Chapter Text
Shane’s cat hated everyone.
This was not an exaggeration.
Freckles hated the mailman. She hated the neighbors. She hated the delivery guy from the Chinese restaurant so specifically that he had started leaving their food at the end of the driveway. She hated Anya, despite Anya’s desperate and frankly humiliating attempts to be her friend.
Most importantly, Freckles hated Ilya.
Ilya had spent six years trying to win Freckles over and had failed spectacularly.
The tortoiseshell cat had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. She hissed when he walked into a room. She glared at him from the back of the couch. Had once slapped his hand when he offered her a treat and then calmly eaten the treat after he put it on the floor. He had even purchased a heated cat bed, despite Shane reminding him that Freckles already had three perfectly good sleeping spots, and she had slept in the cardboard box it came in.
So, yes, Ilya had accepted that the cat hated him; he just hadn’t expected her to kill him.
Which was why, when he woke up one morning with something warm and furry curled against his chest, his first thought was not, Freckles finally loves me. It was, Holy fuck, I am dying.
Ilya opened one eye, took in Freckles’s small tortoiseshell face staring back at him, and began to panic.
She was sprawled across his chest, her mottled black, orange, and cream fur warm beneath his chin, one paw tucked against his collarbone.
And she was purring.
Ilya’s eyes widened.
No.
Absolutely not.
Freckles had never purred at him. Hell, Freckles had barely tolerated his existence.
She hissed at him. She swatted at him. She looked at him with the profound disappointment of a babushka who had somehow already learned he’d left the house without a coat, skipped breakfast, and was about to make a series of catastrophically poor decisions that would haunt the family for generations.
But now she was lying on his chest.
Purring.
Prrrrrrrr.
Ilya held his breath. Maybe if he didn’t move, she wouldn’t notice he was still alive.
Prrrrrrrr.
He swallowed.
“Shane,” he hissed.
No response.
“Shane!” He whisper-shouted.
Nothing.
Freckles kneaded his shirt, her claws extending and retracting against his chest in a slow, rhythmic motion.
He stared at the cat. The cat stared back at him, her green eyes boring straight into his soul.
She kneaded again, completely content.
This was not affection, Ilya knew better than that.
This was a farewell ritual.
Freckles was preparing him for death, possibly tenderizing him first, and there was no one coming to save him.
“Dorogoy, please wake up!”
A sleepy voice came from somewhere beneath the blankets. “What?”
“Help me,” Ilya pleaded. “There is something wrong with your cat.”
The blankets shifted, and one sleepy brown eye appeared. “What did Freckles do?”
“Look!” Ilya hissed, tilting his head toward his chest.
Shane blinked down at the tortie sprawled across Ilya’s chest, then up at Ilya’s horrified face. “Okay?”
“She’s touching me.”
Shane stared at him. “And?”
“She’s cuddling me, Shanya! How are you not concerned for me? She hates me.”
“Clearly not.”
Ilya looked back down. Freckles was staring up at him with half-lidded eyes, purring like a tiny engine.
“This is trap,” he whispered. “She has spent years wishing me dead.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Years, Shane.”
Freckles pressed herself closer to his chest. kneading his shirt again.
Ilya flinched. “See?”
Shane’s eyes drifted to the cat. “She’s making biscuits.”
“No, she is preparing me.”
“For what?”
Ilya looked at him gravely. “Death, moy lyubov.”
Shane stared at him for several seconds before very slowly pulling the blanket back over his head. “I married an idiot,” came his muffled voice.
“Shane! This is serious! Your cat is giving me final blessing!”
From beneath the blankets, Shane laughed. “Go to sleep, Ilya.”
Freckles purred.
Ilya looked down at her, eyes narrowing. “She will murder me.” Freckles purred louder, pressing her paws into his chest as she nuzzled closer. “Slowly.”Another contented purr. “Probably while I sleep.”
Another muffled laugh came from Shane.
Ilya stared accusingly at the cat. “I don’t trust you.”
