Chapter Text
It had been a really good day. That was the worst part, Shane thought as he searched for Ilya.
Ilya had woken up especially cuddly, waking Shane up by nuzzling into his collarbone with a sleepy, contented hum. It rumbled through Shane from where their skin touched, the vibrations leaving behind a pleasant tingle. Ilya’s fingers were moving against Shane’s skin — but not the way they usually were in the morning. They brushed the outside of Shane’s bicep as Ilya rubbed the hem of Shane’s sleeve, the way he usually did with Anya’s sweater. Shane wondered momentarily where she was before he realized he could feel her squished between them, her shape pressed into his side. Shane read the cues loud and clear. He pressed a kiss to Ilya’s curls.
“Good morning, baby,” he murmured into Ilya’s hair.
Ilya stilled momentarily before burying his face deeper into the crook of Shane’s neck. He mumbled something, the buzz of his words tickling Shane’s neck again.
“What was that?” Shane asked, looking down at Ilya’s tousled curls, the only part of him currently visible.
Ilya turned his head to the side. He glanced up at Shane momentarily before looking away, cheeks reddening. He fixed his eyes on Shane’s shirt — well, actually it was Ilya’s shirt, but Shane was wearing it. He’d brought some of his own clothes to Ilya’s place, but he might as well have not bothered, considering how rarely he actually wore any of it. “Is okay?”
“More than okay,” Shane soothed, stroking a hand over his back.
“Even though yesterday I already…”
Ilya had been small the previous night, but not until pretty late into the evening because Shane’s afternoon game had ended up going into overtime and then a shootout. He hadn’t arrived at Ilya’s until after nine. It was no more than a half-hour of them cuddling on the couch with one of Ilya’s Russian shows on before it was time for their bedtime routine. Truthfully, Shane was more than a little pleased to have another small day.
“Yes, mon ti-loup,” Shane said. “I can’t think of a better way to spend the day. We never even got a chance to use the new markers yesterday. Wanna do that today?”
Ilya squirmed. Shane gave him a minute, knowing that it took him a little longer to work through things when he was feeling small. He was probably feeling guilty for wanting to be small again today, and also trying to reconcile that feeling with Shane’s insistence that it was okay — more than okay, good even. It was getting easier to convince him that small time wasn’t an inconvenience to Shane, but it still took a bit of reassurance (which Shane was more than happy to provide).
In fact, it was the opposite of an inconvenience. Caring for Ilya gave Shane a kind of peace he couldn’t get from anywhere else. Not even hockey.
Finally, Ilya nodded. He fished around between them until he found Anya, yanking her up and setting her on Shane’s chest.
“Good morning, Anya,” Shane said, reaching out and patting her head. Ilya wiggled her back and forth a little in a silent hello.
“She says good morning,” Ilya said. “She wants breakfast.”
On cue, Ilya’s stomach growled.
“Sounds like she’s not the only one,” Shane laughed. He nudged Ilya with his shoulder. “C’mon then, let’s get breakfast.”
Ilya hopped up and went to the door.
“Wait a minute,” Shane called. Ilya paused, turning around with a put-upon sigh. “We’re forgetting something, don’t you think?”
Ilya frowned, staring into space as he thought. He shifted back and forth on his feet. Then it hit him. “Oh. Bathroom.”
“That, and we need to brush our teeth,” Shane reminded him. Ilya nodded and changed course, heading into the en-suite bathroom and setting Anya in her designated bathroom-routine spot on the counter.
Shane let Ilya use the bathroom in privacy while he changed into some fresh clothes. Ilya liked to hang out in his pajamas as long as he could, but Shane preferred to have fresh clothes once he was out of bed.
When Ilya stepped out Shane went in and did his own morning bathroom routine, stepping back out to find Ilya waiting for him at the door. Shane went over to the nightstand and grabbed Ilya’s paci. He put it around Ilya’s neck as he walked by, and Ilya’s hand came up to fidget with it as Shane led them into the kitchen.
“I’m thinking for breakfast—“
“Pancakes!”
Shane paused with his hand on the fridge door. He looked back at Ilya, whose eyes were bright and excited. Shane knew immediately that he’d fold. Still, it was worth a shot. “I was gonna make eggs and toast.”
