Chapter Text
“Dr. Rozanov, we got one for you in room five.”
Ilya glances up at the familiar face of his most trusted charge nurse, Svetlana Vetrova. She’s got a mischievous grin on her face, something he recognizes easily from their several years of working together. They’ve bonded over their shared Russian heritage, their love of pickles, and the occasional stress-relief fucking when the on-call room is a ghost town. That’s strictly off the record, though. And not in a while, since it’s ethically dicey and she’s got a girlfriend these days. Some actress from a superhero movie franchise. Very fancy. Long distance, but exclusive.
“I just got in,” he deflects, holding up his paper cup of hot piss coffee from the mini machine behind the nurse’s station. He waves it in example, taking a sip of the burning black liquid. Working nightshift is hell on Earth, but coffee gets him through it. Gets them all through it, really.
“Oh, I’m sorry, shall we let all of your patients die until you finish your coffee?” she asks, arching her eyebrow inquisitively.
Ilya takes another sip, accepting the tablet from her extended hand. She has the chart pulled up for room five, but Ilya barely spares it a glance, tucking the device under his arm and taking another hefty sip of his coffee.
“I assume this is not urgent?” he asks, looking at her with his eyes narrowed.
“He’ll live if you finish your coffee first, but I think you should get in there.” Her lips tilt up in a smirk. “He’s hot as fuck.”
“Oh my god, Sveta.” Ilya shakes his head, finishing the coffee and chucking the empty cup in the nearest bin. “Has he been triaged?”
“You’d know if you looked at the chart.”
“Mhm, but I am asking you.”
“He passed out at work, he’s been throwing up. Definitely dehydrated. I think you should order blood tests and an IV. But-” She waves her hand dismissively. “I’m just a nurse.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. Everyone knows that just nurses run this place. This place being Ottawa General, the hospital where Ilya has furthered his career as an attending physician since moving on from Boston three years ago.
“Another drama queen with the flu running to the ER,” says a passerby, and Ilya turns sideways to see their admissions clerk breeze by, making her way back toward the doors for the lobby. “He is hot though!”
Svetlana watches her go with her expression neutral, then turns to Ilya once the doors close behind her. “She should not be allowed to use the bathroom back here. She is an idiot.”
“You do not think he has the flu?” Ilya teases.
“I think you should get to room five, Rozanov, or I’ll tell him to complain about you to Dr. Wiebe. You would like to have the chief of medicine involved because you wanted to annoy me extra long today?”
Ilya snorts, whirling on his heel and heading down the hall toward room five. He dodges a bustling intern and two residents arguing over shift switches for next week, before finding himself in front of the door. Just as he’s about to lift the tablet to skim the chart, he’s interrupted by a first-year resident, Luca Haas.
“Dr. Rozanov?”
Ilya sighs, turning to face him. Luca always manages to find him, even if he’s only been in the hospital for a grand total of twenty seconds.
“Dr. Haas, you must have my scent on a pair of scrubs somewhere.”
Luca hesitates, arching an eyebrow. “Um, what sir?”
“I am easy for you to find, even in this very big hospital.”
“Oh. I just had a quick-”
“Yes, yes, what is question? I am needed with a patient.”
“Oh, well I have a patient presenting with fatigue and irregular heart rhythm. I was just wondering if you could help with the diagnosis.”
Ilya purses his lips. “What tests have been run? Who is the attending?”
“It was Dr. Kent, he just left for shift change though, before we got the test back. Her EKG looks normal to me, but-”
“He left? Didn’t I see he was scheduled to supervise an intubation on bed 6 in the ICU?” Ilya frowns.
“Um, he said for me to do it and to tell you to supervise.”
Ilya curses under his breath in Russian, distaste filling his mouth at the thought of his fellow attending, Dallas Kent. The man is a bigger asshole than he is a physician, but the higher-ups love him because of his impeccable ability to ass-kiss corporate.
“Okay, give me five minutes. This patient will not take long.”
Luca nods in thanks and scurries off to busy himself in the meantime. Ilya huffs another sigh, shaking his head as he finally pulls up the digital chart.
Shane Hollander
Age: 27
Height: 177.8cm
Weight: 88.5Kg
Temp: 36.6
BP: 118/75
- Patient presented with syncope, nausea and vertigo.
No fever, which is a slight surprise considering Ilya was sure this would be a case of the flu. Though, maybe Sveta is right and he just needs some fluids.
He knocks gently on the door, waiting for a quietly murmured, “come in,” before he enters. He’s got his usual, swift, easygoing smile on, ready to reassure this patient and get them turned out, when he recognizes the man curled up on the exam cot.
Short, sleek black hair. Suntanned skin with a spray of dark freckles across his rosy cheeks. A pinstraight, sharp nose, a curved upper lip, thick, muscular arms. Arms that Ilya has touched, arms he’s felt wrap around his waist…
The man on the bed spots him as well, and their eyes meet, both going wide.
“Ilya?” he says, at the same time as Ilya asks, “Hayden?”
There’s a pause -a thick, confusing tension in the air. Ilya glances at his chart again. No, not Hayden, Shane.