Freckles did not murder Ilya, which, honestly, only made him more suspicious. Instead, he woke to her pressed close to his side, green gaze pinned to his face.
Ilya stared back.
By breakfast, she had followed him downstairs.
When he stopped at the coffee maker, she stopped. When he moved to the refrigerator, she moved. When he walked to the kitchen island, she trotted after him.
Ilya slowly turned around and stopped. So did Freckles. He took one step backward, and she took one step forward.
“Stop that!”
Freckles ignored him, coming to rub against his ankle.
Ilya looked down at her. “Oh, you’re good.”
From the table, Shane glanced up from his coffee. “What?”
“Your cat,” ilya replied, pulling down a coffee mug from the cabinet. “She is toying with me.”
Shane looked at Freckles, who continued to wind her way around Ilya’s ankles.
He shrugged. “She likes you.”
“She is stalking me. Sizing me up and making her murder plans.”
“She’s just rubbing against your legs.”
“Exactly! She is luring me in before she strikes.”
Shane took another sip of coffee. “She just wants attention, baby.”
He slapped his palm against the counter. “She wants my vital organs, Shane!”
Shane snorted. “Just pet her.”
“I value my life, Shanya!”
“Oh my god, just pet her, and she’ll leave you alone!”
Ilya stared down at Freckles. “You promise?”
“Yes, baby.”
“She won’t bite?”
“Probably not.”
Ilya’s head whipped up. “Shane—“
“I was joking.”
“That is not something you joke about!”
Shane snorted into his coffee.
“If she claws my throat out…”
“She won’t.”
“You said she probably wouldn’t bite.”
“I was joking.”
“That is not reassuring.”
"Ilya," Shane rubbed his eyes. “Pet the cat.”
Ilya sighed like a man accepting a death sentence. Slowly, he reached down and scratched between Freckles’s ears. She immediately leaned into his hand, pushing her head harder against his palm.
“I told you.”
Freckles pushed her head against his palm once more.
Ilya’s expression turned suspicious. “She’s trying to disarm me.”
“She’s trying to get petted.”
“That’s what she wants me to think.”
Shane stared at him.
Freckles rolled onto her back.
Ilya recoiled. “What is she doing?!”
“She wants belly rubs.”
“She just wants me to lower my defenses.”
“She’s a cat, Ilya.”
“A highly trained cat.”
Shane snorted.
Freckles reached out and grabbed Ilya’s wrist with both paws.
Ilya gasped. ‘Oh god, she has me! Save me!”
“For God’s sake, Ilya, just rub her belly.”
Freckles pulled his hand against her belly and purred.
Ilya looked horrified. “I am her hostage now.”
Shane laughed. “What are her demands?”
Freckles winked at him. “…Unlimited belly rubs.”
“Seems reasonable.”
“She’ll kill me when I stop.”
“Probably.”
Ilya’s head snapped up. “Shanya!”
Shane was laughing too hard to answer.
Freckles closed her eyes, perfectly content.
Ilya narrowed his eyes at her. “Enjoy this while you can, d'yavol'skiy kot. I know you’re planning something.”
Freckles yawned.
Ilya watched her suspiciously. “She yawned.”
“So?”
“That’s exactly what someone would do if they wanted me to think they were harmless!”
Shane snorted.
Ilya finally managed to untangle himself from the cat and escaped to the living room, where he immediately dropped onto the couch beside Anya.
“There,” he announced, wrapping both arms around her. “Safe.”
Anya happily settled against him.
Ilya kissed the top of her head. “See? This is normal. This is trustworthy.”
Shane wandered in behind him, coffee in hand. “You're ridiculous.”
“I am being cautious.”
A soft patter came from the hallway. Ilya's head snapped up as Freckles appeared around the corner.
He immediately straightened. “No.”
Freckles stopped.
Ilya slowly moved Anya in front of him.
Shane raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Establishing a defensive position.”
“Against Freckles?”
