya kissed down towards the neckline of his supersuit, a chunk of granite ripped off in his hand. They both froze and glanced at the piece of countertop at their feet.
“Should we–,”
“I’ll deal with it later,” the Voyageur insisted, tugging roughly at Ilya’s neck and bringing their lips back together before abruptly and immediately pulling away again. His eyes widened and his hand softly rubbed Ilya’s neck. “Wait. Did that hurt?” Ilya laughed.
“No.” He made to return to their kiss, but the Voyageur leaned away.
“Are you sure?”
“You’re not that strong,” Ilya laughed. It was a lie. It had hurt, but only slightly, and not enough to make Ilya consider stopping. “And I am just as strong, right?” He brought his hand to the Voyageur’s jaw and, with a hint of force, tilted it. He brought his lips as close to his companion’s as possible without actually touching. A breath caught. “Besides,” Ilya said quietly, “if you do hurt me, you can always kiss it better, yes?”
They tore a handle off of a cabinet and kicked a small dent in the door of the dishwasher before they moved into the bedroom, where there were no personal effects or photos on the wall. “Wow,” Ilya said. He was going to make a comment about the blandness of the room, but the Voyageur had dropped to his knees and began rendering Ilya entirely incapable of thinking of anything else.