“Ew,” Ilya said with a disgusted look on his face.
“You like eggs and toast,” Shane said with an eye roll.
“Pancakes is better.”
“Pancakes are better,” Shane corrected.
“Да, see? You agree.”
Shane sighed and opened the fridge, pulling out the ingredients he’d need for pancakes with a smile and a shake of the head. He loved that Ilya was comfortable enough now for his personality to show through when he was small, even when it was the parts of him that liked to push Shane’s buttons. “Okay, fine. I’ll make you pancakes.”
“With chocolate chips.”
Shane huffed and looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Now you’re pushing your luck.”
Ilya poked out his bottom lip and clasped his hands together. Anya was still in one of his hands, so she hung down and stared at Shane from below Ilya’s chin, her baleful bead eyes staring into Shane’s very soul.
“Oh my God,” Shane muttered. He shook his head and turned away. He couldn’t fold that easily. Or at least, he could try and teach Ilya some sort of lesson here. “Maybe I would make them with chocolate chips if I’d heard a single please.”
“Please, Shane,” Ilya pleaded. “Please please please please please plea—“
“Alright, alright,” Shane huffed. “Fine, chocolate chip pancakes it is. They’re gonna take longer than eggs and toast, though. Do you want to sit in here with me while I cook or go watch TV?”
“Um...” Ilya furrowed his eyebrows and frowned at the wall as he thought, fidgeting with the paci around his neck absently. Shane gave him a moment to think.
“It’s okay if you want to watch TV,” Shane said after Ilya was quiet for a long time, even for small Ilya standards.
Ilya nodded immediately, looking back up at Shane. “TV,” he repeated.
“Go ahead. Can you set it up yourself?”
Another nod and Ilya hurried out of the room. Shane got to work on the pancakes.
Ilya came running when Shane called him to the table for breakfast.
“Slow down, buddy.”
Ilya only slowed down slightly, sliding a little on his socks as he got to the table. He set Anya down in front of her usual little dish of granola and sat down eagerly, face splitting into a grin when he saw the stack of already-cut pancakes on his plate. He then glanced at Shane’s plate and the smile disappeared.
“Where are your pancakes?”
Shane shrugged. “I wanted eggs and toast.”
“Instead of pancakes?” Ilya asked skeptically.
The pancakes did smell… really good. But the playoffs were rapidly approaching and Shane needed to stay on top of his macros. Pancakes just weren’t an option right now.
“Yeah, buddy,” Shane said. Ilya still didn’t look happy. Shane sighed, feeling bad for making Ilya upset. He’d always thought that Ilya was playing up how much he disapproved of Shane’s diet, but small Ilya had proven that he really just did not like it that much. “Do you want me to try a bite of yours?”
Ilya’s face lit up. “Yes!”
“Okay, I’ll try a bite. Thank you for sharing.”
“Thank you for making,” Ilya said happily, wiggling in his chair as he grabbed a fork and speared a piece. He held it out for Shane.
“You eat the first bite, silly,” Shane said with a smile.
Ilya shook his head. “Together,” he said.
Shane’s smile grew soft and he nodded. “Okay, together.” He grabbed the proffered bite of pancake off Ilya’s fork with his fingers. Ilya speared another piece and they both ate them together.
Shane didn’t have to fake the pleased noise that left his throat. “Mmm, that’s really good.”
“Another?”
“No thanks, I need to finish my own breakfast. I’m guessing you don’t want to try any of mine?”
Ilya looked at his plate and quickly shook his head. Shane laughed.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
After breakfast they got out the coloring books and markers and spread them out onto the dining room table. Shane had ordered a huge pack of markers for them to try a week ago, and he might’ve been more excited about it than Ilya was.
“Can we pick each other a coloring page?” Ilya asked.
“Sure,” Shane said. He grabbed a book and flipped through the pages. “How about this one?”
Ilya looked up from where he was looking for Shane’s coloring page, a serious expression on his face. He scrutinized it for a moment before shaking his head. “No. I want one with dog.”
Shane snorted. “Okay, my bad. I didn’t get that since you never said it.”
