Chapter Text
The beginnings of Ottawa's chilly fall bit through Shane's jacket as he and Ilya left the practice facility. It was late—later than usual—because Ilya had insisted on running extra drills with Luca, who was still adjusting to the NHL pace. Shane had watched from the boards, content to let his boyfriend work his magic with the rookie. After all these years together, Shane still marveled at Ilya's patience when it came to hockey, even if that patience didn't always extend to other areas of life.
"You are too quiet," Ilya said, bumping Shane's shoulder as they walked toward Shane's car. "What is in your head?"
"Nothing bad," Shane assured him. "Just thinking about dinner. I'm starving."
"When are you not starving?" Ilya's accent wrapped around the words, making them sound both teasing and affectionate. "You eat like bear preparing for winter."
"Says the guy who had three protein shakes today."
"Is different. I need—" Ilya paused, searching for the word. "Fuel. For body."
"That's literally what I just said about myself."
Ilya waved a dismissive hand. "Your body is fine. My body is—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his hand shooting out to grip Shane's arm. "Shane. Look."
Shane followed Ilya's gaze to the side of the building, near the maintenance door that staff used for equipment deliveries. At first, he didn't see anything unusual—just the door, the brick wall, the edge of the parking lot beyond. Then he spotted it: a small figure in the shadows, partially hidden by the corner of the building.
Shane went still. His mind catalogued details automatically—size, position, the way the figure had a clear view of the parking lot. Small. Too small to be out here alone this late.
"Is child," Ilya said quietly.
They moved closer, their footsteps crunching on the pavement. As they approached, Shane could make out more details. A boy, maybe eight or nine years old, though it was hard to tell. Painfully thin. Clothes far too large and completely wrong for the Canadian winter—a threadbare jacket with holes in the elbows, jeans that were more patches than denim, sneakers with the soles peeling away from the uppers. Dark, messy hair. Shaking, though whether from cold or fear, Shane couldn't tell.
The boy's head snapped toward them, and Shane saw his eyes go wide. Saw the calculation happen in real-time—caught, spotted, seen.
Then the boy moved.
Not running. Not bolting. Just a careful, subtle shift away from them, angling toward the far side of the building like he could slip away unnoticed if he just moved slowly enough.
He made it three steps before his right leg buckled. He'd been walking on it for days. It wasn't new. He just couldn't pretend anymore.
The boy caught himself against the wall, his hand slapping against the brick. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then slowly—so slowly—slid down to sit against the wall. His shoulders slumped. His head dropped forward.
Shane and Ilya exchanged a look. Then they moved closer, keeping their movements slow and deliberate.
As they got nearer, Shane could see the bruises. Yellowing marks mottled the boy's jaw and cheekbone—old enough to be fading to sickly green. But one mark near his temple was still angry and swollen, the skin dark purple shading to red at the edges. Fresh. Maybe a day old. A cut on his lip looked infected, the surrounding tissue puffy and raw.
"Bozhe moy," Ilya breathed.
The boy's eyes were fixed on the ground, but Shane could see the tension in his thin shoulders, the way his hands were clenched into fists against his thighs.
Ilya lowered himself onto the cold pavement a few feet away, his movements careful and controlled. "We will not hurt you," he said, his voice gentler than Shane had ever heard it.
The boy didn't respond. Didn't even look up.
Shane crouched down, keeping his distance. "What's your name?"
Nothing. The boy's teeth were chattering—Shane could see his whole jaw trembling.
"You are cold," Ilya said. It wasn't a question.
The boy's shoulders hunched inward, like he was trying to disappear into himself.
Shane started to shrug off his jacket, but the boy flinched so violently his head cracked against the brick wall behind him. Shane froze, jacket half-off, then slowly pulled it back on. He caught Ilya's eyes. Ilya's jaw was tight.
"We just want to help," Shane said quietly. "That's all."
The boy finally looked up. His eyes were green—startlingly green—and filled with a wariness no child should ever have to carry.