“You lied about your name?” Ilya finds himself asking, professionalism all but obliterated at his surprise.
“Oh my god,” Hayden, or Shane, moans, dropping his head into his hands. “This is not happening to me.”
“I am a bit confused,” Ilya admits, “it is Shane, Shane Hollander? Or am I in the wrong room?”
“No, it’s- yeah, that’s it. It’s Shane. Hayden works with me.” The man huffs out a breath, wincing. “I did lie.”
“Why-” Ilya falters, trying to find his professional decorum somewhere deep inside.
“I’m a professional athlete,” Shane mutters, “it’s better if clandestine hookups don’t know my real name. I was lucky you didn’t recognize me.”
Ilya hesitates, fixating for a moment on potentially the least important detail here. “Hayden is your colleague? How would it benefit you to lie about your identity but use your teammate’s name? What if I knew of him?”
“You wouldn't have, not over me,” Shane replies, briskly. Then, his cheeks flush bright red, like he’s embarrassed he said something so cocky. “I didn’t- I’m not the best at lying, okay? It just came out. It was the only name I could think of.”
“What sport do you play?”
“Does that matter?”
“Actually, yes.” Ilya holds up the digital chart. “Relevant to your care, if you could have taken blunt trauma.”
“It’s- hockey, I’m a hockey player.” Shane groans again, keeping his hands pressed over his face. “We had a game tonight, but I passed out in the locker room afterward. I play for the Metros. I don’t know why I’m adding that. You don’t need that.”
“Alright,” Ilya says gently, sensing Shane’s tension. “Given that we have previously…” Fucked nasty on my leather couch. “Been acquainted-”
Shane scoffs.
“-it might be better if I have a colleague handle your case.”
“Wait, please.” Shane turns to him with pleading brown eyes. They’re sparkly and warm, the way Ilya remembers from that long night so many weeks ago. It was after too many drinks, too long of a shift, but he remembers each detail of Shane’s face with clarity. “I just want to get out of here. I only came because my coach made me. Can’t we just get this over with?”
“If you are comfortable with it, then I guess it is okay.”
“Yeah it's fine.” Shane shrugs. “We don’t even know each other.”
Ilya swallows thickly. He knows Shane’s body intimately. He’d touched every inch of skin, kissed, sucked, elicited sounds from him that were straight out of a pornographic film.
But, the other man is correct. Hell, Ilya didn’t even know his name until two seconds ago.
“Okay, so you passed out after the game.” Ilya pulls up a stool beside the cot to sit down and take his notes. “Did you take any rough hits? Any possible injuries to your head?”
Shane is quick to shake his head. “No, no. It was an easy win. Ottawa sucks.”
Ilya arches an eyebrow.
“Sorry, I mean- it was a clean game. They couldn’t get their hands on me. No injuries at all.”
“And did you feel fine before the game?”
At that, Shane falters. He wrings his hands together, eyes darting up toward the brilliantly beaming fluorescent bulb. He shifts uncomfortably.
“Would you be more comfortable with the lights dimmed?” Ilya asks, noting his visible anxiety.
“It’s fine,” Shane mutters. “I just hate hospitals.”
Ilya smiles briefly. “Most people do when they are the patient.”
“I was dizzy all day, I guess,” Shane confesses, dragging his lower lip between his teeth furtively. “I threw up a couple times.”
“Just today?” Ilya inquires.
“Um, no, the past few days I have been feeling pretty queasy.” Shane catches Ilya staring at him, and frowns. “What?”
“You still played game? Throwing up?”
Shane smirks. “You’ve never come to work when you weren’t at 100%?”
Ilya wants to argue that if he misses work people die, and if Shane misses work then maybe a team scores one less point, but that doesn’t seem fair. He elects to ignore that intrusive thought.
“Okay, so you have been feeling dizzy and nauseous. No, temperature? No fever at all, da?”
“Da?”
“Yes?”
“Huh?”
“Any fever, Mr. Hollander?”
“Oh- Shane is fine. No, no fevers.”
“Okay.” Ilya nods thoughtfully. “I want to get a full blood panel and rule out any issues with your blood sugar. I’d also like to push some fluids and get you rehydrated, you have markers of dehydration and if you have been throwing up, that can make it worse.”
“Okay.” Shane clears his throat. “When do you think I can get out of here?”
“Let’s get your results back first and see what will best help you.” Ilya gets to his feet. “In the meantime, is there anyone you want us to call for you? A partner or friend maybe?”
Shane arches an eyebrow. “You know I’m single.”
“Well, I also thought your name was Hayden.”
He scowls. “No. I’m fine on my own.”
“Alright, Mr. Hollander. A nurse will be in shortly to get your IV administered and draw some blood. Call for us with this button if you have questions.” Ilya heads for the door, hesitating with his hand on the knob.
“Ilya?” Shane stops him with a quietly uttered word.
“Yes?” He turns to look at the other man, who’s hunched over and tense.
“For the record I-” Shane clears his throat again. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t right. To lie to you.”
“Oh.” Ilya considers this for a moment, then shrugs. “Like you said. We do not know each other. Is harmless.”