“Yes, Shanya. She stalks me.”
Shane glanced at the cat. Freckles was sitting perfectly still in the hallway, watching Ilya.
“Ilya, she’s eight pounds.”
“Eight pounds of calculated malice!”
“She’s looking at you.”
“Exactly.”
Freckles blinked.
Ilya pointed. “See! She’s assessing my weaknesses.”
“She blinked.”
“A distraction.”
Shane took another sip of coffee. “You're afraid of a cat.”
“I am not afraid. I am being strategically cautious.”
Shane snorted. “Whatever you say, baby.”
Freckles took another step.
“Do not encourage her.”
Shane shook his head. “I haven't said anything.”
“You laughed.”
“Because you're using our dog as a shield.”
“Because you will not protect me!”
Freckles continued toward him.
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Come any closer and I will defend myself.”
Shane smiled. “With what? Anya?”
“She will attack.”
As if on cue, Anya let out a loud, wet-sounding fart.
Ilya froze.
Shane's smile vanished.
Anya sighed contentedly, tucked her nose beneath her tail, and immediately began snoring.
Ilya stared down at her. “…Traitor.”
Shane pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.
Ilya held up a hand. “Don't.”
Anya snored again.
Ilya looked from the sleeping dog to Freckles, who was still watching him from the other end of the couch.
“My entire security team is compromised.”
Freckles jumped onto the couch.
Ilya gasped. “She breached the perimeter.”
Shane finally lost it.
Ilya immediately grabbed a throw pillow and held it against his chest. “Stay back.”
Freckles blinked and hopped onto the arm of the couch.
Ilya slowly lowered the pillow. “Okay.”
Shane watched him. “What now?”
“We wait.”
“For?”
“Her next move.”
Freckles sat down and began washing one paw.
Ilya frowned. “She's pretending to be occupied.”
Shane laughed. “She's grooming herself.”
“Psychological warfare.”
Freckles finished washing her paw, jumped down, walked around the couch, and appeared behind Ilya. He felt her brush against his ankle before she calmly jumped into Ilya's lap.
Ilya froze.
Shane was openly laughing now.
“Don't move,” Ilya whispered.
“Why?”
“She wants me to think she's surrendered.”
Freckles curled into a ball.
Purr.
Ilya stared down at her, then slowly reached for his phone.
Shane frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Calling Mama Yuna.
“Why?”
“She will save me.”
Shane blinked. “Baby, my mother is going to laugh at you.”
“No! She will understand.”
He hit call before Shane could stop him.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Ilya held it to his ear, watching Freckles out of the corner of his eye. “Come on, Mama Yuna. Please.”
Voicemail.
Ilya's face fell. “No.” He pulled the phone away and stared at the screen as if it had personally betrayed him. “She didn't answer.”
Shane bit his lip. “She’s probably asleep.”
“It’s morning.”
“She has a life.”
“I have a life too, and your cat is trying to end it.”
Ilya looked at his phone again. “I’m calling back.”
“Don't.”
“I need Mama Yuna.”
“She’s going to wake up to three missed calls from you and think someone died.”
Ilya glanced at Freckles. “Someone might, me.”
Shane groaned. “You're unbelievable.”
The phone went straight to voicemail again.
Ilya stared at it. “She has abandoned me.”
“She doesn't even know what's happening.”
“Exactly! She has no idea how serious this is.” Ilya slowly raised the phone to his ear again. “Mama Yuna,” he whispered to the voicemail. “By the time you hear this, I may already be dead.”
Freckles stretched, placed one paw directly on Ilya’s stomach, and promptly went to sleep.
Ilya stared at the paw, his face going pale.
He looked at Shane, then back at Freckles. “She will gut me.”
Shane said nothing, just laughed and shook his head.
For the next several days, Freckles became Ilya's shadow. She followed him from room to room, waited outside the bathroom, and curled up beside him on the couch. She even started sleeping against his legs at night.