“Is okay,” Ilya said absently, still flipping through pages.
Shane found a nice page with an astronaut dog floating in space. He held it up for Ilya to inspect. “I like this one.”
Ilya pursed his lips and squinted before finally nodding. “Yes, is good. I color.”
“What about mine?”
Ilya held up his book. There was a picture of two dogs having a picnic under an apple tree.
“Oh, I like it.”
They swapped books and got to coloring, Ilya slipping his paci into his mouth the moment Shane told him to stop chewing on the marker lids. Shane thought about the Ilya from a few months ago who wouldn’t even touch a paci and felt a swell of emotion, his eyes prickling.
At one point, Ilya abruptly stopped coloring. “Shane.”
“Yes, Ilya?”
“Can we get mini markers?” Ilya asked.
“Sure,” Shane said, not looking up from the picture he was coloring. He was trying very hard to avoid streaks. “But they might not be as comfortable to hold.”
“Not for me,” Ilya said, his tone heavily implying there was supposed to be a duh, Shane at the end of the sentence. “Is for Anya.”
Shane huffed out a laugh. “Oh yeah?”
“Да,” Ilya said. “Markers are too big for her to hold. Is why she does not color with us.”
“Oh no, I guess we do have to get her some mini markers then,” Shane said. “I hope she hasn’t felt left out.”
“She has not,” Ilya reassured him, resuming his coloring. “She likes to watch too. Or tell me what color to use.”
They colored for the rest of the morning. At some point Ilya decided he wanted to pick both their coloring pages. A bunny dressed as a magician for Shane, and two dogs on a tandem bicycle for Ilya. Shane shook his head with a laugh. It seemed he’d have to buy more dog-only coloring books.
Shane glanced up periodically from his bunny. Ilya was bent over his picture, paci in his mouth, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he debated between two shades of brown. Anya was watching from her spot next to Ilya’s elbow.
Shane thought about how rare days like this were. Usually they had a few hours at most. Two days in a row was almost unheard of. He committed it to memory, the shape of Ilya focused and quiet, the soft afternoon light slanting through the window. He didn’t want to forget it.
Then lunchtime happened.
Shane made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. They ate at the kitchen table, because their coloring supplies were still scattered all over the dining room table, and Ilya said he wanted to color more later (though Shane was sure that by the time they finished eating, Ilya would decide he was ready to do something else).
Shane was at the sink, rinsing the dishes he’d left from breakfast and loading them into the dishwasher while Ilya finished his food. A feeling of peace washed over Shane. They’d needed a calm day.
Over the water, he heard the sound of the ceramic shattering on the linoleum.
Shane dropped whatever he was holding into the sink, turning around with the words it’s okay, buddy, don’t worry about it on his tongue. They died instantly as he saw Ilya, crouched down and frantically gathering shards of ceramic in his bare hands.
Shane gasped. “Ilya! No—“
Ilya flinched, a single hard recoil, his whole body moving at once as he dropped the pieces he’d gathered. A crunching sound hit Shane’s ears. It was the sound of Ilya’s bare foot landing in the ceramic.
Shane froze, eyes wide.
“Ilya, don’t move—“
But Ilya was already moving, disappearing from the kitchen before Shane could register what was happening. There was a trail of blood left in his wake, small dots of it all over the kitchen tile like breadcrumbs. Shane felt lightheaded.
Ilya was bleeding.
The thought finally got Shane’s feet moving, carrying him out of the kitchen (carefully, around the ceramic shards) and following the trail of blood. He spotted Anya on the dining table as he passed and snatched her up. She would be needed.
The blood trail ended at the bathroom, the door closed. Shane knocked, keeping his voice as gentle as he could.
“Mon petit, can I come in?”
Shane listened closely, but there was no response. He heard the faintest sniffle, barely audible but there all the same.
“I’m gonna come in, okay? I just wanna make sure you’re alright.”
Shane pushed open the door slowly. Ilya was curled up in the bathtub, head tucked into his folded arms, which were resting on his knees. He looked up anxiously as Shane came in, and his eyes widened in desperation as he saw who Shane was holding. His hands flew up for Anya. Shane handed her over without hesitation.