"Can you tell us your name?" Ilya asked. "Please."
The boy's mouth opened, then closed. When he finally spoke, his voice came out so hoarse and quiet Shane had to lean forward to catch it.
"Harry."
"Harry," Ilya repeated, and something in his voice softened. "Good name. Are you hurt? Your leg—"
Harry's eyes widened, and he shook his head frantically. "No. No doctors. Please. I'll leave. I'll go. I won't come back. Just—just no doctors."
Shane and Ilya exchanged a look. Shane could see his own worry reflected in Ilya's dark eyes.
"Why were you waiting here?" Shane asked gently. "By the door?"
Harry's face flushed. He looked away, jaw working silently.
"Harry," Ilya said. "Is okay. You can tell us."
"I was waiting for everyone to leave," Harry whispered. "The parking lot. I'd wait until it was empty, and then I—" He stopped, pressing his lips together.
"Then you'd go inside," Shane finished quietly.
Harry nodded, still not meeting their eyes. "The maintenance door. Sometimes it doesn't lock right. I can get in." He paused, and when he spoke again, there was a strange mix of shame and quiet pride in his voice. "I learned the schedules. The staff leaves by six on weekdays, later on Fridays. There's a camera that doesn't cover the back corridor—the angle's wrong, there's a blind spot by the storage room. I watched for a few days to figure it out. And the morning shift doesn't come in until seven, so I have to be out by six-thirty. There's a storage room below the offices that's never checked. I sleep there, then slip out before dawn." He swallowed hard. "I know when the Zamboni runs, when the ice is being prepped. I just... I needed somewhere warm. Somewhere safe."
Shane's throat tightened. Beside him, Ilya had gone very still.
"How long?" Ilya asked. "How long have you been doing this?"
Harry shrugged, a tiny movement that made him wince. "I don't know. A week? Maybe more. I lose track."
"You have been sleeping in our rink," Ilya said. Not a question. A statement.
"I'm sorry," Harry said quickly, panic flooding his voice. "I didn't take anything. I didn't break anything. I just—I needed somewhere to sleep. Somewhere warm. I'll leave. I promise. I won't come back—"
"Stop," Shane said firmly. "We're not angry. We're not going to make you leave."
Harry stared at him, disbelief written across his bruised face.
"When did you last eat?" Ilya asked.
Harry's stomach answered before he could, growling loud in the quiet evening air. He jumped at the sound, then pressed a hand against his stomach like he could silence it through sheer willpower. His cheeks darkened to a deeper shade of red.
"Days, maybe," Harry whispered. "I found some bread in a bin yesterday. Or the day before. I don't remember."
"From the trash," Shane said. Not a question.
Harry nodded, shame flooding his face. "It wasn't too bad. Only a little moldy."
Ilya swore in Russian, low and vicious.
"Where did you come from?" Shane asked, his voice calm despite his racing mind. "How did you get here?"
Harry was quiet for a long moment. His jaw worked silently, like he was trying to decide what to say.
"I ran away," he finally whispered. "From England. That's all."
" From where in England?" Ilya asked gently.
Harry's shoulders tensed. He looked away, his hands clenching into fists. Silence was his only answer.
"Okay," Shane said, keeping his voice level. "That's okay. But how did you get to Canada? That's a long way."
"I hid," Harry said, his voice barely audible. "In vehicles. It was loud and dark and smelled like oil. I didn't know it was going that far."
"Harry," Ilya said softly. "Did someone hurt you?"
Harry's entire body went rigid. His eyes squeezed shut, and his breathing turned shallow and rapid.
"It's okay," Shane said quickly. "You don't have to answer. We're just trying to understand—"
"Someone did hurt me," Harry said abruptly, his voice cracking. "That's why I left. But I can't—I can't talk about it right now. I'm sorry. I know you probably want to know everything, but I just—" His voice broke. "I can't."
He clamped a hand over his mouth, his whole body shaking.