“Right. Harmless.” Shane swallows thickly. “I- do you think I could get a puke bag or something? I’m feeling sick again.”
“Of course. Here.” Ilya grabs one of the little blue bags from the cabinet beside the monitor, passing it to Shane. His hands are shaking. “Is there anything else you need right now, Shane?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay. Call for us if you need anything, da?”
Shane nods again. “Da. Okay. Thanks.”
“Of course, Shane. I’ll be back soon.”
The door closes behind Ilya, and he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. With a huff of air, he manages to mutter one quiet word.
“Fuck.”
After helping Luca with his diagnosis and intubation, checking on his elderly ICU patient with pneumonia, doing a solid forty-five minutes of documentation, and two more cups of shitty coffee, Ilya gets the results of Shane’s blood work back.
Svetlana delivers him the news that the results are ready, smirking as she says, “Dr. Rozanov, your boyfriend’s test results are back. Hopefully not an STD, hm?”
“You are hilarious, Sveta,” he mutters dryly.
She laughs as she turns her attention back to the computer on the desk, focused on the task at hand. Ilya pulls up Shane’s chart on the tablet, scanning the page for his results.
Hemoglobin: normal, lipids: normal, glucose: a little low but nothing alarming. Proteins: good…
Ilya pauses, eyes going wide as he sees the next results.
HCG: 32,000
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Svetlana says, studying Ilya from behind the desk. “Is something wrong? Oh no, does your boyfriend have something serious?”
“Yes,” Ilya manages, “pretty serious.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” Her expression softens.
Ilya turns to her. “He is not dying. It is the opposite.”
Her brow furrows, until realization seems to strike. “Oh. The fainting. The puking.”
Ilya nods.
Svetlana smiles sympathetically. “So much for getting his number.”
“I wasn’t going to do that, Sveta.”
“Why not? He’s exactly your type!”
Ilya huffs out another breath, ignoring her and shaking his head as he tries to get his emotions into the proper space to deliver this news. It is obvious Ilya was not Shane’s only clandestine hookup, as he’d so eloquently put it. He’s ashamed at the sting of jealousy that burns in his chest at the idea.
But, his job is to be objective. He has no claim to stake on Shane. They are two single people who hooked up one night a few months ago after a long night of drinking at some dingy bar. Does it matter that it was the best sex of his life? No. None of that matters.
Ilya is a doctor. What matters right now, is his patient. His patient who is alone, probably very scared, and about to get life-changing news.
With a hand that he forces to stop trembling, Ilya knocks on the door.
“Come in,” Shane calls again, quieter this time.
When Ilya enters, he’s reclined on the cot with an IV in his arm, pushing clear fluids. He’s holding another vomit back to his chest like his life depends on it. He looks haggard, a little less guarded than he had earlier.
“How is the nausea?” Ilya asks gently.
“Shitty,” Shane grunts. “Can you guys give me anything?”
“Yes, we definitely can,” Ilya replies, “now that we have a diagnosis for you, we can get you feeling better.”
“A diagnosis?” He sits up straighter at that, though his knuckles are white around the vomit bag. “Something is wrong with me, then?”
“No, not exactly.” Ilya sits down again, meeting Shane’s eyes seriously. “Shane, your blood work came back all standard except for one thing, HCG. Are you familiar with what that means?”
Shane shakes his head. “Not even a little.”
“It’s human growth hormone, the body produces it in excess during a pregnancy. Your levels came back high, aligning with a pregnancy between six to nine weeks gestation.”
It takes Shane a moment to process this, his forehead wrinkling in thought. His voice comes out slow, confused. “I’m…I’m pregnant?”
“Yes.” Ilya nods. “This would explain your dizziness and nausea, these are very common side effects in the first trimester. Everything looks healthy from your blood panel, but you will need an ultrasound to-”
“Ilya,” Shane interjects, sitting up completely. The IV in his arm tugs, and Ilya almost tells him to sit still so as not to disturb it, but he refrains. “Ilya. I’m pregnant?”
“Yes, Shane.” Ilya’s heart flutters a little at the panicked expression on his face, worry tightening in his chest. “Are you alright? I know this is big news.”
“How far along, did you say?”
“Well, an ultrasound would give more confirmation, but based on your levels, probably eight weeks.” Ilya tilts his head. “Are you okay, Shane?”
“Why aren’t you freaking out?” Shane asks him, voice flat, eyes wide.
At that, Ilya is a little perplexed. “Excuse me?”
“Why aren't you freaking out?” Shane demands, gesturing to himself. “It’s not like this was a fucking immaculate conception, Ilya.”
“I don’t follow,” he admits, frowning.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Ilya shakes his head. “Shane, we were together long before-” He pauses, hesitating. How long ago was it again? He was so drunk…
“Two months ago, you asshole.” Shane’s voice is venomous.
Ilya swallows thickly. “But, we used-”
“Oh my god. You’re a doctor. You aren’t aware that condoms aren’t 100% effective?”
Ilya stands up abruptly. “Are you saying-”
“I haven’t been with anyone else!”