“Sorry,” Ilya whispered, face buried in Anya’s stomach.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby.” Shane crouched down next to the tub. “Why are you sorry?”
“I know you would never hurt me,” Ilya said quietly. “I don’t know why I…”
“I know you know that,” Shane said. “You just got scared. My feelings aren’t hurt at all. Don’t even worry about that.”
Ilya’s lip trembled. Shane held his arms open, and Ilya turned into Shane’s shirt and buried his face there. Shane pulled him in as close as he could, rocking them slightly.
Ilya had worked himself up more over having possibly hurt Shane’s feelings than over the shards of ceramic in his foot. Shane could feel his heart breaking.
He gently stroked his fingers through Ilya’s hair. On initial contact Ilya flinched. Shane hesitated a moment before he tried again. This time, Ilya went boneless, pushing his head into Shane’s hand like a cat. Shane massaged his scalp for a minute, just long enough for his nervous system to regulate a little, long enough to get rid of some of the physical panic in his body.
Then he realized he’d never checked to see if Ilya’s hands were cut.
“Ilya, baby, let me see your hands.”
Ilya’s grip on Anya tightened. Shane gentled his voice further. “Just for a second. I’m not going to take her. I just need to look.”
Reluctantly, Ilya turned one hand over and held it out. Shane took it carefully and examined the palm, then the fingers. Nothing. He checked the other. Also nothing — maybe a small red mark where Ilya had been gripping a sharp edge too hard, but no cuts. No blood.
Shane exhaled. “Okay. Good. Your hands are okay.”
He pressed a kiss to Ilya’s knuckles before letting go.
Now the hard part.
“Can I take a look at your feet?”
Ilya didn’t say anything.
“I know it’s scary, but I want to make it better,” Shane said. “I’ll just clean and wrap up any cuts. That’s it.”
He didn’t mention that if the cuts were too deep, they’d need to get him to the hospital for stitches. They would cross that bridge if they got to it. Shane really hoped that they didn’t need to cross that bridge.
Ilya reluctantly pulled away, letting Shane help him out of the tub and over to the closed toilet. He favored his left foot, putting minimal weight on his right and only using the ball of his foot. And sure enough, Shane could see a few drops of blood where Ilya’s right foot had just been. Well, at least Shane knew where to start.
He grabbed the first aid kit and hydrogen peroxide from under the sink and set them on the counter, steeling himself for Ilya’s tears to break his heart.
“So brave, buddy,” he murmured, stroking Ilya’s cheek. Ilya remained silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. Shane frowned. “You okay?”
“Mm,” Ilya said.
“I‘ll be gentle,” Shane soothed. “If anything hurts, tell me and I’ll stop.”
Ilya nodded slightly, a barely-there motion. He was stock still and refused to meet Shane’s eyes, staring ahead with a vacant expression. Shane had never seen this from him before. Worry gathered in his stomach like a swarm of insects to a light.
Not knowing what else to do, he crouched down and gently grabbed Ilya’s foot. He rested Ilya’s heel against his knee and took out his phone to use the flashlight.
There were a few cuts, but none looked like they needed stitches. He still looked at each of them thoroughly to make sure there were no shards of ceramic left in them, shining the light on them closely, gently poking around the skin.
Ilya tensed, a slight twitch of his thigh muscle while Shane cleaned and bandaged the cuts, but he didn’t so much as make a sound. His face was still utterly blank when Shane glanced up to check on him.
Shane was shocked and more than a little disturbed. Ilya was small, so he’d braced himself for the kind of reaction any child would have to something like this. But Ilya was quiet. Subdued. No, not subdued — he was emotionless. Like he’d just— turned them off entirely.
Maybe… maybe this was the way he would’ve reacted as a child. Maybe this was how he was taught to react. Don’t make any more of an issue than you already have, or there will be trouble. A learned behavior.
One he carried with him even now, even big, Shane realized.
He never saw Ilya react strongly to physical pain. He’d never really given it a second thought before now. Of course he didn’t expect Ilya to start crying over a hit on the ice or anything, but there was just— little reaction at all. He’d drop gloves, of course he would, but he’d always come back swinging like the punch hadn’t actually hurt him at all. Like it was nothing more than an invitation to hit back.