Shane and Ilya exchanged a look. Shane could see the fierce protectiveness in Ilya's expression, mirroring what he felt—a burning need to know who had hurt this child, and an equally fierce need to make sure it never happened again.
But that could wait. Right now, Harry needed safety, not interrogation.
"You are no bother," Ilya said, and there was something fierce in his voice. Something protective and absolute. He looked at Shane.
Shane held his gaze. They didn't need words for this. He could see the question in Ilya's eyes, and he knew his answer.
He stood up slowly, then held out his hand to Ilya. Not to Harry—not yet. The kid was too scared for that.
"Harry," Shane said. "We have a house. It's warm. We have food. You can come home with us tonight. Get warm, eat something. Tomorrow we'll figure out the rest."
Harry looked between them, his expression wary. "You don't want anything?"
"Want anything?" Ilya repeated.
"For letting me stay," Harry clarified. "What do I have to do? What chores? I can clean. I'm good at cleaning. And I can cook, though not very well. And I don't even need a bed! I can sleep in small spaces. I don't take up much room."
Shane's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and he had to force them open again. Beside him, Ilya had gone very still.
"Small spaces?" Ilya said quietly. "Where do you sleep normally, Harry?"
Harry's face flushed. He looked away, his shoulders hunching inward. "Just... wherever. It doesn't matter. I'm used to it."
"Harry," Shane said, his voice gentle. "Where?"
"It's not important," Harry said quickly, his voice tight. "I just need somewhere warm tonight. That's all. I don't need much. I'm not picky."
Ilya exchanged a look with Shane. There was something Harry wasn't saying, something he was ashamed of or afraid to admit. But pushing wouldn't help—not now, not when the kid was already terrified.
"You will have a bed," Ilya said firmly. "A real bed. With blankets. Is not negotiable."
Harry stared at his feet, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He didn't argue, but he didn't look convinced either.
"Harry," Ilya said, moving closer and lowering himself to Harry's eye level. "Listen to me. You deserve to be safe. To be warm. To have food. To be loved. Whoever did this to you—they are wrong. You understand? They are wrong about you."
Harry stared at him, tears streaming down his bruised face. He looked like he wanted desperately to believe it but couldn't quite manage.
Shane crouched down beside Ilya. He didn't reach for Harry—just stayed close. Present.
"We're not going to hurt you," Shane said quietly. "And we're not going to make you do anything. You can come with us, or we can call someone else to help. Your choice."
Harry looked at them for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
Shane stood and pulled off his jacket in one smooth motion. This time, Harry didn't flinch. Shane draped it carefully over the boy's shoulders, and Harry's small hands clutched at the fabric like a lifeline.
Ilya helped Harry to his feet, supporting most of his weight. The boy could barely stand, his injured leg buckling beneath him.
"I've got you," Ilya murmured. "Is okay. I have you."
Shane led the way to the car, unlocking it and pulling open the back door. Ilya settled Harry into the seat, buckling him in with careful hands. Harry had already stopped shivering as much in the warmth of Shane's jacket, but his eyes were still wide and frightened.
Shane met Ilya's gaze over the roof of the car. Ilya nodded once, firm and certain.
They were doing this. They were taking this boy home.
Shane slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, cranking the heat up as high as it would go. In the rearview mirror, he watched Harry huddle in his jacket, small and broken and terrified.
But alive. And safe.
For now, that was enough.
When they pulled up to the house, Harry's eyes widened. Shane got out and opened the back door, but Ilya waved him off. "I have him. Get door."
Inside, Shane flicked on lights and moved hockey equipment out of the way. The house was warm—he'd left the heat on. Ilya carried Harry toward the sectional.
Harry went rigid. "No. Please. I'll get it dirty. Just—just the floor. Or a cupboard. Is there a cupboard?"
Shane stopped moving. He looked at Ilya. Ilya's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. "You will not get anything dirty. And you do not sit on floor. You are not dog."