If Ilya sat down, Freckles appeared. If he stood up, Freckles followed. If he went into the kitchen, she was suddenly there, winding between his ankles like she'd been assigned to him by a very affectionate security detail.
And Ilya remained deeply suspicious.
“She is doing it again,” he announced one afternoon.
Shane looked up from his laptop, taking in Freckles asleep in Ilya's lap.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending to be harmless.”
“She’s asleep.”
“Exactly.”
Shane smiled. “You're obsessed with her.”
“No! She is obsessed with me.”
“This is what you've always wanted.”
“Not like this.”
Shane laughed. “You've spent years trying to get her to like you, and now you don't want her to?”
“I wanted her respect.” Ilya motioned to his lap. "Not whatever this is."
Freckles stretched, rolled onto her back, and pressed herself more firmly against Ilya's stomach.
Ilya looked down, then slowly up at Shane. “She knows.”
Shane groaned. “Here we go.”
“She keeps putting her paws right here.”
“She likes sleeping on you.”
“She's monitoring me.”
“Sure.”
“She is waiting for something.”
“Probably dinner.”
Ilya frowned. “You mock me now, but when she finally strikes—”
Shane snorted and turned back to his laptop.
As the days carried on, Freckles became affectionate to an almost absurd degree.
The cat who had once acted like Ilya's existence was a personal insult now greeted him at the door. She slept on his pillow. She climbed into his lap while he watched television. She followed him into the kitchen and sat on his feet while he cooked.
Ilya remained convinced there was an ulterior motive, while Shane remained convinced his husband had finally lost his mind.
Neither of them connected the dots.
Not until Friday morning.
Ilya had ordered a sausage McGriddle through DoorDash. It was one of the few breakfasts he could usually be counted on to demolish without complaint, much to Shane’s chagrin, and he was halfway through opening the wrapper when the nausea hit him.
It came fast.
One second, he was peeling back the paper, already anticipating the combination of sausage, egg, and syrup soaked pancakes. The next, his stomach lurched.
Ilya froze. The sweet, buttery scent wafting up from the warm griddle cakes, rising from the wrapper, heavy with maple syrup and artificial sweetness, was normally irresistible. Right now though? It was nauseating.
Ilya's stomach rolled again.
He slowly lowered the McGriddle to the table.
Shane looked up from his coffee. “What?”
Ilya swallowed hard, staring at the sandwich as if it had personally betrayed him. “I don't think I want this.”
Shane blinked. “You don't want your McGriddle?”
“No.”
Shane slowly lowered his mug. “But you ordered it.”
Ilya looked vaguely offended. “I know what I ordered, dorogoy.”
Shane stared at him, eyes narrowing. “You ate two yesterday.”
“Da.”
“And now you don’t want one…”
Ilya nodded, hand pressed to his stomach.
Shane's eyes narrowed further. “You always want one.”
“I don't always want one.”
“You once ate one in the car because you couldn't wait until we got home.”
“I was hungry.”
“You've ordered one after morning workouts for years.”
“I know.”
“And you’re telling me you suddenly don't want it?”
Ilya glanced at the McGriddle, stomach turning again. “I think I might throw up.”
Shane's expression changed immediately. “Oh.”
Ilya leaned back in his chair, keeping one hand over his stomach. “I don't understand.”
Shane looked at the untouched sandwich, then at Ilya. Then, almost unconsciously, his gaze dropped to Freckles curled beneath the kitchen table, who was currently staring unblinkingly at Ilya, tail flicking behind her.
Shane stared at his cat thoughtfully. She had been following Ilya for days, sleeping against him, cuddling him, following him from room to room like she'd been assigned to keep him under surveillance.
Shane had thought it was funny, had teased Ilya about it. He hadn't thought anything of it.
Not until now.
Not until Ilya was sitting in front of a sausage McGriddle, looking like the mere sight of it might send him running for the bathroom.
Shane's brow furrowed as he thought about the last few weeks.