“Oh my god,” Ilya manages, rooted to the spot, eyes widening.
“That’s more the reaction I expected,” Shane mutters, his head hitting the cot as he falls back against it.
Ilya freezes, unsure of how to proceed here. This is uncharted territory. This can’t be happening.
“My career is so fucking over,” Shane says to no one in particular. Then he gags, and lurches forward, holding the vomit bag to his mouth.
Ilya moves on instinct, a nurturing desire inside of him, yearning to help. He braces a hand against Shane’s back, fingers splaying out between his trembling shoulder blades.
“Easy,” he murmurs, “try to breathe through it, slow deep breaths. It will help.”
Shane finishes puking, a small whine in the back of his throat. “This fucking sucks.”
“I will get you a prescription for Zofran, to help with the nausea,” Ilya says, taking the vomit bag. “Just- erm- give me five minutes. I will- be back- right back, Shane.”
Shane watches him go, panting from the efforts of puking. He doesn’t speak.
The door closes behind Ilya and he breathes again, ragged and uneven. His heart is racing in his chest, sweat beading at his temples and the back of his neck. Svetlana spots him from the nurse’s station, her expression immediately worried.
“Doctor?” she asks, heading in his direction.
Ilya thrusts the chart at her and disposes of the vomit bag in the hazard bin beside him. “4mg of Ondansetron, intravenous. I’m ordering it for room five. Get it to him fast, please. I need- I have to go to the bathroom.”
With that, he turns on his heel and rushes through the hall. God help Luca Haas if he stops him to ask how much Tylenol to give bed seven or if he should remove five sutures per the chart if he sees six in the patient. Ilya might actually lose his mind.
He finds himself in the on-call room, mercifully empty right now. The lights are off, and he keeps it that way, breaths rattling in his chest as he blinks at rumpled bunk beds.
“Oh fuck,” he whines to himself, heart beating rapidly in his chest, “oh fuck, fucking hell. Fuck.”
What the fuck is he going to do? He knocked up a professional hockey player. He knocked up a one night stand, whose name he just learned. Whose name he never would have even known if he hadn’t shown up in Ilya’s fucking ER on the off-chance he had an away game tonight!
“Fuuuuck,” he groans into his hands.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
There is not really another word he can locate in his English lexicon to describe this feeling. He does not even know what the hospital protocol is for something like this. Moreover, his oath. Fuck, is he going to lose his job?
Stop it, he says to himself, trying to calm down, you did not get a patient pregnant. You got a random guy in a bar pregnant.
Okay, okay. Is still bad, but not career ruining bad. He did not break any laws or violate any oaths. He did not impregnate an existing patient. He impregnated…well, a stranger.
Which isn’t much better, but at least it doesn’t get his license to practice medicine revoked.
Okay, he’s fine. Everything is fine. He just has to go back out there, and definitely has to get another physician assigned to Shane’s case. Hopefully, somehow, without letting them know he is responsible for Shane’s current predicament.
Holy shit. Ilya got someone pregnant. He’s going to be a father.
The idea is, confusingly, both terrifying and elating at once. Working in emergency medicine, he hasn’t exactly had a lot of free time to explore romance. At his age, at this point, he’d pretty much accepted it was going to be random hookups and the occasional online date. He’s past the point of feeling like he needs love in his life.
But…the idea of a small little person, chubby hands and a cute little belly and a big, toothy smile looking up at him? Trusting him implicitly, the way he never could with his own father? Loving him?
The thought makes a smile threaten to spread across his face. It’s difficult to tamp it down.
He is getting way ahead of himself here. He does not even know if Shane wants to keep the baby. As exciting as the prospect of becoming a father is, this is a complicated situation. They are strangers. Shane obviously cares about his career. Maybe he’d like to be married and settled before doing this. And it is his body, his life on the line. Ilya would never ask him to reconsider if he doesn’t want this.
But if he does…well, Ilya is going to be there. As much as Shane will let him.
First, he needs to go back in there and face him. He’d run out like a chicken, shamefully. He owes the other man an honest conversation, and to know he has options and support.
He smooths over the front of his scrubs, takes a deep breath, and exits the on-call room. A brief glance at his watch makes him pale as he realizes he’d been in there a half hour trying to calm down. Time he could have been spending with patients. He will stay late tonight, to make up for it. Much longer than an extra half hour.
He makes a beeline for room five, hoping the Zofran has kicked in enough to give Shane some relief. He stops abruptly when he sees the door is wide open, and the bed is empty, save for some crumpled sheets.
He turns immediately for the nurse’s station. Sveta isn’t there, but he recognizes Kate, an ICU nurse.
“Nurse Martinez,” he says, “where is the patient from room five? Is he in the restroom?”
She frowns. “No one told you?”
“Told me what?”
“He just left AMA.”
“He what?”
She shrugs. “I wasn’t the one helping him, I just know he practically ripped his own IV out and rushed out of here. Sveta had him sign AMA paperwork and he shot out of here like a bullet. It should be all documented, Dr. Rozanov.”
“But-” Ilya shakes his head in disbelief. “I did not discharge him.”
