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As Voyageur crumpled to a heap outside Ilya Rozanov's ground floor apartment window, he wondered if any of this was fair. Showing up to an ostensible stranger's doorstep in the dead of night, expecting help.
But then again, Shane Hollander's idea of fair had died somewhere between his father's murder, and the day five years later, when Shane had filed a complaint with the Ottawa PD about Officer Hewley's conduct. Despite providing video evidence and first-hand testimony describing how Hewley had taken bribes from multiple organized crime rings, Hewley was never investigated. In fact, the night after the complaint was filed, Office Hewley had parked outside of the Hollander's Rockcliffe Park home, flicking his headlights on and off, on and off, into Shane's mother's bedroom window. Shane had stormed out of his house, recognized the driver, kicked his bumper, and was promptly arrested. He was let go the next morning and never charged, but he still shook with rage at the memory.
Hewley got to retire with a pension, and David Hollander's murder went, officially, cold. That was, until Voyageur solved it, evidence dropped off via USB stick and digital recorder in a plastic freezer bag outside the Ottawa Police Department's headquarters. It had helped that the bag was taped to the back of the hogtied murderer, one Everett Warner. Dramatic, sure, but effective. Everett Warner saw life in prison, and the scales of the city were a little more even, even if Shane had to do it all by himself.
Now, a year later, the side of his helmet pressed to the cold brick, Voyageur raised a shaking fist to the window pane and rapped at the glass as loudly as he could, weak in his own ringing ears. His vision kept tilting as he'd made his way from the Flats all the way here, to Vanier North. His ribs were screaming, and though he'd hastily tied a tourniquet above the gunshot wound in his left thigh and stuffed it with all the gauze he had in his first aid kit, it was still bleeding all the way down his leg.
None of this was fair, but it was his own fault, actions meeting consequences. The police should do their job, and Shane ought to work solely alone, treating his own wounds. Safer for himself, and for Ilya; Voyageur was a wanted man, after all. As was his thanks for dragging law enforcement, kicking and screaming, towards justice. He worried constantly about being seen here, about another Officer Hewley showing up at Ilya's doorstep.
The window slid open, and Shane looked up to see Ilya Rozanov staring down at him, sleep in his voice as he said, "What the fucking fuck."
Be it the deadpan delivery, or just the relief of seeing Ilya, Voyageur laughed, and then winced. "Ow."
"Idiot," Ilya muttered, and helped him through the window, nonetheless.
Voyageur settled against the wall next to the window, perched on his good leg as he watched Ilya shut the window and putter about. This routine was familiar; despite his clear exhaustion, under-eye bags and bedhead, Ilya was always precise and sure in his movements. Clean, methodical. He was an OR nurse, and Shane could easily picture it as he pulled out his kit, rolling out his tools on the couch and placing his sturdy surgical cover and disposable, sterile paper over top of the coffee table.
"You're bleeding," Ilya said, finally giving him a proper once over.
"Thigh," Shane replied, pulling his helmet off his head, spandex mask still obscuring his face. "Gunshot. That's the main thing."
Ilya approached, pressing a hand to the nape of Voyageur's neck, assessing for spinal damage. "Anything broken?"
"Ribs, maybe," Shane replied, leaning into Ilya as the man patted his hand methodically down his spine and back up his ribcage.
Ilya nodded, and helped Voyageur to sit on the table, carefully laying him out. "Numbness? Tingling?"
Shane smiled at the ceiling. "Only in my fingies and toes." Ilya huffed at the word choice, and Shane only smiled wider.
Ilya slipped on his blue surgical gloves, latex squeaking against his skin, "Concussed?"
Shane's smile dropped, "Pretty sure, yeah." Ilya sighed, and he could picture the man's tight little frown. For some reason, the concussions were a touchy subject. "Sorry."
"No, no," Ilya replied, voice dripping in sarcasm, touch gentle as he emptied the wound of gauze, "By all means, continue to try and get killed every night."
He heard the clack of glass vials being set out, and Shane wondered, for the nth time, where Ilya was able to acquire all this medical equipment; he hadn't had this big of a kit the first few times Ilya had helped him, only having accumulated them after about two months of semi-regular visits. Shane wondered if he paid for them out of his own pocket, or if he stole them from work. Either way, it always made the guilt eat at his stomach.
"S'not every night," Shane replied, instead.
"Oh, just every other night? Is healthy, then. Very good for brain, all these concussions."