Food aversion, nausea, exhaustion. Ilya falling asleep on the couch before dinner, complaining that he was tired after sleeping a full night. Taking naps and skipping meals because nothing sounded good, only to complain twenty minutes later that he was starving.
Shane had chalked it all up to stress of the upcoming Irina Foundation expansion, but now… He looked at Ilya, who was still rubbing his stomach, staring suspiciously at the McGriddle.
Shane's brain began doing math, gaze drifting toward the calendar on the refrigerator, then back to Ilya, counting backward.
One week.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Then he counted again, slower this time, until his mind landed on one particular night.
It was late. He had already been in bed for nearly an hour, the room dark except for the soft glow from the bedside lamp, and almost half asleep when the mattress shifted and Ilya slid beneath the covers beside him.
Normally, Ilya would have complained about the cold sheets, stolen half the blanket, and immediately wrapped himself around Shane like a human radiator. That night, though, he'd been quiet as he curled himself against Shane's back, pressing his chest to him, his arm sliding slowly around Shane's waist.
Shane had smiled sleepily. “You okay?”
“Da.”
But Ilya hadn't moved away. If anything, he'd tucked himself closer, his lips brushing the back of Shane's shoulder once and then again.
Shane had turned over to find Ilya looking at him with those blue-green eyes, his expression softer than usual.
“What?” Shane had murmured sleepily.
“Nothing.”
“You're staring, baby.”
“I like looking at you, dorogoy.”
That alone had made Shane suspicious. Not the affection; Ilya wasn't exactly shy about affection. But there had been something different in his voice that night, something quieter, almost hesitant.
Shane had brushed his thumb over Ilya's cheek, watching as the other man nuzzled into his palm.
“You sure you're okay?”
Ilya nodded, his hand coming up to rest on Shane’s as he pressed a kiss to Shane’s palm. He pulled back, pressing a kiss to Shane’s wrist, before leaning in to capture Shane’s lips.
The kiss had been slow, languid. There was none of the usual burning heat and bite in Ilya’s kiss that night. None of the urgency that usually left Shane breathless and laughing against his mouth. Instead, Ilya kissed him like he had all the time in the world. Soft and unhurried, reverent
When Shane tried to deepen the kiss, Ilya followed willingly, tongue dragging slowly against Shane’s, his fingers curling into the hair at Shane’s neck as he pressed closer. Like he’d wanted to consume and be consumed. It was the kind of kiss that made Shane forget whatever question he'd been about to ask.
When they finally parted, Ilya stayed close, his forehead resting against Shane's. “Can I ask you something, solnyshko?”
“Anything.” Shane panted.
Ilya hesitated for just a moment, then very quietly, he said, “Can you top me?”
Shane had gone still.
Ilya had never asked this.
Not that Shane minded. He very much enjoyed letting Ilya take control, enjoyed the confidence with which Ilya could make him forget everything except the two of them. He also knew that Ilya's previous experiences with bottoming hadn't been particularly good ones.
Ilya had never been particularly comfortable with being vulnerable in that way. Shane knew enough about his past to understand why. The few experiences Ilya had had before them hadn't exactly left him eager to repeat them. There had been too much pressure, too little trust, and none of the patience Ilya needed to actually feel safe.
Ilya didn't like feeling out of control. Not in this. He liked knowing what was happening. He liked being able to set the pace, decide what he wanted, and stop things when he wanted them stopped.
With Shane, though, things had slowly become different, not because Shane had ever pushed him. If anything, Shane had spent years making sure Ilya knew that he never had to do anything just because Shane wanted it. Ilya could say no. He could change his mind, could ask Shane to stop, and Shane would. Every time.
Maybe that was why the request caught him so off guard, because Ilya wasn't someone who gave up control easily. And yet there he was, looking at Shane with that quiet, almost uncertain expression, asking him to take it.
Shane had understood what it meant. It wasn't simply a different position; it was trust.
So hearing him ask now caught Shane completely off guard.
He'd searched Ilya's face, making sure. “You sure?”