“I know, that’s why it was AMA, Dr. Rozanov. No one could find you.”
Fuck.
“Thank you,” he says dejectedly.
“No problem.”
Ilya is about to head for the front admissions desk, when a voice behind him gets his attention. He turns to see Luca Haas, wide-eyed and panicked with a smear of dark red liquid on his scrubs.
“Dr. Rozanov, I need-”
“Yes, let’s go, right now.” Ilya urges him forward and follows the young man down the hall toward whatever emergency is happening.
Shane will have to wait, as badly as that thought kills him.
Ilya does not leave the hospital for another twenty hours.
It is against the rules completely, but he leaves with Shane’s phone number and address scrawled down on a sticky note. He certainly hopes Shane will understand his need to do this, completely breaking protocol, considering there are things they need to discuss.
He tries to call Shane twice during his shift, but there is no answer. That worries him. Shane wasn’t able to get his Zofran dose before leaving, and he hadn’t finished his fluids, and he was certainly in no condition to drive the two-hours back to Montreal.
Ilya has exactly thirty hours before he has to return to the hospital. He should go home and change, shower off the long shift, try to get some sleep and decent food before he comes back here.
What he does instead, is get in his car.
He stops on the way for a few grocery-bags worth of supplies. Ginger ale, Gatorade, over-the-counter nausea meds and constipation meds safe for pregnancy. He gets saltines and a few tubs of soup from the deli near the hospital. Their chicken-noodle is delicious, and not too hard on the stomach. He also picks up some Tylenol, a heating pad, and some chocolate. Better safe than sorry.
He has no way of knowing if Shane is even home. It’s likely he traveled with his team to their next game. It is also likely he has no interest in seeing Ilya ever again. It’s also likely he is no longer even pregnant.
But he has to be sure. If he’s still pregnant, or freshly coming down from a medication abortion, he needs someone to take care of him.
If he allows it, Ilya will be that person.
The drive to Montreal is lengthy, and Ilya downs two more cups of drive-thru coffee to get him through it with his eyes open. The address on file is for a large, secluded piece of land, probably to protect him from paparazzi or crazed hockey fans.
Ilya had done some Googling on Shane Hollander. He is a very, very good hockey player. He has led his team to three Stanley Cups. Ilya learned what those are after a separate series of Googling. He’s always been a good student.
There’s a security gate when he pulls the car up, and he presses a button, which makes a buzzer sound.
For a moment, there’s only quiet. Then, Shane’s voice comes through the speaker, crackly and tired-sounding. “Who are you?”
“Shane, it is me. Ilya. Rozanov. Doctor Rozanov. Um, from the bar. And the hospital.”
“What the fuck?” comes the voice through the speaker.
“You left.”
“No shit! Why are you here?”
“I wanted to make sure-”
“Is this even legal? You fucking stole my address?”
“I know. Is bad. I will leave if you want, but-”
“Just, come up. Fuck.” Another buzzer sounds and the gates swing open.
Alright then.
Ilya pulls his car up the long winding driveway, parking in front of a grandiose…well, it’s a mansion. There’s no ifs or buts about it. The place is huge, with big glass panels and dark burnished wood siding. It’s sleek and modern, but has elements of a cozy cabin feeling to it.
Arms weighed down by grocery bags, he trudges up to the front door, startled slightly when it opens.
Shane is standing there under the archway, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a black pullover with the Montreal Metros logo. There are dark circles under his eyes, his black hair is mussed atop his head, and he’s swaying on his feet. From his complexion, and the dull in his gaze, Ilya would guess he’s sleep deprived, hungry, and probably veering back toward dehydration again.
“You’re here,” Shane says in disbelief.
“You left,” Ilya replies.
“Well, you had a fucking freakout and ditched me,” he mutters, dropping his eyes to the grocery bags. “What’s that?”
“Oh, er-” Ilya holds the bags up unsurely. “I didn’t know if you were still feeling unwell. You did not get your nausea meds. So, just in case. Got some things.”
Shane’s expression darkens. “And you thought you could just show up at my door and- what? I’d tell you I’m keeping the baby and I want us to coparent or something?”
Ilya arches his eyebrow. “No, Shane.”
“Then what?” Shane demands.
“I thought we could talk,” he says softly, “and I could check on how you are feeling. And you would not have to make any decisions alone, if you did not want to.”
At that, Shane’s posture eases a bit, some of the tension rolling off his shoulders. He regards the grocery bags with an inquisitive eye.
“Is there any ginger ale in there?”
Ilya smiles. “There is. Two kinds.”
“Come inside.”
Ilya resists the urge to say, “isn’t that how we got into this mess?” and instead just follows him into the massive foyer.
Shane leads him down the hall to a grand kitchen, with sleek modern appliances and stainless steel everywhere. It smells freshly cleaned, tidy and organized, unlike Ilya’s scattered bachelor pad high-rise.
Ilya sets the bags on the marble island, watching from the corner of his eye as Shane pulls a chair up and sits down heavily, chin resting on his fists.