Shane could recall one specific incident where Ilya had gotten his lip busted during a Boston-Montreal game. Shane’s heart jumped as he saw Ilya’s lip oozing blood, but Ilya hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t even mopped at it or touched it to feel for tenderness. Blood had just casually dripped from his lip onto his jersey until his coach called him off the ice to switch jerseys and stop the bleeding.
It was only then that Ilya had touched his lip, looking surprised to see blood there. So desensitized to pain that it didn’t register.
Shane had a horrible feeling that he knew why Ilya was so desensitized to it. Bile rose in his throat.
With the way he was raised, it was a miracle he turned out the way he did. A testament to his genuine, innate kindness and capacity to give the love he spent so much of his childhood without.
“Shane?” Ilya whispered. “You’re crying.”
Shane blinked, and sure enough, a pair of tears fell down his cheeks. He looked up at Ilya, whose previously blank face was now riddled with pain.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya whispered as soon as Shane’s eyes met his.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Shane repeated firmly. “I’m sad because I don’t like to see you hurt. That’s why I’m crying, okay? Not because you did anything wrong.”
Ilya bit his lip and gave Shane a small nod. Shane quickly mopped his tears away with the back of his hand and tried to mentally gather himself.
When he could see again, Anya was in front of his face. Ilya was holding her out for him.
“Anya hugs help,” he said.
Shane smiled softly and gently took Anya, giving her a squeeze.
It struck him then that Ilya had this now, at least. Shane couldn’t change what had been done to him as a child— he couldn’t go back and teach a younger Ilya that he was allowed to cry, allowed to be held when he was hurting. But he could do it now. He could kiss bruises and bandage cuts and pull Ilya into his arms after a fall. He could show him that pain wasn’t something to suppress.
Ilya’s father was gone. Shane was here.
Huh. Anya hugs really did help.
“Thank you, mon chou,” Shane said. He looked down at Anya with a smile as he went to hand her back and his eyes landed on a dark spot on her leg, almost brown in color. Blood. Shane’s heart sank. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Shane felt a brief, useless flash of regret for having grabbed her in the first place. If he’d left her on the dining table, then she would be clean. But Ilya had needed her. And the blood was no one’s fault— not Ilya’s, not Shane’s. It was just what had happened. That was what he’d been trying to tell Ilya, right?
Ilya’s hands were held out to receive her. He frowned a little when Shane didn’t hand her back.
“Buddy, it looks like Anya got some blood on her,” Shane said softly. “We’re gonna need to give her a bath.”
Ilya looked like Shane had just delivered the news that they would have to throw her into a fire. His face fell and his eyes grew wet.
“Нет,” he whispered. His chin wobbled, and he reached for Anya desperately. Shane hesitated but ultimately handed her to him, not wanting to worsen his distress even though he knew he’d eventually have to take her away again.
“I know it’s hard, mon petit,” Shane said. “We’ve just gotta clean her up, just like we did with you.”
Shockingly, that did the opposite of calm Ilya down. His face crumpled and he dipped his head, the tears that Shane had expected while he worked on Ilya’s foot finally falling. Shane watched as his chest hitched and he let out an exhausted sob.
“Oh, baby,” Shane sighed, getting up and pulling Ilya into a hug. Ilya buried his face in Shane’s stomach and cried, muttering something through his sobs. Shane listened, slowly realizing that he was saying prosti, Anechka over and over — the affectionate form of Anya’s name, the way you’d talk to a child or someone you loved. Shane had never heard him call her that before. He was giving her his most sincere, guilt-ridden apology.
Guilt, because he had gotten blood on her. Because he’d gotten hurt. He felt responsible, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. Shane closed his eyes, jaw clenched, and shook his head, hating Ilya’s father.
“It’s okay, baby. It was an accident, it’s not your fault. You can be upset, but you didn’t do anything wrong,” Shane said.
“Mess,” Ilya said, voice wobbly and heartbreaking. “Now Anya is hurt.”
“She’s not hurt, bud. She just needs a little bath,” Shane said, rubbing his shoulder blade.
