Work Text:
The nursery is painted.
Furniture bought.
Costco boxes of wipes stashed away in the closet.
A baby mobile, handmade with little felt hockey figures, dangles over the crib.
They haven’t had a baby shower yet because if this doesn’t work, it could take years to go through the process of doing it any other way; Shane doesn’t let himself think about that kind of ‘what if’.
It’s their day to have the Cup, and after the photoshoot with it in their trophy room, alongside the many replicas of smaller versions that they’ve both collected throughout their careers, that’s when they’ll do it. Kick everyone out of the house-
And make a Cup wish.
“You are stressing.” Ilya murmurs, slinging his arms around Shane’s waist and tucking his chin over Shane’s shoulder. He slumps back into Ilya, slowly so as not to aggravate his aching right thigh. He’s not surprised Ilya’s found him; Shane finds himself brooding in the nursery more often than not these days.
“It’s going to go great.” Shane says firmly. He’s not thinking about the alternative.
“It is.” Ilya agrees, pressing a kiss to Shane’s cheek. “We will be so glad for sleep last night, because tonight and for next few months, no sleep for us.”
“No, Ilya. We made a plan, we’ll take turns with night shifts-”
“You read same parenting books Shane, is not always how it goes.” Ilya snorts, amused.
“We can try.” Shane says, knowing he’s being stubborn but so, so looking forward to the idea of waking up to the sight of a sleepy Ilya with a baby tucked to his chest.
The doorbell rings.
“That’s our cue.”
Ilya nips at Shane’s ear before smacking a wet kiss to his cheek and trotting for the stairs.
Taking a steadying breath, Shane shakes his head and follows him down.
🚼
They’d settled on the living room for the actual wish making. The coffee table seemed like an oddly informal space to put the Stanley Cup, but it fit, and they could each stand on either side of it like this.
Cup wishes didn’t always come true; not every player that made one when they won the championships got what they asked for. Shane had heard of some people getting what they wanted, but not how they wanted, and that stressed him out enough that he’d nearly talked Ilya out of trying in the first place.
But they wanted a family.
And hockey was so intrinsically intertwined with their lives, how could they not try?
“Cold toes?” Ilya asks, and Shane’s shaking his head in the negative before he even looks up from staring at the Cup.
“Cold feet. And no, neither. Just-” Shane flexes his hands, curling them into slow fists before extending them out as far as they go; tries not to think about the ache in his joints from too many years spent gripping a hockey stick.
“It will work.” Ilya says gently.
He’s gripping his cross, which Shane knows now, after years and years together, means that he’s praying to his mother.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Shane widens his stance and meets Ilya’s eyes. “Okay. Ready?”
“Ready.”
They reach for the trophy at the same time, both hands splayed to cup the bowl from the underside; Shane gathers his resolve, and the moment his skin makes contact with the cool metal, he wishes with all his heart-
Silence.
Shane keeps his grip on the bowl, his eyes squeezed tight; but the first disappointed, shuddering inhale from Ilya breaks his resolve. His eyes burn with tears as he blinks them open.
Ilya’s chin is wobbling, and he’s red in the face as he stares at the empty bowl of the trophy.
Shane’s own heart is feeling shattered, but he doesn't have to, can't grieve alone. Stepping around the coffee table, he pulls Ilya into a hug and lets his own tears fall when Ilya just collapses into him.
“I’m sorry, Shane, I wished as hard as I could-”
Ilya’s sob kicks at the broken pieces of Shane’s heart, and he squeezes him in tighter, shaking his head but unable to get words out right now.
They’d wanted a baby so fucking bad, and this was supposed-
Ilya’s entire body locks up in Shane’s grasp, just before his head whips up like Anya’s when she catches a distant sound.
“Did you hear that?” Ilya demands, wiping at his cheeks and nose to clear away his tears.
Shane grabs for the tissues on the end table and shakes his head, offering the box to Ilya too.
“No, Shane. Shane. Fucking listen.” Ilya hisses.
Shane closes his eyes and tries to focus on listening.
His own breaths, heaving and short as he tries not to break down sobbing.
Ilya’s soft sniff as he clears his nose from his own tears.
And upstairs, coming from the nursery-
Crying.
Locking eyes with Ilya, Shane can feel goosebumps break out across his skin.
Then they’re running for the stairs, dashing up them, Ilya’s longer legs clearing two steps at a time, Shane right on his heels.
The nursery door is open, and the crying is loud, how could Shane have missed it-
Ilya makes a beeline for the crib, a sob breaking free from his lips as he scoops up the baby inside, before he’s babbling something hurried and nonsensical in Russian at Shane. His eyes are frantic, still looking in the crib, even as he cradles a tiny baby with a shock of dark hair close to his chest and starts rocking in place to soothe them.
Shane’s so hypnotized by the sight of Ilya holding a baby in their nursery that he can’t wrap his head around what Ilya’s freaking out about.
Until there’s a second cry; from the crib.
“Oh my god.” Shane breathes.
He’s at the crib a moment later, scooping up the second baby and he can’t help the broken sound that slips from him as he cradles the tiny body in close. There’s wisps of pale hair, softer than down feathers, tickling at his palm.
Swinging around into Ilya’s orbit, Shane starts rocking the baby in sync with Ilya’s movements, trusting his husband’s instincts over his own in this.
Ilya leans in close, presses a gentle kiss to the head of the scrunchy faced babe in Shane’s arms, before knocking his head against Shane’s own.
“I fucking told you it would work.” Ilya says, voice cracking and rough with emotions.
“They’re so tiny.” Shane murmurs. “I don’t remember Hayden’s babies ever being so small.”
“They grow quick.” Ilya sniffs. “Fuck, Shane-”
He holds the dark haired baby out towards Shane, hands carefully supporting the neck and his body curled protectively over the wiggling form. The baby’s face is squished up in protest at being pulled away from the warmth of Ilya’s body, and Shane can’t believe how similar these babies are to their parents already.
These babies.
Their babies.
“Holy shit.” Shane mutters, looking up at Ilya in a panic. “Ilya, we’re parents.”
Ilya huffs out an incredulous snort.
“Oh, you notice this?”
Shane rubs his thumb along the plump cheek of the baby in his arms, shaking his head. “It’s- this is insane.”
“Good insane, yes?” Ilya asks, and it’s years of being together that have Shane recognizing the awe in Ilya’s voice, instead of looking for the insecurities he might’ve assumed years ago.
“So good.” Shane agrees.
In their arms, the babies yawn in perfect tandem.
Shane and Ilya exchange dopey grins over their heads.
It worked.
It fucking worked.