“How are you feeling?” Ilya asks, keeping his tone neutral, despite the concern he feels.
Shane snorts. “I feel as good as I probably look.”
Ilya’s lips tilt. “So you’re feeling extremely handsome?”
“Boooo.”
“Worth a shot.” He chuckles. “The nausea is normal, if that helps. Morning sickness.”
“Morning? Try all fucking day and sometimes in the middle of the night.” Shane presses a hand over his stomach with a slight grimace.
“Ah, the name is deceptive. Here.” Ilya passes him a can of ginger ale and one of the tubs of soup, still warm in the container. “Have you eaten anything?”
“Kinda hard to, when it comes right back up,” Shane admits. He takes a microsip of the ginger ale and sighs softly.
“You should have stayed for monitoring, you could have HG,” Ilya tells him with a frown.
“HG what?”
“Hyperemesis Gravidarum, basically severe morning sickness. We can help medicate you to make it more bearable.” Ilya hesitates. “That is, if you’re continuing the pregnancy.”
Shane’s shoulders deflate. “Right.”
Ilya glances around the room, observing the lack of personal effects or photos. His jaw sets tightly.
“Have you given it any thought?” he asks, not wanting to push, but needing to know where Shane’s head is at.
“I’ve given it so much thought I’m surprised my head hasn’t exploded,” Shane mutters.
“Mm.” Ilya smiles briefly. He likes the way Shane turns a phrase, it seems unintentional, just the eccentric way he describes his feelings. “And where do the thoughts land?”
Shane’s head snaps up and he meets Ilya’s eyes. “Where are your thoughts landing?”
“It does not matter what I think. It is your body.”
“That’s a cop-out,” he says flatly. “You didn’t drive two hours for a fucking cop-out, Ilya.”
“I drove two hours to make sure you were okay,” Ilya replies. And it isn’t a lie.
“Fucking, fuck.” Shane drops his head into his hands again, covering his eyes. “This is so fucked up.”
“I know,” Ilya agrees quietly. “I am sorry I left the room so abruptly the other night. I am sorry I made it harder on you. I was…reacting, I guess.”
“It’s fine.” Shane exhales shakily. “I didn’t handle it that well either. I um…I already told my coach I was going to be out for the rest of the season.”
Ilya tilts his head curiously.
“I guess I already decided without, um, officially deciding.” He shakes his head. “I’m not making sense. Anyway, I’m staying pregnant.”
“You are?” Ilya asks, brows lifting in surprise.
“Uh-huh.” Shane laces his fingers together in his lap, shoulders set, brow stern. “I don’t need anything from you, obviously.”
Ilya studies him for a quiet moment. Here, even in his own kitchen, Shane seems uncomfortable. His shoulders are hunched, he’s hesitant to make eye-contact, he keeps fiddling with his fingers like he needs to move them at all times to stay focused. Ilya wonders, vaguely, if Shane’s ever been tested for any anxiety disorders, or maybe to see if he’s anywhere on the autism spectrum. Nothing like that had been in his chart, but that’s not really surprising, given he’s a twenty-something male athlete in a contact sport.
Not that it matters anyway, but he hopes his presence here isn’t making Shane feel worse.
“I know you do not need anything,” Ilya answers carefully, “but if you are okay with it I…would like to be involved. However you are comfortable with.”
“Involved how, exactly?” Shane asks, reluctance audible in his clipped voice. His face doesn’t give much away, but the subtle shift of his body, angled slightly away from Ilya, does.
“However you will let me,” Ilya assures him. “I know you are going through a lot of things. Changes. In your body and your mind and thinking of the future, life. I do not want to be another thing you feel like you have to…navigate. I just want to support.”
Shane swallows loudly, breath shaking. “I feel so sick.”
“Here.” Ilya pushes the pills toward him. “I took some tablet Zofran for you. Take two, let them dissolve on your tongue. And you should really try to eat something.”
Shane takes the capsules, studying the little clear packaging for a beat, before he washes them down with some ginger ale. He shakes his head when Ilya gestures to the soup.
“I have some crackers,” Ilya offers.
Shane grimaces.
“Chocolate?”
At that, he perks up a bit. “You brought chocolate?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“For you to eat.”
Shane lips twitch. “That’s probably not good for the baby. I’m on a performance diet. I don’t usually…eat stuff like that.”
“If you are only eating chocolate, it is a problem. If you are adding chocolate, no reason to worry.” Ilya passes him the pack of chocolates. “Today is exception. If you want chocolate, eat chocolate.”
Shane’s fingers hover over the chocolate for a beat, and then he plucks one up and drops it in his mouth. His eyes close, lashes drawing down over his freckly cheeks. He truly is a beautiful man- sharp, exacting features, with soft brown eyes that give way to the warmth he holds inside. Deep, deep inside.
“You look pretty tired,” Shane observes through a mouthful of chocolate. “You can sit down.”
“Thank you.” Ilya crosses around and takes a seat beside Shane. “Long shift.”
“Can I ask about your accent?”
“What about it?”
“What is it?”
“Oh. I am from Russia.”
“Oh.” Shane swallows another chocolate and holds the box out to Ilya in offering.