Shane wanted to ask if Ilya was familiar with CTE; he was built, looked like he could have been an athlete in a former life, a football player or something. Probably not football; from Shane's background check, he knew Ilya was a Russian immigrant. Football wasn't huge up there. Maybe boxing, or hockey. Shane had played hockey, too, once upon a time. Still frequented gear shops, for the caged helmets and protective padding he wore over his Voyageur spandex.
Ilya cut through said spandex around the thigh, injected the area around the wound with a local anesthetic, and then said, "Talk to me." A normal request from him; talk so I know you're still conscious.
Shane swallowed around his dry throat, and discussed what he usually did; how, exactly, this night had gone tits-up. It was just supposed to be reconnaissance in the Flats, a chance to observe a trade-off of illicit goods between some new criminal element in the city and a known ring. Shane had just wanted to see their faces, place them in his web of Ottawa's underworld. However, when the goods turned out to be people, well, then Voyageur had to intervene.
"You walked from the Flats to here?" The question is accusatory, and it takes Shane a moment to muster up the courage to answer.
"No, I flew."
Ilya was silent for a moment, and when Shane cracked an eye open, it was to see Ilya's own eyes shut, paused in his stitching as his nostrils flared, jaw tight. He flicked his eyes open to look at Shane's face, as if knowing he was staring behind the mask, before refocusing on the wound.
Shane always gave far more detail than was wise, but who else could Shane tell? The only other records were in Shane's own handwritten notes, and then the words just stared back at Shane's face, useless, accusatory. Ilya could be accusatory, mean, but Shane also knew he was trustworthy. Over the year he'd been going to Ilya for care, he'd not heard a peep; Shane checked police databases on a near-daily basis, he'd know if anything got reported. Ilya, for whatever reason, kept his secrets.
Not to mention he was good at what he did; despite his sass, Ilya always worked quickly and diligently. Shane hadn't once gotten an infection under Ilya's watch, unlike when he took care of himself. In the latter case, he usually ended up in the ER, forced to tell the triage nurse obvious lies about rusty nails or broken-bottle bar fights. Ilya's sutures were always neat and tidy, too, allowed Shane full range of motion without tugging too hard at his skin.
And finally, in the deepest, darkest corners of Shane's soul, it was comforting to know he was being taken care of. That he could just relax and trust Ilya to do a good job. It was a weakness Shane only indulged here. Was secretly so grateful that he could.
He wasn't sure how long it took, but eventually his wound was cleaned, packed, stitched up, cleaned again, and bandaged. Ilya changed his gloves to do a cursory pat-down of the rest of Shane's body, checking for tenderness, breaks, and any other injuries they might have missed.
Finally, Ilya placed a water bottle in Shane's hand, an ibuprofen in the other. "Nothing's broken," he asserted, finally snapping his gloves off for good.
Shane forced himself to sitting, rolling the bottom of his mask up so he could take the ibuprofen and wash it down with water. Usually, this was around the time Ilya would start to put things back into his kit, cleaning his hands in the kitchen sink with dish soap while Voyageur pushed himself to sitting, and then standing, and then, eventually, climbed out the window he'd come through.
He'd walk to his apartment, not too far from here, changing out of his helmet and padding in the park a block from his place, hidden out of sight of the CCTV cameras under the elm trees, into the sweatpants and coat he kept tied in a plastic bag.
In the morning, he'd change his bandages, ice his bruises, and go to work, roll into the Ottawa Citizen's office and pretend his body didn't ache and his ears didn't ring. He'd laugh at Hayden's dumb jokes and explain away the limp Rose always caught, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
Now, however, Ilya wasn't cleaning up; he remained seated on the floor, back against the couch, jaw clenched and eyes exhausted, a hand against his cheek. Shane wondered what Ilya would do tomorrow morning; maybe he had some ridiculous fourteen-hour shift, would save a life or three before it was over, crash into his bed at the end of the workday into a dreamless sleep, more exhausted than Shane could ever be.
Ilya asked, expression unreadable, "You have family?"
Shane worried his lip, played with the water bottle cap. "My mom."
"Does she know about," he gesturing to Voyageur's entire existence. "This?"
Shane's mouth was dry again, and he answered, "Nope," before taking a deep sip of water.
Rozanov sighed, not frowning but expression still tight. Eventually, he said, matter-of-fact, "You will die, one day," and Shane felt his heart seize. "In this dumb costume, between here and the Flats. Maybe they will identify your body, maybe not. Maybe that's how your mom will find out about all of this."
Shane's throat went tight, breath caught in his lungs. Ilya continued, "Or maybe she never will. Maybe you will just be missing, and she'll never know what happened to you."