Ilya kept crying. Shane figured it was more of a delayed reaction to everything he’d gone through in the past hour than anything. Anya getting dirty had been the thing to break the dam. Shane kept whispering comforting words as Ilya cried it out.
Eventually the tears slowed. Shane looked down, watching Ilya’s back rise and fall relatively evenly. “How we feeling?” he asked quietly.
Ilya shrugged, snuffling.
“That’s okay. Do you want to move to the couch?”
Ilya nodded.
“Want a piggyback ride?”
At this, Ilya perked up slightly, leaning back to look at Shane as he nodded again. His eyes were bloodshot. Shane couldn’t help the sympathetic coo that left him, or the way his hands instinctively cupped Ilya’s cheeks, thumbs wiping away tears.
“No washer,” Ilya said.
Shane nodded immediately. “No washer.”
Ilya relaxed a little, still letting out pitiful sniffles that tugged at Shane’s heartstrings. He kept Anya pressed tight to his chest, the dark spot on her leg hidden against his shirt.
Shane gathered the first aid kit and capped the peroxide, leaving them on the counter for later. He’d come back and clean up properly once Ilya was settled. The kitchen, full of shards of broken ceramic, and the dried smears of blood leading to the bathroom would also have to wait. None of that mattered right now.
He turned his back to Ilya and crouched down. “Hop on, baby.”
Ilya climbed onto his back with one arm still wrapped around Anya. Shane stood carefully, mindful of Ilya’s bandaged foot, and started toward the living room. Ilya was quiet against his shoulder. Shane could feel his breath, slow and shaky, against the side of his neck.
He set Ilya down on the couch and tucked the throw blanket around him. Ilya immediately curled onto his side and put his paci in his mouth, Anya still tucked tight under his arm.
“Want me to put something on?” Shane asked.
A small nod.
Shane pulled up Smeshariki — the show Ilya had started gravitating to whenever he was feeling especially small. The opening music played, and Ilya’s eyes tracked toward the screen automatically.
Shane sat down beside him and stroked his hair for a few minutes, until Ilya’s breathing evened out and his eyelids started to droop. The exhaustion of the afternoon was catching up to him. Shane could relate.
When he was sure Ilya had drifted off, Shane carefully slid out from under him, watching closely to make sure that Ilya didn’t stir. Not even a twitch.
Shane watched him for a moment, noting the redness around his eyes and the tip of his nose, the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. The dark spot on Anya’s leg was visible again, peeking out from under Ilya’s elbow.
He needed to call his mom. She’d cleaned plenty of blood-stained jerseys — Shane had given her plenty of practice growing up. If anyone would know how to get blood out of a stuffed animal, it was her.
He stepped quietly into the bedroom and pulled out his phone.
“Hi, sweetie,” Yuna said. “How are you?”
“Hey, Mom. Been better,” he said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Do you know how I can get blood out of something without using a washing machine?”
“Yes,” Yuna said slowly. “A lot of blood?”
“Just a few drops,” Shane said.
“Yours or Ilya’s?”
“Ilya’s,” Shane answered.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s alright. Couple cuts on his foot, nothing serious,” Shane said. Despite his exhaustion, he felt warmth expand in his chest at his mother’s concern for Ilya.
“Okay,” Yuna exhaled. “Are you okay?”
Shane paused, staring at the wall in front of him. “I… I don’t know. Overwhelmed. There was an incident with a plate and I have a lot to clean up. Ilya’s asleep right now, so that’s good.”
“Oh no,” Yuna said softly. “Remember to take a minute to breathe first.”
“I know, Mom,” Shane said. A faint smile tugged at his lips. When Shane got overwhelmed when he was growing up, his mom had always told him to take a minute to breathe. If he was frustrated on the ice, his mom was at the boards calling out breathe, Shane. When everything had been too much — too loud, too bright, textures too much for his skin to handle — she was there, telling him to breathe.
“I don’t hear it,” Yuna retorted.
He took a deep breath, loud enough for her to hear over the phone. “Better?”
“Mhm. Keep it up,” she said. A small pause. “Ilya, is he… small?”
Shane wasn’t used to his parents knowing, so the question took him slightly by surprise. “Um, yeah.”