He shakes his head. “No, is for you.”
“Have one so I don’t feel as bad about it.”
“There is no need to feel bad, Shane-”
“Ilya, Jesus, eat a fucking chocolate please.”
He fights off a laugh and accepts one, popping it in his mouth. It is very good.
“When was the last time you ate?” Shane demands.
Ilya wracks his brain. He’d wolfed down a few candy bars at the vending machine about halfway through his shift, and then a few cups of coffee, some mints Sveta gave him when she said his breath smelled like a dead-
“Okay if you’re thinking this hard it’s been too long.” Shane gestures to the kitchen. “Help yourself.”
“I am not going to cook in your-”
“I’ll eat something if you cook something,” Shane says.
That is all the encouragement he needs.
Ilya finds a carton of organic eggs in Shane’s fridge, and some low-fat, lactose free milk. He finds a bag of chopped spinach and some ripe tomatoes. He sets about making a few omelets. It will be easy on Shane’s stomach, and hopefully get some vitamins in him.
Meanwhile, Shane leans on his fist and sips ginger ale, absentmindedly munching on chocolates. Ilya notices he keeps one hand pressed over his belly, almost reflexively, as if he doesn't even clock it himself.
“You cook much?” Shane asks in that confusing, flat voice that doesn’t give Ilya much indication of why he’s asking. Is it curiosity, suspicion, polite small talk? It’s hard to tell.
“When I have time,” Ilya says. “I cooked a lot growing up. In med school I mostly ate Ramen and Spam. But I do enjoy it, when I have the luxury of time.”
“Ramen has so much sodium,” Shane notes.
“Yes but it is cheap,” Ilya flashes his teeth in a smile.
“Aren’t doctors like, super rich?”
Ilya laughs at that. “You think I am rich? My apartment is the size of your kitchen.”
Shane’s face flushes red. “I didn’t say I wasn’t rich. Asshole.”
“Mm, well, at least our baby will always get whatever they want.” Ilya whisks the eggs and milk together before pouring them into the slightly warmed pan on Shane’s gas stove.
“Within reason,” Shane adds. “Oh, god. I can’t think that far ahead.”
“Well, what about you?” Ilya stirs the eggs lightly. “Do you ever cook? Such a big kitchen not to.”
Shane shrugs, voice mild. “Sometimes. Same as you. When I’m home and have time. It’s the same thing over and over again, though. I don’t experiment.”
“Only with random guys at the bar?” Ilya teases with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
It works. Shane can’t hide his abrupt, short bark of a laugh. He covers his mouth quickly, scowling like he hadn’t meant to let that slip.
“You aren’t funny,” he says, even though he’s clearly still smiling.
“No, just very fertile, apparently.”
“Oh my god. Ilya. Please.”
“I am just saying. Did not even notice I broke the condom. I’m impressed with us.”
“Yeah, well, we were fucking drunk.” Shane takes another small sip of ginger ale, exhaling.
“Is the medicine helping?” Ilya asks softly.
Shane nods. “I think so, yeah. I actually feel kind of hungry.”
“Good.” Ilya plates the omelets and passes one to Shane, sitting down beside him with his own. “It is funny coincidence though, is it not?”
“What is?” Shane asks, taking a tentative bite of his omelet.
“That you end up in my ER, eight weeks after we met at a bar.” Ilya waves his fork. “Like fate.”
“Fate isn’t real.”
“And yet here we are.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s called I had two games against Ottawa in two months. It’s pretty standard for our schedule.”
“And both times we were at the same bar, then the same hospital.” Ilya spears some egg with his fork and takes a large bite. He pats the gold crucifix around his neck, smirking. “Sometimes big man upstairs has big plans.”
“Oh you’re one of those.” Shane snorts, but the sound is somewhat fond. At least, Ilya thinks it’s fond.
“I am one of those,” he affirms.
“I’m surprised, working in the ER, you could believe in all that stuff. You must see awful shit.” Shane takes another bite of his food, then glances hesitantly at Ilya. “Sorry. That probably was insensitive.”
“No, is okay. It’s true.” Ilya shrugs, expression thoughtful. “I do see bad stuff. All the time. I think, maybe, believing in all this stuff helps me make sense of it. That probably sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid,” Shane is quick to assure him. “I…I wish I could go there, when things feel overwhelming. It sounds better than just floundering.”
“Ah, floundering can be good.” Ilya grins. “You floundered into my ER. I am glad you did.”
“You’re glad I ended up in the ER?”
Ilya guffaws. “Are you like this with everyone?”
“Like what?” Shane looks genuinely confused.
Adorable, Ilya wants to say.
“Sharp and exacting,” he says.
“Your English is so good,” Shane tells him, ignoring the question, “how long have you lived here?”
“Here, just a few years. Was in Boston since college. I got a scholarship.”
“Oh.”
“And you?”
“Me what?”
“How long have you lived here?”
“In Montreal? Or Canada?”
“Take your pick, I guess.”
“Canada my whole life.” Shane takes another bite of omelet. “I actually grew up in Ottawa, but I got drafted to Montreal out of high school.” He smirks. “First pick.”