He remembered being fourteen, his mom calling the Ottawa PD twice a day for updates on his dad's case, calling anyone and everyone else who could possibly help. His mom always seemed superhuman, unstoppable force and immovable object all in one, but not even she was able to will the police department into investigating.
She'd be the same if he went missing, Shane knew. If there was a chance at finding him alive; Yuna Hollander wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, would work herself to exhaustion and push through it trying to find him.
But if he was dead-.
He remembered seeing her one night, a week after his father's funeral, alone in the kitchen, shaking louder than she was sobbing. The next morning, she'd walk out with her head held high, but there, with Shane invisible at the top of the stairs, she was a hopeless heap on the countertop.
Five years later, the morning after Shane's incident with Officer Hewley, his mom had picked him up at the police station. He told her everything, his investigation and the complaint, how Hewley turned up because he must have been told, and all she had to say was that she understood, but he was never to do anything like that, ever again. As she gripped the back of his hand with white knuckles, she'd said, I don't think I can lose you, too.
Shane knew this whole Voyageur thing was a secret he needed to keep, for the protection of both himself and his loved ones, but he'd, stupidly, never thought about how he could end up doing the only thing his mom had begged him not to do.
And then Ilya said, voice shaking the slightest bit, "Maybe you die here, in my fucking living room. Who knows."
And that wasn't fair to Ilya, either. Ilya, who had found Voyageur in a bloody puddle fourteen months ago, and listened when Shane begged him not to call 911. Ilya, who kept a wanted criminal's secrets, who kept medical supplies for him and woke in the middle of the night to treat him. Ilya, who didn't even know what Shane's face looked like, let alone his name.
Ilya, who might end up with Voyageur's cold body in his apartment, the body of a man he knew but couldn't identify.
After a long pause, Ilya heaved a sigh and pushed himself to standing, and Shane spoke up, "Her- her name is Yuna. Hollander." Ilya froze, and they made eye contact. Shane's tongue felt like a dead fish in his mouth, knowing he'd said something he couldn't take back. He clarified, "My mom."
Ilya seemed to understand, went to the cabinet near his front door and grabbed a notepad and pen, flipping to a new page. "Does she have phone number?"
Shane worried his lip, but gave it, nonetheless. And, as Ilya read it back to make sure he got it right, Voyageur slipped his mask off with clumsy hands.
Ilya trailed off, and for a moment, they just stared at each other.
Shane looked down, first. "I'm Shane, by the way?" He shrugged, adding, "You'll- find my name if you Google my mom, so."
He glanced up to see Ilya still staring. Ilya didn't know who he was, Shane was pretty sure. Unless Ilya recognized him from local news, but Shane's dad was killed seven years before Ilya emigrated to the country. So, probably not.
When Ilya spoke, he said his name. "Shane Hollander." It wasn't accusatory, or mean, but said like his full name meant something. Like it was the first piece of good news he'd heard in a while.
Shane nodded, looking back down, twisting his mask in his lap. "Thank you, for... I mean, everything, but for saying that stuff. About my mom. I needed to hear it."
Ilya was smiling, in that small way that meant he was doing it despite himself. "Yes, well, doesn't make it much better. If you keep trying to die."
"I'm not trying to die-."
"No," Ilya conceded, still smiling. "I'm happy to meet you. Shane."
Ilya performed a concussion test on Shane that night, told him he needed to stay somewhere dark for the next few days and rest. Even though Shane couldn't risk any more sick days, it was a Friday tomorrow, and then he could take the weekend. Figured one more sick day wouldn't hurt, if it gave Ilya some peace of mind.
He slept in Ilya's clothes that night, on his couch, and the next morning, before Ilya left for work, he changed Shane's bandages and gave him another ibuprofen, some sunglasses to protect his eyes. "Go home and lie down, shades drawn in dark, no phone, no laptop, no nothing," Ilya ordered, and Shane couldn't say no to him, especially not when he looked so good in his blue scrubs.
Ilya locked the door behind him, and Shane waited twenty minutes, to make sure Ilya was gone before he left out the window. During that time, he caught the notepad on the table, his mom's name and phone number in Ilya's messy handwriting.
After a moment's hesitation, he added his first name and phone number, too. Should've asked for Ilya's number, now that he thought of it. Could maybe call him to warn whenever he'd be going on a dangerous mission, or to let him know he'd gotten home safe. If only so Ilya knew his services wouldn't be needed, and he could actually rest.
On his walk home, swinging Ilya's cloth Shoppers bag filled with his helmet, padding, and spandex, Shane realized he may not be in this by himself, anymore.