Chapter Text
Five years ago, if someone were to ask Shane how he was able to function on less than five hours of sleep a night, he would’ve said it was easy.
Business deals would often happen long after the rest of the city was asleep. Shane would meet with the Yakuza’s associates to close out on agreements and transactions, check warehouse inventory, and catch up on paperwork he hadn’t gotten to during the day. He’d often fall into bed just as the sun was starting to creep back up, and wake for an early morning workout just as the rest of the city was starting its day.
Rinse and repeat.
It had been easy to dismiss the sleep, his body quickly conforming to discipline, control, and routine.
But that was over five years ago.
Presently, he’s internally cussing himself out for all those years and all those hours of taking sleep for granted.
It’s almost four in the morning, and he’s currently pacing the length of the twins’ nursery with one of the terrors cradled in his arms. He blinks rapidly, trying to fend off exhaustion as he rocks Mila back and forth to no avail, her wails pitching higher in his ear, causing him to wince in discomfort. He can hear a similar cry from down the hall in the kitchen.
Mila is loud. Impossibly loud, Shane thinks, for something so small.
Her tiny fist is curled into his shirt, face red, scrunched, and tear-stricken. Her dark curly hair is sticking out in all directions- Shane thinks his probably doesn’t look much better.
“Shhhh, it’s okay, Mila,” Shane murmurs, as he switches Mila in his hold, placing her on his chest, hand cradling the back of her head and neck for support. “Why don’t we go check on Papa and Niko? He’s supposed to be preparing your bottles.”
Shane pads quietly down the hall, past the living room, and to the kitchen, where he stops and almost laughs at the sight.
Ilya is rocking back and forth with their son, Niko, in his arms, eyes closed, head almost hanging at an angle like he’d fallen asleep while standing up. He looks so impossibly sleep-deprived, Shane can’t help but grin. His hair is sticking up on one side, flattened on the other from his pillow, most likely. His shirt is on backwards and inside out, the tiny infant yanking at the collar, exposing the skin and golden cross at Ilya’s throat.
The bottles and formula are laid out on the counter like he’d been mid-preparation before he’d accidentally closed his eyes for a moment.
“Babe. Babe- Ilya!” Shane calls out, watching as his husband startles, eyes flying open, blinking rapidly.
“Wha-” he starts, before Shane lets out a small laugh. “I’m awake,” he says with a yawn.
Niko isn’t wailing as aggressively as his sister, and even seems to be quieting down a bit to both parents’ relief, so Ilya offers to take Mila.
“Give her to me,” he says, already shifting Niko slightly higher on his shoulder.
Shane hesitates for half a second, but carefully transfers her, making sure her head is supported the entire time. He sighs, moving to the counter as he rolls out his left shoulder. Even after years of training and physical therapy, it still feels tight after prolonged use.
He doesn’t hesitate because he distrusts Ilya, he just knows that while technically completely recovered, his husband still worries about the injuries he sustained when he was kidnapped. He hates feeling like a burden, and even though he knows Ilya never sees it like that, Shane can’t help but feel like sometimes the man walks on eggshells around him.
The moment Mila’s in Ilya’s arms, she lets out a sharp, offended cry- louder, somehow.
“Oh, okay,” Ilya mutters, wincing. “I see how it is.” His eyes quickly dart to the other infant in his arms, judging for a reaction.
His panic is immediate, as Niko’s eyes shoot open, and he looks like he’s starting to wind up.
“No, no, no. Shane, moya lyubov (my love), they are plotting!” he hisses out, as Niko’s face starts to turn increasingly red. The newborn is starting to become fidgety.
Shane tries not to laugh at the panicked look on Ilya’s face as he swiftly starts on the bottles.
“Just- keep them distracted,” Shane mutters, focused, scooping formula with a practiced precision.
“With what?” Ilya demands, already bouncing slightly, trying to adjust both babies without jostling either of them too much. “They are infants- Mladentsy- Shane. They do not respond to reason-”
“Talk to them.”
“I am talking to them!”
“You’re panicking at them.”
“There is difference?”
Mila lets out another sharp cry, her tiny hands fisting against Ilya’s shirt, while Niko’s face scrunches further, the warning signs all there.
“Ok ok, I’m sorry, moy malysh (my baby),” Ilya breathes out. “I talk quiet now, yes? Very not panicking. Oh wow, so quiet, yes. Shhhh.”
Shane snorts.
Clearly, when the Russian is sleep deprived and panicked, the English language making sense is not particularly at the top of his priority list.
Shane sighs, listening to Ilya babble nonsense sentences a little longer, capping one bottle, shaking it, then reaching for the second with practiced efficiency that feels eerily similar to a life he no longer lives. Different stakes. Same precision.
The wailing doesn’t get louder, but it doesn’t stop.
“Shane,” Ilya says, voice tightening, “they are unionizing.”
“They’re babies.”
“They are coordinating, listen!”
Niko lets out a full, outraged scream.
“Okay, that one might’ve been coordination,” Shane admits under his breath, thrusting one of the bottles toward Ilya, scooping Niko from his arms. “Here.”
Ilya fumbles slightly before managing to angle it toward Mila. “Ladies first,” he mutters, though his tone is more desperate than chivalrous.
Mila latches immediately. Niko, in Shane’s arms, following close behind.
Their cries cut off so abruptly, it almost feels suspicious.