"But I'm—"
"You are child," Ilya said, lowering Harry carefully onto the couch. Harry perched on the very edge, ready to bolt. Ilya sat nearby, not crowding. "I get blanket."
While Ilya disappeared down the hall, Shane crouched at a distance. "The scar on your forehead. How'd you get it?"
Harry's hand flew up reflexively, covering it. His entire body language screamed: don't ask.
Shane nodded slowly. He didn't push. Whatever had happened was clearly painful. "Okay. That's okay."
Ilya returned with a thick blanket and draped it around Harry's shoulders. Harry flinched, then relaxed into the warmth. "Thank you," he whispered.
"You do not need to thank."
Shane moved to sit beside Ilya, their thighs touching. Ilya's hand found his automatically. Harry stared at their joined hands.
"You're really together? Like married?"
"Not married," Ilya said. "But yes. Together. Does this bother you?"
"No. I just—Aunt Petunia said it was wrong. But it doesn't look wrong."
"Is not wrong," Ilya said simply.
Shane squeezed Ilya's hand. "Have you eaten today, Harry?"
Harry shook his head.
"I'll make you something small. Soup okay?"
"I—yes. But I should make it. That's my job. I cook and clean and do laundry and garden and—" Harry's voice rose. "I can do all that here. I won't complain. Just please don't send me back."
"You are child," Ilya said, something dangerous in his voice. "You should be playing. Going to school. Not working like servant."
"Where I came from, I had to do chores. Had to earn my keep or get out," Harry said quietly.
"Where did you sleep?" Shane asked carefully.
Harry's eyes dropped. His shoulders hunched inward, making himself smaller. "It was... small. Dark. That's all that matters."
"Harry—"
Harry looked away, picking at a thread on the blanket so hard it nearly frayed. "It was fine. Doesn't matter now."
Ilya's hands had gone rigid at his sides, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles flexed beneath his skin. Shane could feel the fury radiating off him—not at Harry, but at what Harry had endured. At whoever had put him there.
"You are safe now," Ilya said, his accent thickening. "You do not have to—"
Harry's jaw clenched. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, still refusing to meet their eyes.
Shane reached over and gently squeezed Harry's shoulder. "Okay. We won't push. But you're safe here. That's what matters."
"They will never reach you again," Ilya said, his accent thickening. "Never. You understand? You are safe here."
Harry looked at him with those too-old eyes. "You can't promise that."
"Yes," Ilya said. "I can."
Shane had texted Rose on the drive home. She'd replied within minutes: *On my way.*
A knock at the door. Shane opened it to find Rose standing in the hallway, still in her on-set makeup from filming. Her expression shifted from curiosity to shock when she saw Harry—small and bruised and drowning in a blanket.
"Oh my God," she breathed.
"We found him," Shane said quietly. "In an alley. Rose, we need help."
Rose didn't hesitate. She came inside, her eyes taking in Harry's injuries with growing concern. "Have you called anyone? A doctor?"
"Not yet," Ilya said. "We were not sure—"
"He needs a hospital," Rose said firmly, looking at Harry's swollen leg, the bruises darkening across his ribs. "Shane, Ilya, he needs real medical help. Tonight."
"No hospitals," Harry said, panic flooding his voice. "They'll call my aunt and uncle—"
Shane and Ilya exch anged a look. A quick one, but loaded. The pieces clicked into place *them*. His aunt and uncle were the reason he was terrified. The reason he'd been living in the rink. The reason he was here at all.
"We'll talk to them," Shane said. "But you won't be alone. We're not letting you go through this by yourself. But Rose is right. You need real medical help. We'll be with you the whole time."
"The whole time?"
"Every second," Ilya confirmed, and there was something protective in his tone now—something that said he understood exactly what Harry was running from.
Harry looked down at his hands, then back at them. "You won't leave me there? You promise?"
Shane reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "We promise."
Harry looked between them, then nodded. "Okay."