Ilya nodded, his cheeks faintly pink, but his gaze didn't waver. “Da.”
And the rest of the night had been slow and intimate, all whispered words and lingering kisses. Ilya had been unusually affectionate afterward, curling himself against Shane and refusing to let him go, his head tucked beneath Shane's chin and one hand resting lazily over his chest.
Shane remembered waking sometime in the night with Ilya still wrapped around him. He'd kissed the top of Ilya's head, and Ilya had murmured something sleepily in Russian and pulled him closer.
At the time, Shane hadn't thought anything of it. Now, sitting across from Ilya at the kitchen table, staring at the untouched McGriddle, the memory came rushing back with startling clarity.
Shane's eyebrows shot up.
Oh.
Ilya caught him staring, one hand still resting protectively over his stomach. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Shane glanced toward the floor, towards Freckles sitting beneath the kitchen table, still staring up at Ilya with those bright green eyes, before looking back at Ilya. “I think you’re right.”
Ilya looked at him, confused. “About?”
“Maybe Freckles is trying to tell us something.”
Ilya went completely still. “What?”
Shane nodded toward the cat. “Think about it, baby. She suddenly started following you around.”
“Da.”
“She sleeps on your stomach and won’t leave you alone—”
“I know, Shanya. I tell you this. She wants to murder me.”
Shane continues, ignoring him. “—and now you can't stand the smell of your McGriddle. You’ve been extra tired lately too.”
Ilya's face went pale. “Oh, fuck.
Shane watched the realization slowly begin to dawn, thinking Ilya understood what he had, and nodded with a smile. “You’re—”
“Cats can smell cancer.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
“I read about this!”
“You did not.”
“I did!” Ilya insisted, already reaching for his phone. “There are cats who detect cancer. They can smell tumors, dorogoy. They know when something is wrong with the body.”
Shane stared at him.
Ilya was typing furiously. “Maybe she knows I have a tumor.”
“Ilya.” Shane laughed, plucking the phone from his hands. “Baby, you don’t have cancer.”
“You don’t know this! Are you doctor now?”
Shane huffed out another laugh and shook his head, reaching across the table to take Ilya's hand. “Baby, it's not cancer.”
Ilya stared at him.
Shane squeezed his fingers. “You're pregnant.”
Ilya blinked slowly, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Shane watched the realization move across his face, slowly replacing confusion with absolute disbelief.
“I'm…” He swallowed, throat clicking. “Pregnant?”
Shane nodded.
Ilya looked down at his stomach, then at Shane, then at Freckles, who was watching him with maddening calm.
Ilya pointed at her. “She knew.”
Shane smiled. “It would seem that way.”
Freckles blinked.
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “So all this time…”
Freckles flicked her tail.
“You were trying to tell me.”
Another blink.
Ilya looked at Shane. “Your cat is an emotional terrorist.”
Shane's mouth twitched. “She is.”
“I spent weeks believing she was planning my murder!”
Shane shrugged. “To be fair, you spent years believing she hated you.”
“She did hate me!”
Shane laughed, and Ilya gave him an offended look before turning his attention back to Freckles. The cat had curled her tail neatly around her paws.
Ilya stared at her. “So you don't hate me.”
Freckles blinked.
“You were worried about me.”
Blink.
“You knew before I did.”
Another blink.
Ilya's expression softened despite himself. “Oh.”
Shane watched the realization settle over him.
Ilya looked down at his stomach again, his palm slowly coming to rest there. “We're having a baby.”
Shane's smile widened. “Yeah.”
Ilya stared down at his hand for a long moment, like he was waiting for his brain to catch up with the words.
Shane reached across the table and squeezed his other hand. “I mean, we'll need to grab you a test to make sure,” he said gently, “but it's definitely not cancer.”
Ilya's head snapped up. “You're very sure about that?”
Shane laughed. “Yes, baby.”
Ilya glanced toward Freckles.
The cat blinked at him.
“I still don't trust her.”