Yuna hummed. “A lot on your plate then. Oh, wait. Bad choice of words.”
Shane laughed once, then thought about it more and laughed again. It was the kind of funny that only happened when your brain desperately needed some levity. “Perfect choice of words, actually.”
It was quiet for a moment. Shane realized he was feeling slightly better. Calling his mom had been a good idea, in more ways than one.
“Okay, you called with a question.” She was in business mode when she next spoke. “Do you have hydrogen peroxide?”
“Yes,” Shane said.
“Good. You need to blot the stain with cold water to try and get as much of the blood out as you can. Don’t use hot or warm water or it’ll set. Then blot, do not rub, it with peroxide. If it doesn’t come out then let it sit with the peroxide on it for a while and then do it again,” Yuna said. “After the stain is out, you can wash it in the sink with a bit of detergent.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mom,” Shane said.
“Of course,” Yuna said. It was quiet for a beat before she added, “Give Ilya a hug from me. If we need to bring Bernard Bear over, we can.”
Shane’s throat got tight. He swallowed. “I’ll let you know. Seriously, thank you.”
“I love you, honey. Both of you.”
“I love you too.”
He hung up the phone and took a few more deep breaths. It was going to be okay. The worst of it was over. Shane just needed to clean up.
He started with the kitchen. Ceramic shards swept up, then the entire room swept three more times just to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Then he grabbed the Swiffer, mopped the kitchen, and followed the blood trail into the bathroom. Once the floors were clean, he returned everything to the first aid kit and put it back in its spot underneath the sink. He left out the peroxide.
That meant it was time to clean Anya.
Slipping her out of Ilya’s arms was not easy. Shane tried to do it stealthily, but Ilya stirred and a furrow developed between his brows during Shane’s first attempt. The second time, Shane grabbed a throw pillow and very carefully swapped the two. Ilya shifted again, but thankfully he didn’t wake up.
Shane carried her to the bathroom and laid her on a folded towel beside the sink. She looked small there, splayed out under the light, the dark spot on her leg more obvious than it had been against the dark fabric of Ilya’s shirt.
He ran the tap until the water was cold and grabbed a few paper towels. Yuna’s instructions echoed in his head. Blot, don’t rub. He pressed the wet paper towel against Anya’s leg, watching the brown soften. He blotted again, then once more, the paper towels coming away faintly pink.
“Doing great, Anya,” he murmured, then caught himself. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty bathroom, then back at Anya. “…I’ve gotten too used to talking to you, huh?”
He reached for the peroxide.
It fizzed slightly when he applied it to her fabric. He let it sit, like Yuna had said, and then dabbed with another paper towel. The stain was lighter now, almost gone. He repeated the process twice more before he was satisfied, holding her up to the light and squinting to make sure there was absolutely no trace of a stain left.
Then it was time for a bath. He filled the sink and swished a small amount of detergent around in the water. Then he took her sweater off and set it to the side to wash separately and submerged her in the water. He gently massaged the soapy water into her for a few minutes before he repeated the process with her sweater. When he finally squeezed the water out of her — as gently as he could, without wringing her — the water ran clear.
He laid her on the towel and folded it over her, pressing down to draw the water out. When that towel was saturated, he swapped it for a dry one and repeated the process. Then, when he was satisfied that he’d gotten as much as he could, he plugged in the hair dryer and put it on its coolest setting so he wouldn’t melt Anya’s fur.
“Almost done,” he told her.
He waved the hair dryer back and forth over her small body, making sure that every inch of her was dry before repeating the process with her sweater. If any of his teammates could see him now.
When she was as dry as he could get her, he carried her back to the living room. Ilya was still sleeping, curled around the throw pillow, breathing slow and even. Shane gently removed the pillow and set Anya in its place. Ilya’s arm immediately tightened around her without him waking.
Shane stood there for a moment, looking down at them.
His foot was bandaged. The kitchen was clean. The bathroom was clean. Anya was clean. There was nothing else to do.
He sat down in the armchair across from the couch, not wanting to wake Ilya by climbing in next to him. He’d close his eyes for just a minute. Just to rest.
He was asleep before he finished the thought.