Chapter Text
The car glides gently around a turn as he accelerates smoothly out of the parking lot, only one hand resting lightly on the wheel, the other carefully counter-balancing a box of muffins as the slight g-force threatens to slide it off of the center console.
Music pumps out through the speakers, fast-paced and heady, overlapping syllables and harsh consonants written for cold European streets that are distinctly out of place in this American car cruising easily through this sun-drenched Canadian suburb. Still, he can’t help but grin, fingers drumming in time with the rhythm, cracking the window open for Anya as they hit the highway, (or what Shane claims to be a highway, but really just seems to be a road that is paved.)
There are few other travelers out this morning, but it’s far, far too early on a Saturday for anyone reasonable to be awake, and there’s only the occasional trundling passed, going the opposite direction on the other side of the yellow line, fellow saints, no doubt. He himself, a reasonable man, would also still be in bed if not for the fact that the very unreasonable man, (who is probably still in bed, he reflects, a little bitterly), will only eat specific baked goods from a specific whole-foods all natural nutrient dense all-natural expensive bakery. A bakery that, inexplicably, despite all their products having the slight aftertaste of freshly-baled hay, manages to sell out by the time any reasonable person would think to show up. It’s a lesson he’d learned last week, when they first got back from the states, and one he’s not willing to repeat. So, exuberant dog in tow, he’d slouched out into the early morning fog, leaving a warm bed and even warmer body behind him, and quietly steered the car out, accompanied by the soft cooing of whatever Canadian bird is also idiotic enough to be awake before dawn.
Probably, he reflects, taking a sip of too-expensive coffee and grimacing, it’s not so much a species of bird as it is a husband-bird being forced out to get breakfast. There’s yet another English saying about this, he’s certain, about an early bird and a worm he makes a mental note to tease Shane about it later. He’s turned off the highway, and onto a quieter side road, overhung with thick greenery, and Anya’s ears prick up and her tail starts to flick as she jumps up to get a better view, paws landing on the dash, nails clicking as they scrabble on the plastic.
“Vniz, Zvezdochka.”
The admonishment is soft, and he doesn’t really mean it, smiling softly as the slight swaying of her tail ratchets up to a furious wagging as they turn into the cottage’s gravel driveway.
Parking the car carefully next to Shane’s ugly black rectangle car, he tucks the white bakery box and coffee under one arm, hopping out and coming around the side to open the passenger door. Anya bolts, surging out of the car the second there’s enough room for her to wiggle her body through, ears flapping madly as she winds herself around his legs and bounces, inching towards the front door.
He halfheartedly swipes at the stray dog hairs in the passenger seat, sending them floating up to circulate around the car; Shane will complain about them later the next time he’s riding along, but it’s a losing battle, and Anya is whining insistently, ignorant of his plight and clearly impatient, so he leaves it. There’s that ridiculous sticky paint-roller thing that Shane had left in his glovebox, he can use it to wipe down the seats later.
Keys rattle in the door, Anya’s paws click against the floorboards as she rushes past, and he smiles as he kicks off his own shoes, watching the wrong tail disappear around the corner.
The house is silent, so he slips into the kitchen. It smells… fresh, like someone’s left a window cracked overnight, like the chill of the morning’s followed him in through the front door. All the more reason to go back upstairs, so he carefully sets down the box of muffins on the counter and pads up towards the bedroom. Anya’s probably already there, stealing his spot in bed, (not that he could ever begrudge her the space), but if he’s lucky, Shane will still be asleep and won’t notice if he scootches them both over to make room.
But the bed is cold and empty, comforter rucked up and pillows askew.
He knocks on the almost-closed bathroom door instead, head tilted to one side, listening for the sound of running water through the crack,
“Solnyshka?”
Nothing. Not even the sound of footsteps on cool tile, or the rustle of fabric.
No. Not quite nothing. There’s something faint, high pitched, the sound of canine whining, and his heart rate ticks up as he jerks around from the bathroom doorway.
It’s a quick sprint back down the stairs, half-skidding around the corner, following the high-pitched yipping as it gets louder and louder, finally rounding into kitchen, and bolting down into the sunken area that’s mostly dominated by grey couch, where that odd half wall and steps had blocked his view of-
Shane.