Ilya freezes, eyes wide, then slumps just slightly. “Oh, thank God,” he whispers. “War is over.”
The quiet that follows is instant.
Not complete, but close enough that it feels like stepping out of a storm. Both men go still, neither of them breathes for a second.
Very, very carefully, they move.
It feels more delicate than anything Shane has ever done. More precise than any deal, any exchange, any moment that once required absolute control.
Ilya kisses the top of Mila’s head, whispering something in Russian, and then lowers her into the crib, one hand still resting lightly against her chest like he doesn’t quite trust gravity to do its job. Shane does the same with Niko, easing him down inch by inch, waiting-
Watching-
For the inevitable protest.
It doesn’t come.
Both babies stay asleep, curling into themselves. For a moment, neither of them breathes, and then, almost in unison, their bodies relax. Shane takes the moment to stare at his two children, heart swelling as he reaches out to brush a stray curl of Niko’s dark hair against his head.
Shane straightens slowly, every movement controlled, and glances across the room. Ilya is already looking at him.
“Finally,” Ilya lets out a quiet groan. “No more crying.”
“Don’t say that,” Shane murmurs immediately. “You’ll jinx it.”
“I am not jinxing it,” Ilya says, equally quiet. “I am acknowledging our victory.”
“Well, don’t acknowledge anything.”
Ilya huffs, but it’s soft, contained. He glances back at Mila, then at Niko, then back to Shane.
“Do you ever think it was easier before…” he mutters.
Shane raises a brow. “Before?”
“Да. Before, when we were running successful crime businesses. Head of Yakuza and Bratva, basically.”
Shane almost laughs, but swallows it, pressing his lips together instead.
“I know you’re joking,” he whispers, a yawn escaping his lips. “But I honestly don’t think I’ve felt this exhausted over lack of sleep in ages.”
Ilya hums in agreement. “People listened. You gave orders, they followed them.”
“And if they didn’t, there were consequences.”
“Да,” Ilya says. “Clear consequences. Logical.”
Shane nods slightly toward the cribs. “And now...what are the consequences?”
Ilya looks at Mila. Then at Niko.
“They scream louder. No sleep. Is basically a torture method.”
Shane’s lips turn up in an easy smile as he shakes his head.
“We’re being outperformed,” he says quietly.
“By two Mladentsy who cannot even hold their own heads up,” Ilya adds.
“They’d be better leaders. Way more vicious than us for sure.”
“Да, it is deeply humiliating.”
A soft shuffle sounds behind them, the distinct clinking of metal from a collar. Both of them freeze. Slowly, Shane turns his head.
Anya stands in the doorway, ears perked, tail low but wagging slightly, like she knows she’s not supposed to be here but came anyway. Shane’s immediate instinct is to tell her to go, but he glances back at the cribs first. Both babies are still fast asleep.
“Do not…” he warns, squinting his eyes at the dog, finger pointed.
Anya stays where she is, head still tilted.
Ilya gestures faintly toward the hall. “Out, printsessa (princess),” he mouths.
She doesn’t bark- thankfully- but after a moment, turns and pads back the way she came. Both adults wait for a moment, listening to make sure she doesn’t decide to come bounding back in to cause a scene. When the silence holds, Ilya exhales a breath, reaching out to Shane and pulling him in by the waist.
“That was close,” he murmurs, forehead resting on Shane’s shoulder.
“Mmm.”
It’s silent for a moment, as they take a second to decompress and enjoy the quiet. Ilya moves first, hands finding Shane’s wrist as he curls his fingers around it gently, tugging him toward the door.
“Come on,” he whispers. “Bed is too far.”
Shane doesn’t argue as Ilya pulls them into the hallway and out to the living room. The couch might as well be miles away, but they somehow make it. Ilya collapses onto it first, leaning back heavily, like something in him has finally given out. Shane follows a second later, lowering himself more carefully, every muscle in his body aware of how little energy he has left.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. They just sit there, breathing. Alive and exhausted. Shane glances down at himself. There’s something damp on his shirt. Formula, probably. Something sticky near his wrist. He doesn’t want to think about it too hard.
Five years ago, he would’ve already been in the shower, cleaned, and rested. Already moving on to the next thing.
Now...
He leans back, lets his head fall against the cushion, and closes his eyes.
Soft paws against hardwood again. He doesn’t even open his eyes this time, as a weight shifts onto the couch, then settles. Anya curls herself neatly into Ilya’s lap like she belongs there, and Shane doesn’t have it in him to complain about all the dog hair he’s going to have to clean later. Ilya’s hand comes up automatically, resting against her back, fingers barely moving in slow, absent strokes.
“We’re disgusting,” Shane murmurs, as Ilya plants a light kiss on his temple.
Ilya lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “да.”
“We smell.”
“Probably.”
“There’s something on my arm,” Shane adds, Ilya groaning lightly.
“Don’t think about it.”
“It’s sticky. Also, your shirt is inside out.”
“Stop it.”
A pause.
Then-
“I would not trade it,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane doesn’t answer right away. He opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the hallway. Toward the nursery. At the love of his life, and the now, weirdly quiet morning. To the warm, breathing, fur-covered body lying across his and Ilya’s lap.
He exhales slowly, something in his chest settling into place.
“No,” he says, with a soft smile. “Me neither.”