“So it was always hockey,” Ilya deduces.
“What do you mean?”
“You always knew you would…do hockey? Forever?”
“Oh.” Shane considers this, his curved upper lip pursed. It’s quite kissable, but Ilya isn’t going near that thought. “Yeah, I guess I did. It was like, the only thing I’ve ever been really good at since I was a kid. It just always makes sense to me even when other things don’t.”
Ilya smiles fondly. “That is nice, having that.”
“It is.” Shane nods. “What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?”
“I…did not.” He shakes his head. “I like helping people, though. So I guess same for me. It made sense.”
“I’m surprised, usually when people are doctors they have this big dramatic story.” Shane cleans his plate, glancing down at it with surprise. “Whoa, I ate all of that.”
“First meal in a while?” Ilya asks with obvious concern.
“In a few days.” Shane wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Thank you.”
“Of course. How do you feel?”
“Better than earlier.” Shane sets his napkin down. “So, no dramatic story for you?”
Ilya scrapes his fork across his plate, wincing apologetically when the sound makes Shane recoil. “Sorry. Um, I do not know if this is a dramatic story. My mom died. The ambulance came for her but they were too late. No one could help her. I guess…it would have been nice if I could have helped her.”
“How did she die?” Shane’s brows are pulled together now, expression soft. He’s surprisingly warm like this, like he feels sympathy and concern for Ilya.
“Oh she overdosed.” Ilya clears his throat. “It was a long time ago and I have been to therapy about it for a thousand years.” He waves his hand dismissively. “And you? Are you close with your parents?”
“My parents.” Shane says the words like he’s tasting them on his tongue for the first time. “My parents. Fuck. How am I going to tell them about this?” He touches a hand to his belly again, face going ashen.
“Breathe.” Ilya reaches out and rests his hand over Shane’s knee, hoping it’s a comforting gesture. “You do not have to tell anyone right away. There is time to make plans.”
“Plans,” Shane echoes quietly, “plans, yeah. Plans are good.”
“We make a plan,” Ilya encourages, “there is time, Shane.”
Shane exhales raggedly, the sound almost painful. He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to ground himself. “Sorry.”
“No need to say sorry. This is big. I know.”
“Are you worried? About telling…” Shane hesitates. “Do you have someone to tell?”
Ilya grimaces. “I have no parents, if that is what you are asking. I do have a brother, back in Russia. I will probably tell him at some point.”
“Right.” Shane drums his fingers on the countertop. “I should probably make sure everything is okay before I tell anyone else. Like, make sure the baby is fine. I need an ultrasound, don’t I?”
“Yes.” Ilya nods. He glances down at his hand on Shane’s knee, noticing the other man hadn’t pulled away from the contact. “I got some prenatal vitamins, ones without iron, easier on your stomach. It would be good for you to start taking those daily. And we should find you an OB here, I can reach out to some contacts and get a good referral, if you would like?”
Shane stares at him for a beat.
“What?” Ilya asks.
“Nothing. Sorry. I just…” Shane shakes his head. “I usually do all of this kind of stuff myself. I’m not used to…yeah, Ilya that would be great, if you could help me set that up.”
“Of course.” Ilya squeezes his leg, before pulling away.
“I’ll take the vitamins.” Shane grabs the bottle from the grocery bag and studies it for a moment before popping open the lid and taking two. “This helps the baby grow?”
“It helps prevent birth defects and promotes overall health,” Ilya explains, grabbing their dirty dishes and heading for the sink.
“I can wash those, you cooked,” Shane insists.
“I think you should rest, right now,” Ilya tells him gently. “It has been a big few days. You look exhausted. I know we have a lot to talk about, and figure out, but we do not have to do that right this second.”
Shane’s expression twitches slightly. “I hate not having things figured out.”
“I am sensing that,” Ilya replies with a dry smile. “But you are also growing a human being right now from scratch, and that takes some energy. You have to rest.”
“Okay,” Shane agrees reluctantly. “Will you…” He glances behind him at the adjacent living room with a large, L-shaped couch. “Do you want to stay for a little while? I mean, do you have some time?”
Ilya feels warmth spread through his chest at the question. “Yes, of course, Shane. I will do these dishes and join you on the couch.”
“Just let the machine get them,” Shane says. He scoops up another ginger ale, and the box of chocolates, and begins a slow shuffle to the living room. He looks a bit more lively than when Ilya had first shown up.
Once he’s alone in the kitchen, Ilya opens the incredibly fancy dishwasher, and begins putting the dishes in.
It’s so odd. He’s in a strange place, with a stranger, and the imminent beginning of a complete change to his life on the horizon, but he doesn’t feel afraid. He feels…more comfortable with Shane than he has with anyone in a long time.
He even told him about his mother. Where the hell did that come from?
It’s too complicated to try and answer that question right now. He tries to take his own advice, and focus on one thing at a time. The rest can wait.
Right now, he needs to do the dishes, and go keep the father of his baby company so he can get some rest.
The father of his baby.
God, that's going to take some getting used to.