Shane, sprawled face first on the floor, surrounded by a glittering carpet of broken glass, unmoving. Anya nudging her nose desperately into his side, squealing, paws scratching at the floor, cold air wafting in from the broken picture window carrying the scent of the lake, the dull noise of wind and birdsong-
He’s down in a second, glass digging into his knees, his hands, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t feel it, doesn’t hear the crunching scrape as he rolls Shane over, pulling him onto his lap,
“Shane, fuck, Shane-“
There’s a flicker, eyelids twitching, skin pulling at the drying blood that’s trickled down from his temples and crested the top of his jaw.
He’s doesn’t shake him, he knows better then that, concussion protocols burned into his memory years ago, but his hands tremble as he strokes the back of his fingers against a cool cheek,
“Hollander, I swear to god, wake up-“
A sharp inhale and dark eyes slit open, almost immediately screwing up as Shane winces, rolls over, and abruptly vomits all over his lap.
He almost jerks back, but even as hot liquid soaks through to his skin, he shuffles, using one broad hand to keep Shane’s head in place while he fumbles in his pocket for his phone with the other, thumbing open the screen and clumsily dialing nine, one, one-
Soft eyelashes flutter, brown eyes becoming blank and glossy, and he swears, dropping the phone and snapping his fingers in front of Shane’s face.
“Hey. Hey!”
He’s rewarded with a groan, and a mumbled, ‘Fuck you…’, but it’s enough and a stern female voice is trickling up through the phone speaker,
“Do you need fire, police, or ambulance?”
An unfamiliar accent but a recognizable cadence, and he falls on the last one, “Ambulance. Need ambulance. Police, maybe. My… friend-”
“Where are you located?”
He rattles off the address, thankful for the first time that Shane had insisted he should memorize it. There’s only a second of silence, before the operator speaks again.
“Alright, help is on the way. Is your friend breathing? Conscious?”
“Yes. Mostly. Is not… Focusing.” Damn this shitty language, nearly ten shitty years of being immersed in it, drowning in it, and it would fail him when he needs it the most,
“Hit his head, I think. Threw up.”
Or something did, his gaze flicking over to the broken window, to Anya, who’s cowering nearby, pressed into the side of the couch, eyes wild, but there’s no time now. Weak arms are trying to push off the ground, soft palms digging into tiny jagged blue-green shards, and he shoots an arm out to catch them, gripping Shane’s shoulders and holding him in place,
“Stay still. They will move you, da, the medics? Properly.”
“The ambulance is five minutes away. Can you keep him conscious?”
Shane’s eyes are properly open now, squinting against the light, but open, mouth mumbling something too low and too slurred to be intelligible.
“Yes, yes I think so.”
“You’re doing great.” The woman’s voice is insufferably calm, careful, speaking slowly and over enunciating every word, “I need you to tell me if anything changes, okay?”
He grits his teeth. “Da, yes.”
Shane’s still in pajamas, soft t-shirt, sweatpants, and bare feet, and Ilya brings a hand up, using the cuff of his own sweatshirt to wipe away the stray vomit from around the corners of his mouth.
Five minutes pass by at a crawl, he fixates on Shane’s breathing, murmuring a diatribe that slips in and out of English, repeating a silent prayer over and over…
A sharp knocking, loud voices, and he jerks his head up, squeezing Shane’s arm.
“Ambulance. I will be back, do not go anywhere.”
Shane’s lips twitch, maybe, or maybe he’s imagining it, but he’s gone in a second anyway, fumbling with the lock and yanking the door open, not bothering to talk, just waving the uniformed paramedics through to the kitchen, holding himself back as grim-faced strangers shine lights in Shane’s eyes, feel for a pulse, carefully transfer him onto a spine-board, then a stretcher, wheeling him back out towards the door. There’s a faint murmuring, a soft voice that’s too weak and too quiet cutting through the controlled rush, and he catches Shane’s wrist,
“I am coming. I will be there.”
He flicks his eyes up to one of the paramedics, “I can ride with, yes?”
A brisk nod. “Yeah, there’s a seat in the back. You’ll need to stay out of the way, though.”
“Fine. Good.”
He spares a second to scoop up Anya and run her to the bedroom, pressing a brief kiss and apology onto her forehead before dropping her onto the floor and closing the door, running back downstairs just in time to step in through swinging double doors, lets himself be corralled into the drop seat in the corner, incapable of doing anything but watching the flurry of gloved hands and uniformed bodies as the ambulance swings out onto the main road, and through it all, the soft brown eyes struggling desperately to stay fixed on his own.