Chapter Text
It has probably been the most intense day of Shane Hollander’s life, and yet, he feels certain it is only about to become even more so.
Ilya’s body slumps back against the pillows. His sweat-dampened curls are plastered to his forehead, so Shane brushes them aside to press his lips to the clammy skin. “I am so proud of you,” he says softly, hoping Ilya can hear him over the chaos around them. He is answered by a tired hum. Ilya tips his head back and gives him the faintest smile from trembling lips.
Shane’s own lips are trembling, too. A part of him still can’t believe what just happened. What actually just happened. He's probably in some degree of shock about it, honestly. He’s sure Ilya is too. That’s probably why he’s so quiet; that’s why he is laying so still in Shane’s arms…
“Is…” Ilya starts, and his voice is so soft Shane almost misses it. “Is he… okay?”
No one says anything, but Yuna is standing at the foot of the bed, her mouth is covered, and her eyes are wide. “M- Mom,” Shane says; his nerves suddenly on edge.
“I think you mean she,” Gabby says, the doula's eyes are just as misty as the rest of the rooms as she finally— finally— lifts the wriggling, crying baby up towards them. “And yes, she is perfect.”
Shane’s a little surprised when Ilya doesn’t immediately scoop her up. Sure they had been expecting a boy, but he can’t see that being the reason. And Ilya has done nothing short of pouting, especially in the past month, about his readiness for this exact moment. He has even perfected— so says Ilya— his cradling technique on Amber, Susie, and Milo; he even tried it out on Anya a few times. Yet, now, with their own child within his reach his hands move slowly; shaky, hesitant. It takes him a while to even get them up to hold her to his chest— even then Shane feels like he needs to add his own hand to her back to make sure she is secure.
Shane sees a tear slip free and roll down Ilya’s cheek. Her tiny hand finds one of his long fingers, wrapping around it, and Ilya sucks in a breath. He slowly brings her hand up to his lips. “M- Malyshka moya…” he whispers against it and Shane exhales in relief.
Only for Ilya’s entire body to go limp the next second. His hand falling; his finger slipping out of their daughter's grasp and hitting the bed with enough weight to completely shatter the illusion Shane had been clinging to. The illusion that they had been faced with this very complicated, messy situation— piled on top of their already complicated messy situation— and they had made it out the other side. That everything was was going to be okay. That everything would continue to be okay moving forward.
They were so close.
Things go blurry after that. Moving so fast Shane struggles to keep up. One moment he is looking down at Ilya, helping him hold their daughter against his bare chest. The next she is being thrust into his arms and he is being hauled up from the bed and shuffled across the room. His mom and dad are blocking his view, and continue to maneuver themselves to do so when he tries time and time again to see around them.
The jostling and jolting has pissed off the bundle in his arms and she begins to wail in protest. That snaps Shane out of his panic enough— but only enough— to turn his attention to her. “Shh… hey I— I got you,” Shane coos, willing his voice to stop trembling. He sniffles and adjusts her in the crook of his arm, getting the first good look at her face.
Their daughter, no doubt… and god… he’d had so much doubt in the beginning.
He stares at the fussing baby in his arms, and can see Ilya so clearly in the shape of her face, her chin, her angry little pout… But she has Shane’s eyes. She has his nose. He feels like there’s a fist lodged in his throat as he brushes a finger over her cheek, then up to the top of her head full of Ilya’s curls, but they are jet black.
“Oh my god…” he mutters as the severity of everything happening comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave. “What— What’s happening? Is he—” when he goes to look past his parents this time they don’t stop him.
The world starts to come back into focus and Shane is made aware of the sound of sirens, the murmur of many voices… new voices. He is made very aware of the state Ilya is in as he is lifted onto a gurney and Shane is looking at his too pale, and seemingly lifeless body.
“We need to move,” one paramedic says, her voice urgent. Shane feels a hand on his back, pushing him forward. He worries his legs might buckle if he tries to take a step, but then Ilya is being wheeled out of the room and suddenly he is moving as fast as his feet will take him.
His mom holds the baby while he climbs up into the back of the ambulance. She kisses her forehead then passes her back up to Shane, assuring him they will meet him at the hospital. There are alarms going off somewhere in the back of his head about how risky this is; him showing up at an Ottawa hospital in the back of an ambulance with Ilya Rozenov and a baby that is so undoubtedly theirs.
It is snuffed out by the second paramedic calling out a loud, stern “Sir” at him.
“Oh, uh, s- sorry… what—”
“Your relation…” the man says, or maybe repeats.
He could lie… maybe he should lie...
“He’s my husband,” Shane admits instead, without hesitation, looking away from the paramedic to Ilya. He reaches out with his free hand to take one of Ilya's. A silence falls around them, or maybe it’s just Shane dissociating from these surroundings he could care less about, zeroing in on what matters. Their daughter, who is finally settled and falling asleep, and Ilya... who Shane prays will wake up.